Rust & Starlight
Chapter 29 : Mason Refuses
The first week in Nashville without Wren was harder than Mason expected.
He woke each morning in the hotel suite, alone, the sheets cold on the other side of the bed. The city hummed outside his window, indifferent to his loneliness. He called Wren every night, sometimes twice, and her voice was a rope thrown across the miles, keeping him from drowning.
But the work helped. The studio was a sanctuary — an old church with good bones and better acoustics. Sam and Ellie were patient, pushing him when he needed pushing, backing off when he needed space. By day five, they had rough mixes of seven songs, including “Kansas Rain,” which Sam declared “the best thing I’ve recorded in a decade.”
Mason didn’t feel like celebrating. He felt like a man holding his breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
It dropped on day six.
Mason was in the live room, running through a new song — something up-tempo, almost joyful, about the first time Wren had smiled at him without the mask. The melody was bright, the chords were simple, and for a few minutes, he forgot where he was.
Then the control room door opened, and Brandi Shaw walked in.
She was dressed for a photo shoot: tight jeans, a low-cut blouse, her blonde hair falling in perfect waves. Her smile was practiced, professional, and utterly false.
“Hello, darling,” she said. “Miss me?”
Mason’s hands froze on the guitar strings. The song died.
“What are you doing here, Brandi?”
“Can’t an ex-wife visit an ex-husband?” She walked into the live room, her heels clicking on the hardwood. “I heard you were back. Making a record. Looking healthy.” She reached out to touch his face. He pulled back.
“Don’t.”
Brandi’s smile flickered, but didn’t fall. “Still angry. That’s fair. I said some things I shouldn’t have. The Instagram post was childish.”
“It wasn’t childish. It was cruel. You called her a ‘Kansas cowgirl’ like it was an insult.”
“She’s not exactly your type.”
“She’s exactly my type. She’s the only type I have now.”
Brandi’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve changed.”
“I got sober. That tends to change a person.”
She circled him slowly, like a predator sizing up prey. “I heard your song. ‘Kansas Rain.’ It’s beautiful. Vulnerable. The kind of thing that wins Grammys.” She stopped in front of him. “I want to be part of it.”
Mason stared at her. “What?”
“A duet. You and me. We’ll rewrite one of the verses, make it a conversation between two people who loved and lost. The publicity would be enormous. The narrative — exes reconciling through music — it’s gold.”
“You’re insane.”
“I’m strategic.” She stepped closer. “Think about it, Mason. Your comeback album, featuring a duet with your famous ex-wife. It would sell millions. You’d be back on top. No more hiding on a farm in Kansas.”
“The farm isn’t hiding. It’s living.”
“Same thing.” She reached out and adjusted his collar. “You have until tomorrow to decide. My team will send over the paperwork.”
She walked out, her heels clicking a staccato rhythm.
Mason stood in the live room, his guitar hanging from his neck, his hands shaking.
Sam and Ellie were uncomfortable.
They sat in the control room, avoiding Mason’s eyes, shuffling papers that didn’t need shuffling.
“You knew she was coming,” Mason said.
“We knew she wanted to meet,” Sam admitted. “She said it was about clearing the air. We didn’t know about the duet.”
“Would you have told me if you did?”
A pause. “Probably not. We thought you might say no without hearing her out.”
Mason set down his guitar. “I am saying no. Without hearing her out.”
Ellie leaned forward. “Mason, listen. Brandi Shaw has twenty million followers on social media. A duet with her would guarantee radio play, streaming numbers, award nominations. It could be the difference between a cult record and a mainstream hit.”
“I don’t care about mainstream hits.”
“You might not. But the label does. And Julian does. And the band you’re going to hire for the tour does.” Ellie’s voice was gentle but firm. “This isn’t just about you anymore. This is about everyone who’s invested in your comeback.”
Mason looked at her. Then at Sam. Then at the stained glass windows, which cast colored light across the room.
“I’ll think about it,” he said. “But I’m not promising anything.”
That night, he called Wren.
He told her about Brandi’s visit, about the duet proposal, about the pressure from the producers. He didn’t sugarcoat it. She deserved the truth.
“So what are you going to do?” Wren asked.
“I’m going to say no.”
“Even if it costs you the album?”
“It won’t cost me the album. It might cost me some sales, some attention, some awards. But I don’t need any of that. I need to be able to look at myself in the mirror.”
Wren was quiet for a moment. Then: “What if there’s another way?”
“What do you mean?”
“Say yes to the duet. But on your terms. You write the lyrics. You control the narrative. You turn it into something real, not just a publicity stunt.”
Mason frowned. “You want me to work with the woman who called you a ‘Kansas cowgirl’?”
“I want you to take her power away. If you say no, she’ll spin it as you being bitter, hung up on the past. If you say yes, but you call the shots, you win. She becomes a guest in your story, not the author.”
Mason thought about it. Wren was smart — smarter than him, most days. And she had a point. Brandi was a shark. The only way to deal with a shark was to stay out of the water or become a bigger shark.
“I’ll think about it,” he said.
“That’s all I ask.”
“Wren?”
“Yeah?”
“I miss you.”
“I miss you too. Now go to sleep. You have a big day tomorrow.”
She hung up before he could say goodbye.
The next morning, Mason called Brandi’s manager.
He didn’t say yes. He didn’t say no. He said he wanted to meet, face to face, without lawyers or producers or anyone else in the room. Brandi agreed. They met at a coffee shop in East Nashville, a place that didn’t have a dress code or a velvet rope.
Brandi arrived looking less polished — jeans, a sweater, her hair in a messy bun. She looked almost human.
“You wanted to talk,” she said, sliding into the booth across from him.
“I wanted to set ground rules.” Mason didn’t order coffee. He didn’t trust himself with caffeine, let alone anything stronger. “If we do this duet, I write the lyrics. I choose the melody. I have final say on everything.”
Brandi’s eyes widened. “That’s not how collaborations work.”
“That’s how this collaboration works. You’re a guest on my album. Not a co-lead. Not a partner. A guest.”
“And what do I get out of it?”
“Publicity. Goodwill. The chance to look like the bigger person after that Instagram post.”
Brandi’s jaw tightened. For a moment, Mason thought she would walk out. Then she laughed — a real laugh, surprised and genuine.
“You’ve grown a spine,” she said.
“I grew a lot of things. Sobriety. Self-respect. A girlfriend who’s smarter than both of us combined.”
“The farm girl.”
“Her name is Wren. And she’s worth ten of you.”
Brandi’s smile faded. “I’m sure she is.” She stood up. “Fine. Your terms. I’ll have my lawyer draw up the paperwork.”
She walked out without looking back.
Mason sat alone in the booth, his hands flat on the table, his heart pounding.
He had won this round. But the war wasn’t over.
That night, he called Wren again.
“I said yes,” he told her. “On my terms.”
“I knew you would.”
“How did you know?”
“Because you’re not the man who crashed into my fence anymore. You’re the man who fixed it.” Her voice was warm, proud. “Now write a duet that makes the whole world forget Brandi Shaw’s name.”
Mason smiled.
“I’ll try.”