A Condition One Cannot Refuse

Facing her "client," Trey cheerfully invited her in for a meal.

As soon as she sat down, Taylor took a bite of the salad.

"This ranch dressing tastes really good. Did you buy it? I'll have to tell my mom to get some too," Taylor said casually.

"You can't buy this dressing—Ryan made it himself," Trey explained with a smile.

Southern country housewives often make a "universal dipping sauce" at home, and since each housewife's recipe is different, this type of sauce is collectively called "ranch dressing."

"You've got that skill too?" Taylor was somewhat surprised, turning to Ryan, adding another layer to her understanding of him.

"It's the onion. I added onion powder." Ryan shrugged. He wasn't about to scowl at Taylor on sight—he wasn't that petty—but of course, he wouldn't say much to her either.

"What brings you over so late?" Trey asked.

Taylor was eating roast chicken, grease glistening at the corner of her mouth. "Actually, I wanted to discuss the script for Love Story with you."

With two full months until the music video shoot, coming over late at night to talk about the script was clearly a flimsy excuse, but since Taylor said it, Trey couldn't really argue.

"No problem." Trey nodded.

For Trey's sake, Ryan was even less likely to say anything. He got up and went to the study, turned on his computer, and found that "Scooter" was still messaging him, saying he'd arrived in Nashville and only wanted to meet Ryan once.

Ryan closed the chat window directly.

About an hour later, a knock came at the door. Ryan didn't respond—Trey never knocked, so the knocker could only be someone else.

After a moment, the door creaked open a crack, and a head with curly, instant-noodle hair poked in.

"Come in." Ryan shook his head. Since Taylor had chased him all the way here, he had to talk to her.

Taylor closed the door, and before Ryan could speak first, she started.

"Ryan, I know you probably don't want to see me, but I have two very important things to tell you." Taylor sat directly on the sofa across from the desk. Wearing a skirt, she hugged a pillow to avoid any wardrobe malfunctions, legs together and tilted to one side—a perfect sitting posture.

"First, the best record label for you will always be Big Machine. Big Machine is an imprint of Republic Records, and Republic Records was spun off from Motown Records two years ago. It's now a top-tier label under Universal, alongside Interscope and Island Def Jam. And Scott has already guaranteed that you'll have the same creative freedom I do."

Ryan shook his head. He'd considered Big Machine long ago, but Scott wouldn't budge on the contract term.

"What's the second thing?" Ryan skipped right past that topic.

"I want to thank you. After that phone call, I thought a lot, and you gave me the inspiration..." She spoke slowly, staring straight at Ryan, then, as if making a decision: "I've decided that from now on, I'm going to focus more on the songs themselves!"

Seeing no reaction from Ryan, Taylor took a deep breath. "And one last thing."

She'd said two things, but suddenly added another.

"You asked if I had planned to do this. My answer is no. I didn't have a clear plan—it just happened because I met you that day."

In other words, if Trey had brought someone else, none of this might have happened.

Ryan just nodded.

"As for us, we're still friends, right?" Taylor tested the waters.

"No problem," Ryan said.

"Okay." Taylor smiled. "Since we're still friends, you can't keep me blocked anymore."

Ryan couldn't help but laugh and did as she asked.

"Don't hesitate to call me if anything comes up. After all, we're both artists now. Also, are you sure you don't need a social media manager?" Taylor brought it up again.

"Not for now." Ryan refused again.

"What about a chance to guest on a local Nashville radio show?" Taylor pressed, knowing exactly what Ryan needed.

Ryan didn't turn that down.

Taylor nodded and made a mental note.

Leaving Ryan's house, Taylor hummed a little tune as she walked to her car.

"Is there a man in this world I can't get? Not a chance!" In high spirits, she started the engine and cranked the sound system to max. As she pulled onto the road, she nearly drove onto the opposite sidewalk, barely managing to correct the car's trajectory in time.

·

Ryan returned to the study and browsed Harlem Shake videos on YouTube. In just a few days since he last checked, hundreds of new imitation versions had popped up. With Taylor and Miley joining in, some smaller artists followed suit, filming their own Harlem Shake videos in their recording studios. There were plenty of these minor artists in the U.S., all struggling like Ryan to get exposure.

This time, Ryan wasn't following a trend—he was creating one. And as these videos played, they generated new income for him.

Opening his YouTube backend, he saw a withdrawable balance nearing six figures and let out an excited screech like a baboon.

The only downside was that on platforms like iTunes, some counterfeit works still lingered. Trey's lawyer had been busy over the past few days, cleaning up a batch, but new ones kept popping up.

After signing with Atlantic Records, they should help him deal with these fakes quickly, Ryan thought.

·

The next morning, Ryan came downstairs to find Trey stuffing bread into her mouth while on the phone.

Ryan went to the kitchen, pulled a box of "Fruit Rings" cereal from the cupboard, poured it into a bowl, added milk to soften it, then walked out with the bowl.

"Strange. Scott called me first thing in the morning and asked if I was home. What's that about?" Trey put down her phone, looking puzzled.

The Scott she mentioned was Scott Borchetta, the owner of Big Machine.

"He's not trying to ask you out, is he?" Ryan leaned against the table, teasing.

"I saw his wife just last month." Trey shot a glance at Ryan, her tone dripping with disdain.

About an hour later, Ryan learned exactly why the owner of Big Machine Records had called Trey.

"Great to see you again, Ryan."

Scoot stood at the door, his bare height matching Taylor's, and tipped his baseball cap in greeting.

"I know it's presumptuous to show up uninvited, but I have absolutely no ill intent. As for how I found your address, Ryan, that's thanks to Scott—I've met him a few times in Los Angeles. He founded a subsidiary of Republic Records, and as it happens, I founded another one." He explained.

"Allow me to reintroduce myself. I was once an executive director at So So Def Records. I've hosted the NBA All-Star Game and after-parties for stars like Britney, Eminem, and Ludacris. Later, I started my own record label and also work as a manager. Before you sign with any other label, why not hear what I can offer? If you're not interested, I'll leave right now, and from this moment on, I won't waste a single second on you—my time is far more valuable than yours." He chuckled.

"Now, may I come in?" Scoot asked, still standing at the door.

Ryan and Trey exchanged a glance, and in the end, they let him in.

The first ten minutes of conversation between Ryan and Scoot were uneventful; Scoot merely repeated what Atlantic Records had already said.

Seeming to sense Ryan's lack of interest, Scoot gave a slight smile. "I'll also give you an offer you can't refuse."

"My label can sign you to a one-year short-term contract for at least one EP!"