"Hello? Hello??"
In a massive boardroom of a sprawling, modern mansion in Brentwood, Los Angeles, Scooter Braun's voice boomed as he held the phone to his ear. The line had just gone dead, cut off abruptly, and for a moment, pure rage flashed across his face. He gripped the phone tightly, knuckles white, as if he wanted to throw it across the polished marble floor. His jaw clenched, and his eyes narrowed, veins showing along his temple. For a second, it seemed like the room itself might shatter under the force of his frustration.
Then, almost as quickly as it had flared, he inhaled sharply, taking a deep, measured breath. Still, the words came, uncontrolled at first.
"Who does this motherfucker think he is? A mere agent? Does he even know who he's talking to?" His voice ricocheted off the walls, sharp and furious, echoing against the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the city below. He paced slightly, one hand running through his hair, then gestured wildly, venting all the anger building inside him.
Scooter Braun. One of the most powerful figures in the American music industry — arguably in the top five. In a world where his influence could make or break careers, here he was, cut off mid-call by a mere agent. The audacity. The disrespect. He was livid, every fiber of his being burning with disbelief.
Around him, his team remained silent. They had learned long ago that when Scooter got like this, the storm was loud and unpredictable, but fleeting. Soon enough, the fury would burn itself out, leaving him sharp and focused once more.
Sure enough, after several moments of pacing and venting, Scooter's breaths deepened, slowing as he regained control. His fists unclenched, and his shoulders relaxed slightly.
He dialed quickly, calling one of his assistants — Mrs. Patricia. A woman in her early forties, always organized, calm, and meticulous, who held a massive tablet filled with spreadsheets and notes for every show under Scooter's oversight.
"Patricia," he said, his voice still tinged with annoyance but controlled now, "what is the progress of the show? Is there anything we are missing?"
Patricia glanced down at her tablet, fingers moving rapidly across it as she began listing details. "Everything is mostly on track, Scooter. We have plenty of big artists signed up — Ariana has agreed to the five million-dollar offer. Executives at Hybe Korea have also RSVP'd even the CEO is expected to make an appearance. The production schedule, stage design, security, transportation, catering, logistics — all checked. The show is 99% complete."
Her voice faltered slightly at the end, hands shaking just a little as she scrolled through the final notes. Scooter frowned, noticing her hesitation.
"The only issue is—" she started, but Scooter interrupted with a low sigh. "The main headliner."
In the room, murmurs began.
"But what's wrong? We've offered the agent six million for the show already — isn't that enough? He's already the highest-paid for the night," one executive said quietly, almost questioning.
Another leaned forward. "Are we sure it's even about the money? We know he's close to Taylor. Could this be about some misguided loyalty toward her?"
A third voice cut in, firm and impatient. "We can't keep thinking that way. The show is just under two weeks away. We need to fill the spot immediately. We can't keep waiting. What about pushing Ariana as the main headliner and finding someone else to fill her slot?"
Scooter's frown deepened. "That can't work. We've sold tickets already — plus our marketing practically everything except confirming a major male pop star as the headliner we have hinted a lot to him being the headliner after we got an okay from UMG. Half the people buying tickets are coming just for him. If he doesn't come, the whole show could be a massive failure."
Another voice, tentative now, asked, "So… what do we do if that person isn't going to come?"
"Wait, what about Justin?" someone suggested quickly. "He fits the criteria. Thank goodness we haven't officially announced a name yet. He checks almost everything off the list. His fanbase is similar, if not bigger than Ethan's. People wouldn't complain — and even if they did, we never said it would be Ethan, so it's on them."
"Yes, but—"
Scooter stood there, hand pressed to his forehead, his body tense. Around him, his full executive team was talking, discussing, planning — throwing out ideas, weighing pros and cons. He knew they were doing their best to come up with a solution, but right now, Scooter wasn't in the right headspace to hear any of that. Every word felt like noise, a distraction he couldn't handle.
"Leave."
The word came out low, almost a growl, yet strong enough that every executive in the room froze. The chatter ceased instantly, and all eyes turned toward him. Scooter didn't even look at them as he repeated it, louder this time, full of authority and finality.
"Leave."
The executives exhaled sharply and, without another word, began packing their things. Clearly, this wasn't the first time this had happened — it had become more frequent ever since his divorce earlier this year. Not wanting to be the object of his venting, they filed out one by one, leaving only Scooter and his executive assistant of seven years, Mrs. Patricia, standing silently to the side.
For nine long minutes, no one spoke. Scooter remained still, head bowed, lost in thought, his mind racing yet strangely empty. Mrs. Patricia stayed quiet, knowing this was his way of processing — waiting until he gave a sign that he was ready.
Finally, he moved his hands from his head and pressed backward, leaning slightly against the polished desk. Patricia, sensing the shift, stepped forward cautiously.
"Sir," she began, her voice measured but steady, "I know this is a tight situation. But… I think it's worth considering the Justin Bieber proposal. His team has been calling regarding the show, and, well… he's upset he wasn't invited."
Scooter opened his eyes slowly, letting the words sink in. He shook his head, demonstrating with his hands as if to physically illustrate the distance between possibility and risk.
"Justin is too unstable right now," he said firmly. "He just stormed off his last tour. We're still over twenty million in losses from that fiasco. We cannot risk him derailing this. Not now."
He stood, walking toward the massive window that overlooked his sprawling mansion. The sprawling grounds, the perfectly manicured lawns, the fountains, the infinity pool — everything looked small in his eyes now, insignificant compared to the stakes at hand. He pressed his palms to the glass, staring out as if drawing clarity from the horizon.
"We're this close… this close," he said, holding his hands a fraction apart to show Patricia the fine line they were walking. "This close to finalizing the deal with HYBE."
He turned slightly, sweeping a hand toward the skyline of Los Angeles in the distance. "UMG has been pushing aggressively. The other major labels are going to start responding. This deal with HYBE? It gives us over a billion dollars to work with. And unlike before, we now have major backing — backing that can resist pressure from the other labels."
He paused, taking a slow breath, eyes narrowing as he considered the weight of the moment. "This show is more than just a concert. It's a statement. A way to show the Koreans that we can be trusted partners. That we aren't small players. That we are partners, not subordinates."
Scooter turned back toward Patricia, voice rising with intensity. "That's why I'm pulling all the stops here. We have to show them our influence in the industry. Getting Ethan — the hottest topic in music right now — on this show is critical. That's why none of this can go wrong."
As Scooter stared out the massive floor-to-ceiling window, watching the sprawling Los Angeles skyline glitter under the late morning sun, his mind drifted back to how it all began. Before he became the Scooter Braun the world knew — the powerhouse, the top-tier influencer, one of the most feared and respected names in the music industry — he had been just a regular college party planner. A guy organizing small events, trying to make a name for himself.
But then, slowly, deliberately, he had dabbled. He discovered artists, signed them, helped shape their careers. He had ventured into different facets of the industry, testing the waters, taking calculated risks. Through it all, he had remained mostly independent, relying on his own instincts, his own vision.
Now, he knew the truth: to survive in this age, to wield influence without being swallowed by the giants, he couldn't be alone. He needed partners, allies who were powerful yet wouldn't overshadow him. That's when he conceived the plan to join forces with HYBE. They were the perfect match — a company with immense industry backing, extensive cooperation networks, yet far enough removed that he could maintain autonomy. Independent, but armed with unstoppable force. They were perfect.
Mrs. Patricia, noticing his deep concentration, spoke up carefully, her voice cutting through the quiet hum of the room.
"Sir… then is it UMG? Are they deceiving us? Pretending to agree to everything just to announce him and then ruin us in one fell swoop? Because… why would they let Ethan perform for us if their goal is to take over the industry why create another rival?"
Scooter didn't respond immediately. He let silence hang in the air before muttering under his breath, almost to himself, "It's unlikely that it's them. Apart from what they said about Ethan having autonomy over where he performs, UMG is the one label that should genuinely want us to succeed."
He knew the reality. Even though UMG was the biggest label in the world, a powerhouse trying to dominate the entire American music industry, Lucian — the CEO — was smart. He understood the industry was far too vast for any single company to swallow entirely. UMG's true aim was to corner at least half of the market, and even that was ambitious.
Scooter considered the "Big Three" — UMG, Sony Music, and WMG. These three labels were in an entirely different league, controlling nearly every major aspect of the American music scene. Nearly all other labels functioned as subsidiaries or affiliates under their shadow. Combined, the Big Three controlled over 80% of all music-related business in the United States.
UMG, always the aggressive giant, had to contend with the other two, but they weren't easy to manipulate or predict. WMG, for instance, was backed by Access Industries — a massive multinational investment firm with stakes in mining, energy, and other major sectors. Sony, of course, was a household name: the Sony Group, a global conglomerate whose reach extended far beyond music.
Unlike UMG, which operated primarily from within the music industry, these other two had almost limitless financial resources at their disposal. That was precisely why Lucian had taken UMG public last year — a strategic move to strengthen their position and take on the financial might of the other two giants.
Scooter understood it clearly: if a fourth, smaller player entered the field — one that didn't directly challenge the Big Three's dominance but had enough backing and influence to act as a counterbalance — they would be welcomed Especially from UMG who would love some of that pressure off them. HYBE was that player. And through them, Scooter could finally secure the leverage he needed, not just to compete, but to dominate strategically, all while maintaining his independence.
Mrs. Patricia, noticing her boss lost in thought, decided to speak up, her voice careful yet probing.
"Then… is it the Taylor Swift connection?" she asked. "Ethan Jones is known to be close to Taylor Swift. Maybe that's why he is rejecting our proposal."
Scooter's eyes snapped open, and a sharp hiss escaped him. "I haven't had a single piece of rest since I acquired those stupid rights."
It was more than just irritation; it was years of pent-up frustration. Two years ago, he had acquired Taylor Swift's masters in what he considered a straightforward, fair deal. They had been up for sale, and he had bought them cleanly. But the world didn't remember it that way. In the public eye, he had become the villain. The pop star herself had publicly criticized him, practically calling him a devil. He had even lost access to all his social media handles for a while, bombarded constantly by her legion of zealous fans, their messages a relentless storm.
And even now, the masters he had acquired continued to give him headaches — lawsuits, claims, endless negotiations. But this — this current situation with Ethan — he was not going to let it be affected by past frustrations. Not now.
Scooter's mind narrowed. Ethan. Taylor. The pieces fit too neatly to ignore. He hissed again, more to himself than anyone else in the room. The closeness between them explained everything. Nothing else could justify someone rejecting six million dollars for a single show.
He leaned forward slightly, voice low but cutting, full of determination. "When we called our contacts there, weren't we told that UMG's new CFO is the one the label has put as their point of contact with Ethan? Get me that number. This isn't ending here."