Chapter 59: No More AMG

Before we could even think about leaving the stage, the studio director practically begged Ruby for an encore.

With the live broadcast shattered wide open and millions tuning in to witness history, Ruby stepped back up to the microphone.

This time, there were no stolen tracks, no shadow-banning, and no doubt about who she was. She sang a raw, stripped-down ballad—an original piece she had kept hidden just for herself.

Her voice soared through the studio, so pure and resonant that half the crew had tears in their eyes.

When the final note faded, the applause was deafening.

As we finally stepped off the stage into the VIP backstage hallway, a high-ranking executive from AMG was already waiting for us, practically trembling.

He held a phone in one hand and a preliminary contract outline in the other.

With Hailey’s reputation destroyed and the label’s assets on the line, AMG had no choice but to bow to our terms.

We didn’t sign anything on the spot—I made that clear—but we set a meeting for Monday morning to discuss a historic deal: total creative control, complete ownership of her masters, and a public payout transferring all stolen royalty rights directly to Ruby.

We made our way out toward the private underground garage, flanked by studio security.

Just before reaching the doors, I caught movement near the loading dock. It was Travis.

He was standing alone in the shadows, looking twenty years older than he had two hours ago.

His expensive suit was wrinkled, his slicked-back hair unspooled, and the powerful record executive who had once controlled the industry looked completely hollowed out.

As I walked past, our eyes met across the dim hallway.

There was no anger left in his gaze, no threats, no corporate legal bluster.

Travis simply gave me a slow, defeated nod, his shoulders slumping as he turned and walked away into the dark. He knew it was over.

Outside, the night air was electric. News of the live broadcast confession had already hit the streets, and a wall of flashing camera bulbs, press vans, and screaming reporters swarmed the exit.

I opened the heavy door of the custom Maybach for Ruby, helping her inside before sliding into the leather seat beside her.

Tinted glass shielded us from the flashing lights as the driver slowly navigated through the sea of paparazzi.

Ruby leaned her head back against the headrest, closing her eyes with a long, contented sigh.

"They’re going to talk about tonight for a long time," she murmured, a gentle smile touching her lips.

"Let them talk," I said, pouring two glasses of champagne as the city lights blurred past the window. "They’re just getting used to your name."

The private studio at the estate was bathed in a warm, golden glow as acoustic guitar chords drifted through the air.

Ruby sat on the leather couch, a leather-bound notebook resting on her knees, scrawling down lyrics as quickly as her pen could move.

Scattered across the coffee table were dozens of loose pages, lead sheets, and old notebooks filled to the brim.

She had written thousands of songs over the years—an entire catalog of brilliant, untouched music that had been waiting in the dark for this exact moment.

I pushed the heavy acoustic door open and stepped inside.

Ruby paused her strumming, looking up with a soft, bright smile. "Hey. I’m just polishing up the bridge for the lead track. I think this is the one we lead with for the debut."

"It sounds incredible," I said, leaning against the edge of the mixing console. "But I didn’t come in here just to listen to the new hook. We have a massive situation."

Ruby set her guitar down, her eyebrows knitting together in curiosity. "A situation? Did AMG try to back out of the terms?"

"Worse for them, better for us," I replied, a slow smirk spreading across my face as I pulled out my phone. "Word about what happened on Friday spread through the boardrooms like wildfire. AMG isn’t the only ones scrambling for your signature anymore."

I tapped the screen and turned it toward her.

"Quin Music Group just called my private line," I continued.

Ruby gasped softly, her hand flying to her mouth. Quin was the absolute apex of the global music industry—an elite, artist-first juggernaut that made AMG look like a local indie label. They didn’t just produce pop stars; they built timeless legends.

"Quin?" she whispered, her eyes wide. "They... they know about me?"

"They watched the live stream," I said, stepping closer. "The CEO himself called. He told me AMG is a sinking ship drowning in scandal, and he wants to offer you a distribution and partnership deal directly under Quin. One hundred percent ownership of your masters, complete artistic freedom, and a global launch budget that makes AMG’s entire operation look like pocket change."

Ruby looked from my phone back to the mountain of handwritten songs on the table, the weight of the moment settling over her.

"They don’t want a fake pop star," I added quietly, looking her straight in the eye. "They want the real thing. It’s completely your call, Ruby. Do we crush AMG completely and go with Quin?"

I nodded, agreeing with her immediately. "You’re completely right. Staying with AMG—even with me pulling the strings behind the curtain—is a toxic move.

Their name is pure mud right now.

If your official debut drops under an AMG banner, every critic and blog on the internet will spin it as a messy corporate drama or a cheap publicity stunt."

Ruby picked up a stack of her handwritten lyrics, her eyes shining with quiet resolve. "I want a completely fresh start. I don’t want Hailey’s former shadow hanging over my first real album."

"Then we execute them," I said, a cold, decisive smile spreading across my face. "We take Quin’s offer."

I pulled out my phone and dialed the managing director at AMG right in front of her, putting him on speaker. The man answered on the second ring, his voice practically trembling with desperate hope.

"Ethan! Please tell me you have good news," he pleaded. "We’re preparing the contract revisions for Ruby right now. We’ll give her whatever percentage she wants!"

"Save your ink," I replied smoothly, leaning back against the mixing console. "Ruby isn’t signing with AMG. Effective immediately, I’m pulling all my capital, calling in the advance debt you owe me, and liquidating my shares. You have twenty-four hours to announce her formal release from any previous ghostwriting agreements, or my legal team will file a class-action suit for systematic fraud on her behalf."

"Ethan, wait—you’ll destroy us! The label will go under!" he gasped, his voice cracking.

"You destroyed yourselves the moment you let a fake singer steal a real artist’s work," I said coldly. "Consider this your final notice."