Money is an ordinary thing for Harry Styles. He was born into it, was taught how to easily make it, and how to spend it wisely. His life has been given to him on a silver platter and he loves it. He started Songbird Studios because of it. It did so...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
"I told you that I'd have the demo sent over first thing tomorrow morning." I sigh into the phone.
"Well, we need it by tonight. The label is practically begging us to have at least a single out by the end of this month."
"It's not even done, Jay." I pinch the bridge of my nose with my fingers, trying to drown out the sound of the car horn blaring outside. "I barely have the chorus written and the instrumentals are shit."
"Violet, please."
"You owe me." I huff into the phone, open up my laptop, and drag the files onto the hard drive. I ignore the constant expressions of gratitude from the other side of the line. "I'm going out tonight so I can't drop it off. It'll be on my kitchen table. You know where the key is."
"You got invited to the gala?" Jay asks, clear shock laced in his words as he jumps to conclusions. "I've been working for this goddamn label for years and get no invite. You're here for less than a week and get invited!"
"Lucky me." I feign excitement.
"Does Z have something to do with this? Did you get a pity invite to the gala because he didn't show up last week?"
"Alright, I'll see you later." I quickly hang up on Jay before he can make another witty comment and head back into my room to put the final touches on my look.
Tonight was the annual holiday gala for Songbird Studios, one of the top-grossing recording companies and the home of my new job.
I started writing when I was little, simple little rhymes that didn't even make sense. My parents bought me a guitar for my eighth birthday, along with lessons. From then on my childhood home was never quiet. Always littered with post-it notes full of song lyrics and sounds of guitar chords from my purple bedroom. Songwriting has always been a passion of mine and when I was in high school, I met someone just as equally obsessed with it as me.
Zayn Malik.
He played the drums in our high school band and I was in the school's choir. He'd come over every Friday night. I sang while he produced. We sold nearly twenty songs by the time we were seventeen, an accomplishment I'm still very proud of today. I thought I was a fucking rockstar.
I was eighteen, freshly graduated, and too ambitious for my own good when I met with labels for the first time. I was so fucking excited. I had a flash drive full of all of my work, a notebook with erratic scribbles of lyrics, and the cheesiest grin on my face. I felt like I won the lottery. I met with executives, producers, mixers, agents, and PR firms. But the verdicts were all the same. They wanted my songs, not me.
I think that was the first time I actually cried.
After that, Zayn decided he wanted to go to college and ended up going across the country to study at NYU. It was hard at first, I was really lonely and writing a shit ton of sad songs. I considered quitting music altogether at one point. Until, by the graces of some god, I landed an internship at a recording studio in downtown Los Angeles. I drove two and a half hours every day to that studio to sit among men who thought I was just a pair of tits and a pretty face.
