The Universal Music Group building rose before me like a glass and steel monolith, its windows reflecting a Manhattan sky heavy with promise. Rico stood beside me, adjusting his tie – his first tie, bought specially for this meeting, though I'd never tell him I knew that. In my previous life, he'd worn a leather jacket to this same meeting. Small changes, butterfly wings.
"Remember," Rico said, his voice tight with anticipation, "we're not here to beg. That track is gold, and they know it."
I nodded, feeling the weight of the demo in my briefcase. In my original timeline, I'd blown this meeting – young, brash, demanding creative control I hadn't earned. The memory of that failure sat bitter in my throat as we crossed the marble lobby.
The security guard, an older man named Vincent, checked our IDs. In my other life, he'd been the one who'd escorted me out. Today, he smiled. "Mr. Johnson? They're expecting you on forty-two."
The elevator ride was silent save for the soft hum of cables and Rico's rhythmic tapping against his thigh – a nervous habit he'd carry for the next fifteen years. I closed my eyes, centering myself in the moment. The demo we carried wasn't just music; it was a skeleton key to unlock a future I'd only glimpsed in my past life.
*When the midnight turns to morning
And the echo fades to black
Every dream becomes a warning
Of the things we can't take back*
Beyoncé's lyrics floated through my mind, another change to the timeline. She'd written these verses herself after our session, inspired by something she'd seen in my eyes during playback. In my original life, we'd never connected like this, never found this creative synchronicity until it was too late.
The conference room doors were already open when we arrived. Douglas Chen, VP of A&R, sat at the head of the table, his reputation for making and breaking careers preceding him. Beside him sat Sarah Martinez (no relation to Rico) – the marketing exec who, in my previous life, would go on to revolutionize digital distribution. Knowing what I knew about her vision made me smile. She was an ally we needed, though she didn't know it yet.
"Marcus Johnson," Douglas said, rising. "That demo's been making a lot of noise upstairs."
Rico stepped forward with practiced casualness. "Wait till you hear the full mix."
I set up the playback while studying Douglas's face. In my original timeline, I'd missed the subtle tells – the slight head tilt when something caught his ear, the finger-tap that signaled interest. Two decades in the industry had taught me to read these signs like sheet music.
The first notes filled the room, and I watched Sarah's eyes close – really close, not the performative listening I'd seen too often in my past life. When Beyoncé's voice entered, Douglas's finger began its telltale tap. The production was pristine, deliberately crafted to showcase both commercial appeal and artistic innovation. I'd learned that lesson the hard way the first time around.
As the bridge approached, I caught Rico's eye. This was the moment – the harmonic shift that I knew would seal the deal. In my previous timeline, I'd argued for a different arrangement here, one that had proved too experimental for 2006. This version walked the perfect line between revolution and recognition.
*Time is a river flowing backward
Through the streets of yesterday
Every choice a new tomorrow
Every memory leads the way*
The final chorus faded, leaving the kind of silence that recording contracts are born from. Sarah opened her eyes first. "The production is... I've never heard anything quite like it."
"That's the point," I said, speaking for the first time since entering the room. "Music's changing. Audiences are changing. They're ready for something that bridges worlds."
Douglas leaned forward, his finger still tapping. "You produced this yourself?"
"Every element," Rico jumped in. "Marcus is a prodigy. Been working with him since he was seventeen."
I suppressed a smile, remembering how this moment had played out before. Last time, I'd launched into a speech about creative control and artistic vision. This time, I simply said, "I know what this track can do. The question is, does Universal want to be part of it?"
Sarah and Douglas exchanged a look I pretended not to recognize. In my previous life, I'd missed its significance entirely. She pulled out a folder – the contract, already drafted. They'd made their decision before we'd even walked in.
"Let's talk numbers," Douglas said.
The next hour was a dance I'd learned the steps to twenty years too late the first time. Each clause, each percentage point, each stipulation about creative control and publishing rights – I navigated them with the wisdom of a future I was actively rewriting. Rico's eyes widened slightly at my knowledge of industry minutiae, but he covered it well.
When we finally emerged from the building, the afternoon sun had taken on that peculiar golden quality that Manhattan gets in late summer. Rico was practically vibrating with excitement.
"How?" he asked simply. "How did you know exactly what to say, when to push, when to hold back?"
I watched a yellow cab navigate the eternal dance of midtown traffic. "Sometimes," I said, "you just have to trust that the music knows where it needs to go."
My phone buzzed – a message from Beyoncé: *Heard about the meeting. Knew you'd make it happen. Studio tonight?*
The future hummed with possibility, a new melody writing itself into existence. In my pocket, the signed contract felt like a bridge between worlds – between who I had been and who I was becoming, between what had been and what could be.
Rico hailed a cab, already making calls to set the machinery of success in motion. I lingered a moment longer on the sidewalk, letting the city's rhythm wash over me. In my original timeline, this day had ended very differently. But here, now, the price of dreams wasn't failure – it was the responsibility of getting everything right the second time around.