The blaring ring of my phone shattered the stillness of the early morning, dragging me out of a restless sleep. I groaned, fumbling for the device on my nightstand, squinting as the screen lit up in the predawn dimness.
No Caller ID.
I sighed, my first thought being it was another manager or PR rep trying to poach me. Ever since my inbox had become a war zone of job offers, it seemed my phone couldn't go a day without ringing. Usually, I'd let it go to voicemail, but something about this call made me pause. It was too early for business hours—too insistent.
Reluctantly, I swiped to answer, pressing the phone to my ear. "Hello?" I murmured, my voice thick with sleep.
There was a brief pause, just long enough for me to hear the faint hiss of static on the other end. Then, a voice I hadn't heard in weeks cut through the quiet.
"Jada."
My breath caught. I sat up abruptly, my heart jolting awake faster than the rest of me. Yasser Malik.
I hadn't expected to hear from him again, let alone now, at 7 AM, with no warning. His voice was just as brisk and clipped as I remembered, but there was an edge to it—something I couldn't quite place.
"Good morning," he said, his tone formal but slightly strained. "I hope I didn't wake you."
I glanced at the clock, its digital face glowing an accusatory 7:03 AM. Of course, he'd woken me. But I wasn't about to let him know that. I forced myself to sit straighter, willing my voice into something professional.
"Not at all," I lied smoothly. "What can I do for you?"
There was another pause. I could almost picture him on the other end, weighing his words carefully, as if he didn't entirely enjoy what he was about to say. When he spoke again, his tone was firm but deliberate.
"I'll get straight to the point," he said. "We need you back."
My heart skipped a beat.
The words landed heavily, pressing into me with the kind of weight only Yasser's words could carry. I opened my mouth to respond, but no sound came out.
"Zayn isn't... managing well without you," he continued, his words slow and grudging, as if admitting them out loud caused him physical pain. "Things have gotten out of hand. Missed deadlines, chaotic schedules. His focus is gone." He exhaled audibly, almost as if he was admitting this more to himself than to me. "You were instrumental in keeping him on track, and I underestimated how much that mattered."
Hearing Yasser Malik say those words—a man who prided himself on never admitting fault—left me momentarily speechless. A small part of me felt vindicated. The rest of me was too stunned to process it.
"I see," I said cautiously, trying to mask the whirlwind of emotions brewing inside me.
Yasser's voice softened slightly, but his tone remained all business. "I'm prepared to offer you your position back, with better terms. More authority. You'd have full control over Zayn's schedule—complete autonomy. No interference from me or anyone else."
It was tempting. In fact, it was more than tempting. The thought of returning to the role I'd poured so much of myself into, with the power to run things my way, stirred something deep within me. But another part of me, the one that still nursed the sting of how it had ended, wasn't so quick to forget.
"That's quite an offer," I said slowly, my tone measured. "But I'll need some time to think about it."
"Of course," Yasser replied, though I detected a flicker of impatience beneath his otherwise composed exterior. "But don't take too long. The situation is... critical."
And with that, the line went dead.
I lowered the phone, staring at the screen as if it might hold the answers I needed. My heart raced as the weight of the conversation settled over me. Yasser Malik had just called me at 7 AM, admitting he needed me.
I wasn't sure if I should feel flattered or furious.
By the time the sun fully rose, I'd made my decision—or at least part of it. If Yasser Malik thought I'd come running back without a second thought, he was in for a rude awakening. Tossing my blanket aside, I grabbed my laptop from the desk and powered it on, the soft hum of the machine filling the still-quiet room.
I opened a blank email draft and stared at the empty page for a moment, my fingers hovering over the keyboard.
Subject: Terms for Return
The title alone made me smirk. Yasser had called me, not the other way around. That put me in the driver's seat, and I wasn't about to let him forget it.
I began typing:
Dear Mr. Malik,
Thank you for reaching out this morning. I understand the urgency of the situation, and I appreciate your acknowledgment of my previous contributions to Zayn's career. It's clear that the role I played in his management was pivotal, and I'm flattered by your interest in bringing me back onto the team.
However, before we move forward, I'd like to outline the terms under which I would consider returning to RCA Records in my prior capacity.
Compensation Adjustment
I request a significant increase in my salary to reflect the level of responsibility I held during my tenure and the results I delivered. Based on industry standards for senior artist managers, I believe a raise of 40% from my previous pay is appropriate.
Autonomy Over Zayn's Career Management
If I am to return, it's essential that I have complete control over Zayn's schedule, projects, and overall career planning. This autonomy will allow me to work efficiently and deliver the results you expect without unnecessary interference.
Non-Interference Clause
I require a clear assurance that my decisions will not be undermined by you or anyone else on the team. While collaboration is essential, I must have the freedom to execute my role without being second-guessed or overruled.
Please let me know if these terms are agreeable to you. I'm confident that, under these conditions, I can continue to provide the same level of excellence and dedication that benefited Zayn's career previously.
Looking forward to hearing from you.
Best regards,
Jada Smith
I read over the email twice, tweaking a word here and there to make sure the tone struck the perfect balance of professional and assertive. My cursor hovered over the "Send" button, but then a thought crossed my mind.
How much was Yasser worth, anyway?
Curiosity got the better of me. I opened a new tab and typed, Yasser Malik net worth.
The first result nearly made me choke on air. Hundreds of millions. As I scrolled further, I learned about investments in luxury properties, business ventures, and royalties from Zayn's career that I could barely wrap my head around.
"Forty percent of my old salary probably wouldn't even pay his landscaper," I muttered to myself, shaking my head with a laugh.
Still, I hit send. I wasn't about to sell myself short, no matter how big his bank account was.
Closing the laptop, I leaned back in my chair, my nerves finally settling. It was a gamble, but I knew my worth—and if Yasser wanted me back, he'd have to meet me on my terms.
