The Masked Singer

[Chapter Seven]

"I have an ear for music, and my faith in you. Mr. Portman isn't going to be happy, but I believe you'll have a better chance of seeing him with my help." He pockets his phone and walks from around the desk and heads down a narrow passage with an elevator at the end.

He slips a key card similar to our hotel room one through a gadget plugged to the side of the elevator. He presses four numbers in the keypad and then we all enter the lift. Once we're inside, a few more buttons are pressed and we start moving upwards. Within seconds we walk out into another office.

"Mr. Portman," he says.

"James, what are you doing here?" The chair behind a grand desk swirls around to reveal an older tall man dressed in an immaculate suit.

"You've certainly changed your tune." I cross my arms over my chest, "You were almost begging me to visit," I explain.

"A lot of people are claiming to be The Masked Singer, what makes you special?" I never expected to hear this, but I grit my teeth and straighten my back.

"I don't owe you anything, and frankly, you don't owe me anything either. But what you must consider is what can I do for you, and what can you do for me?" Mr. Portman is taken back by my retort, which sends a swirl of confidence swirling through my system.

"What can I do for you?" he questions.

"I would like a tour of your studio. The graphics of your recording studios look stunning online, way better than Before the Party three blocks away from here," I reply.

"Studio tour it is." Mr. Portman raises himself from his seat and looks at James. "James?"

"Yes, Mr. Portman."

"You're dismissed from my presence." His voice sounds menacing and even sends chills down my spine.

"Actually, I'd rather have James with me." I grab a hold of his hand and lead him back into the elevator with me. "Which is the best studio?" I ask.

"The one below this level." My kind gesture seems to have saved James's mood, but from his shaky glances towards Mr. Portman, he's worried about being in the same room as him. Frankly, I'm starting to feel the same way.

Once everyone piles into the elevator, James takes us to the floor below us. I try not to appear fangirlish when the doors open and I'm met with a room filled with expensive recording equipment and musical instruments.

"This floor is the largest recording studio we have. It features a diverse range of musical instruments in the booth, state of the art recording system which is transferable via blue tooth, along with a chill out zone which is always stocked with refreshments for you.

"This looks beautiful," I say as I enter the room.

There's a spacious section blocked off with clear glass with a range of instruments inside the room along with a separate booth for recording vocals. The recording panel has hundreds of glowing lights and the chill out zone looks fabulous with is creative style similar to the downstairs entrance.

"Can I play one of the guitars?" I ask.

James looks at Mr. Portman, then back at me. Mr. Portman heaves unpleasantly and crosses his arms over his chest.

"Sure," James answers.

I open the door to the recording booth and wander inside with the rest shortly following. My eyes scan over the variety of guitars hanging on the wall. I've never been given the opportunity to have so many exquisite musical instruments to play with – it's exciting.

The decision is hard, but I pick the one that stands out to me the best. A light wooden guitar that feels perfect in my hands. I slip the strap over my neck and brush my fingers against the strings.