Warnings: Implied drug use, Mention of canon child abuse

"No."

The word was quietly spoken, but its finality rang loudly in the room. Mike Shepherd looked across at James Hathaway, who was slumped dejectedly on the large leather sofa that graced one side of the dressing room wall. He'd changed out of the clothes he'd worn on stage and now wore his usual jeans and hoodie, making him look like an ordinary bloke rather than the latest on-the-riseheartthrob.

"No? Seriously? This is a four album deal, Jim. It's worth millions; it'll make you one of the most rich and famous people in the world!" Mike argued persistently, even though he knew the likelihood of getting James to sign the new deal was virtually zero. But you didn't walk away from a ten percent cut of potential millions without a fight.

"James. My name is James," James stated tiredly, as he took a sip of the whisky in his glass.

"James. Sorry. Look, this new contract will make the last few months seem like nothing; it will propel you into the stratosphere. Your album has been number one for six weeks, that's fucking unheard of these days, but the money they'll throw at you with this new deal will keep every future album in the top twenty for months," Mike enthused as he paced the spacious room.

Mike made his living finding talent in the pubs and clubs of London and wheedling deals out of music producers who were always on the lookout for new talent. James Hathaway had talent by the bucket load, a fresh, unique sound, and an unrivalled gift for writing lyrics. He'd already amassed a small, but very loyal fan base, and two self-produced EP's had sold remarkably well; James had even made a profit from selling hardcopies. But James had also been very smart, refusing to sign Mike's standard ten-year agent contract, and Mike, for the first time in a very long while, had to work hard to get a contract signed. He'd managed it in the end. Negotiating with Simone Cohen, a top music producer, had been a piece of cake, as Simone knew money-making talent when she heard it, but the cautious James would only sign a time-limited contract with both Mike and Simone. Clever as he was, James wasn't well-versed in the tricks of the trade. James got his contract, Mike got his ten percent on all gross income and Simone still got her one album, two singles and promotional tour. The only problem was James had been contractually bound to get it all done in the eighteen-month time limit he himself had set.

"I said no, Mike. I'm not signing anything. I'll honour my commitments, I'll finish the tour and promote the new single, and then I want nothing more to do with this." James drained his drink and poured another, his hand trembling so badly the bottle clinked against the lip of the glass.

"Jim...James, look, I know the last few months have been hard and you're tired, but signing this new deal will make all the sacrifices worthwhile."

"Worthwhile? Make all the sacrifices worthwhile? "James laughed and it was one of ugliest sounds Mike had ever heard. It was full of bitter self-mockery and despair. James pushed up the left sleeve of his hoodie, showing Mike what he already knew was there: track marks. There had been speculation in the gossip magazines on and off for months about James's health,and the possibility that drugs use hadturned the slender man into a gaunt shadow of his former self. One magazine had even done a four page spread on anorexia in men, with James featuring heavily.

"You and Simone have bled me dry, Mike. I haven't a day to myself for a year and half. I've always had to be in the studio, or give an interview, or a performance. You took my music from me; I've written nothing in months, there's nothing there anymore." He tapped his chest." It's all gone. When you approached me in that pub, I believed you. I thought…I thought …" James ran his hands through his hair. "The album is a complete lie, Mike; I'm singing words other people wrote. Not a single song of mine is on the fucking thing. I'm not signing on for more of this. When the tour finishes, I'm going home."

"James, you're famous, man. You can't just walk from it. Look, I'll have a chat toSimone, get you into rehab…"

"No. I'm going home." James rolled down his sleeve. "I'm going to get myself well and, givenenough time, I might find my music again. And I'll never make this mistake again. My words will always be my own."

If Mike hadn't come along, James would probably have made a reasonable living from his singing. He had already been playing the main festivals; another three or four years and he would have been on the main stage and even a headliner at some of the smaller festivals, and he may even have been happy with that status quo. But Mike had made him a millionaire, with a number one selling album and two top ten singles. The golden goose though, was about to fly the nest, and nothing Mike said or did would make James sign the deal. It was time to move on, find another young talent.

"Good luck, lad," he said, and walked out the door, leaving behind a broken man.