The velvet-draped lounge felt more like a confessional than a meeting place. Shadows clung to the corners, the round table lit only by a single low lamp. Verly sat at the head, folders stacked in front of her. One by one, they came, Michael Blurb, Leila Seams, Synvie Taylor, and finally, Alfred Seal.
Drinks sat untouched. Eyes avoided.
Verly: "Thank you all for coming. I won't waste time. Season Four of The Voice. I want the four of you as judges. That's the offer."
A silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable.
Michael (dryly): "Feels more like a setup than an offer."
Synvie (arms folded, calm): "Michael, not everything is about you."
Leila leaned back, gaze flicking between them. "It will be if the tabloids get wind of this. Four of us, on one stage? That's a storm waiting to break."
Verly tapped her pen, unfazed. "Storms sell. And let's be honest, each of you has built your career on fire, not peace."
Alfred (snorts): "So this is your grand plan? Throw us in the same cage, see who bites first?"
Verly: "Not cage. Stage. And yes! If sparks fly, the audience will eat it up."
Michael finally leaned forward, voice low. "I'm not here to be anyone's circus act. If this works, it's because of music, not gossip."
Verly: "Music and history, Michael. Don't pretend the world doesn't know what you've all been through. You think they tune in just to hear notes?"
Leila stiffened, her fingers curling around her glass.
"History cuts both ways, Verly. You're asking us to reopen doors some of us fought hard to close."
Alfred turned his head toward her, voice lower, edged with something unspoken. "Some doors don't stay closed, Leila. Not when the hinges are still warm."
A hush fell. Synvie's eyes darted to Alfred, sharp. Then to Michael...steady, searching.
Verly, sensing the tension, leaned in. "Speaking of doors... rumor is, Synvie and Michael have already opened one. Quietly."
Michael's head snapped toward her, but Synvie spoke first, smooth and unflinching.
"Believe what you want. I don't confirm rumors."
But Alfred's expression had already shifted, pride flaring, jaw tightening, the flicker of an old wound raw beneath the surface.
Alfred: "Of course. Michael always gets what he wants, doesn't he? First the spotlight, now—" (he cuts himself off, bitter smile).
Michael met his stare, voice calm but firm. "Careful, Seal. This isn't about her. This is about whether you can sit in a chair without turning it into a war."
Leila broke in, sharp. "Enough. If this is going to work, we can't drag the past onstage. We're judges, not gladiators."
Synvie's gaze lingered on Michael, then Alfred, before she spoke softly:
"Or maybe we're both."
The silence that followed was louder than any applause.
Verly finally leaned back, satisfied.
"Good. That's the fire I wanted to hear. So? Are you in—or should I call the next four names on my list?"
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