The Price

Taylor was pulling Abigail forward through the crowded dance floor when she suddenly felt her wrist grabbed, her whole body yanked off balance.

"Pretending you can't see me? Don't think I don't know the rules here?" The man in the floral shirt snorted coldly, directly tugging Taylor's wrist toward his seat.

The women the promoter had brought in tonight were also wearing long gowns similar to theirs, which led to their identities being mistaken.

Taylor immediately screamed, but her slender frame didn't have much strength.

How could Abigail stand by and watch her friend be dragged away? But in her gown, she couldn't move freely. In desperation, she shouted toward where Ryan was in the distance.

"Ryan! Come help us!"

"Ryan!!"

But the nightclub was already incredibly noisy, and with the dim lighting, Ryan didn't hear Abigail's calls. It wasn't until the club's security noticed something wrong and several of them rushed over—one of them right beside Ryan—that he turned and found the woman being grabbed looked familiar. A second look, and the one in the green dress beside her was Abigail. Surprised, Ryan didn't dare hesitate and strode over quickly.

The security seemed to know this man. Though they stopped him directly, they didn't help Taylor break free.

Taylor had already taken off her sunglasses and kept stating her identity, but in the chaos, no one paid attention to what she was saying for a short while.

Just as Taylor began to feel uneasy, a tall figure pushed through the crowd, reached out, and pried the hand gripping her arm away.

As a football player, Ryan's build and strength gave him a ruthless advantage over this middle-aged man, hollowed out by drink and women.

Ryan then applied force, bending the man's fingers backward. The middle-aged man winced in pain, his back arching. At the same time, the man's friends charged over. Ryan, the security, and the middle-aged man fell into a standoff, the situation growing more chaotic.

Taylor and Abigail recognized Ryan and immediately turned into fledglings, flanking him left and right. In this unfamiliar setting, the sturdy Ryan brought them a good deal of security.

Ryan wasn't nervous at all. After two weeks stationed at the nightclub, with a conflict every two days on average, he was long used to it.

The nightclub manager and the guard who had been at the door earlier also arrived. During the conversation, the middle-aged man's identity came to light—he was the owner of a nearby Spanish restaurant, out with friends tonight, and had some connections with the club's owner.

As the misunderstanding was cleared up, the matter seemed about to settle.

But Taylor didn't want to let it go so easily.

"Do you see my face now?!" Taylor pointed at herself, taking on an aggressive, unyielding stance.

Not just the nightclub manager, but even the middle-aged man began apologizing to Taylor with a contrite expression. Taylor was a celebrity after all; if this blew up, it wouldn't benefit anyone.

In the end, Ryan stepped in and took Taylor and Abigail away.

"What are you two doing here tonight?" Ryan finally started asking.

"We've already booked tickets for spring break. First stop, Panama City," Abigail said, bringing up another matter.

Abigail had invited Ryan many times over this period. Ryan nodded, formally agreeing.

On the other side, Taylor was still a bit angry, but remembering how Ryan had helped her out, she forced out a sullen, "Thanks."

I'll forgive you for playing that song without permission tonight, Taylor thought to herself.

"Oh, by the way, your jacket's still in my room. I'll bring it to you the day after tomorrow," Ryan suddenly said to Abigail.

"No problem," Abigail nodded naturally, completely unaware that beside her, Taylor's eyes had gone wide, looking like she'd seen a ghost.

Taylor suppressed her strong premonition and asked with feigned concern, "So, it's been two weeks—how are you two getting along?"

Abigail just gave Taylor a smile.

Just that smile made Taylor even more uneasy. Unable to get anything from Abigail, she turned to Ryan.

"Ryan, take me home later," Taylor said mysteriously.

Ryan and Abigail exchanged a glance, then Ryan gestured with his eyes toward the car nearby. Taylor had driven tonight, and it was an automatic.

Taylor wanted to say more, but saw Ryan and Abigail already turning to leave. She kicked the tire in frustration, then winced in pain, tears welling up.

·

"Taylor's reaction just now was really weird," Abigail said from the passenger seat of the Challenger, looking out the window.

Ryan couldn't help but grumble internally: Weren't you the one who wanted to keep things distant? I get close to your best friend, and now you're panicking?

"Maybe she thinks your presence means I can't spend as much time with her anymore," Abigail offered as an explanation.

Then Abigail talked about some of Taylor's past experiences. After first signing with Sony's RCA, the two sides never truly collaborated. Besides failing to agree on a release schedule, Taylor also wanted a creative environment free from anyone's interference.

Scott, a former DreamWorks record executive, was willing to give Taylor that absolute freedom—though that also owed something to the behind-the-scenes push from Taylor's father, another Scott. Whether it was creative direction, lyrics, or even music video shoots, Taylor had the final say. That was what set her apart from most early-career singers.

"And what's the price of that freedom?" Ryan suddenly asked. Taylor's experience might be a reference for his own situation.

"I don't know about that, but Taylor once complained that most of her professional singing career was tied up in one record contract. I think the term was over ten years," Abigail ventured.

Ryan's heart sank. Even she had to sign an ultra-long contract; his own terms would only be worse.

A moment later, the Challenger pulled up outside Abigail's house.

Before getting out, Abigail waved goodbye to Ryan.

"See you at the airport the day after tomorrow," Abigail said.

·

Back home, before he could even change into slippers, Ryan saw Trey holding a bank statement in her hand. Ryan could delete emails, but he couldn't destroy paper bills.

But before Trey could even get angry, she saw Ryan pull a small stack of bills from his wallet and hand them over.

He explained everything to her, mentioning that the money came from working as a resident DJ.

This was only part of the total revenue; paid downloads would bring in additional income, but that portion currently didn't match the earnings from live performances. And even combined, all the revenue fell far short of what Ryan had anticipated—in fact, this single hadn't made much of a splash.

"You sure you're not dealing drugs at school?" Trey clearly didn't buy it.

"Of course not." Ryan quickly shook his head and pulled Trey into the study, making her put on the headphones.

Trey asked a flurry of other questions before she finally let her guard down.

"Gotta say, it's pretty catchy." Trey nodded repeatedly and asked about Ryan's "workspace."

But just after she left, Ryan noticed she'd left that stack of cash on the table—more like she never intended to take it in the first place than simply forgetting.

Ryan wasn't about to stand on ceremony with her. He put the money back in his wallet and prepared to continue making electronic music as usual.

Not long after, however, Trey walked back in, holding her phone.

"Taylor Swift."

Ryan read her lips.

He picked up the phone and answered. Taylor immediately launched into a furious tirade.

"You broke your word, you bastard! Who told you to touch Abigail..."