The Talk

John Gordy didn’t summon, he invited. That’s how you knew it was serious.

Phil arrived at the Gordy estate late in the afternoon, sunlight pouring over the front lawn like liquid gold. Everything about the place screamed legacy: the walls held platinum records like most people hang family portraits. It smelled like aged whiskey, mahogany, and memories.

Gordy was waiting in the sunroom, dressed in his signature white linen suit, Cuban cigar untouched between two fingers. His salt-and-pepper afro was tied back, eyes hidden behind tinted glasses, but the way his jaw ticked said enough.

Phil took a breath and stepped inside.

“You came,” John said without looking up. “Good.”

Phil sat across from him, the silence stretching for several seconds—long enough for the air to thicken.

“I assume this isn’t about music,” Phil finally said.

John removed his glasses. His eyes, the same sharp ones Carina inherited, bore into Phil’s like x-rays. “No. It’s about my daughter.”

Another pause.

“I always liked you,” John continued. “Knew you were the real deal. Not just the music—your spirit. That rare balance of genius and grounded. The kind that earns respect without begging for it.”

Phil nodded, unsure where this was going but willing to let it play out.

“But what Carina did…” John exhaled sharply. “That wasn’t love. That was ego.”

His voice was calm, but there was thunder behind it. “She faked a pregnancy. Manipulated you into a marriage you didn’t want. And now she’s tormenting a woman carrying your real child. My grandchild.”

Phil’s shoulders tightened.

“She’s 24 weeks,” he said quietly. “It’s been a rough pregnancy. Gabby’s been nauseous, fatigued, emotionally drained. And Carina’s antics haven’t helped.”

“Rhonda told me,” John said. “Everything. Even about the detergent stunt. You know what bleach can do to a pregnant woman’s skin? Her lungs?”

Phil closed his eyes. The thought alone made him sick.

“I raised Carina to be fierce,” John went on, voice suddenly weary. “To survive the snakes in this business. But I never thought I’d watch my own daughter become one.”

That hit hard.

“I wanted to believe she’d grow out of it,” John continued. “But when you lose empathy, son, you lose everything that makes you human.”

Phil didn’t speak. He let the words settle like dust in a studio after a mic drop.

“I’m on your side,” John said after a moment. “I’ve already told the board. If Carina tries to come for your label, your rights, your reputation—I’ll shut it down. Personally.”

Phil looked up, eyes burning with the weight of everything he hadn’t said for months. “You’d go against your own daughter?”

John didn’t flinch. “If she’s hurting people I love? Damn right I would.”

He leaned forward, elbows on knees.

“You protect that girl, Phil. Gabrielle. She’s not just carrying your child—she’s carrying a legacy. Your legacy. And don’t you dare let Carina steal one more thing from you.”

Phil nodded slowly. “I won’t.”

John studied him for a beat longer, then leaned back, finally taking a puff of the cigar. The flame crackled like punctuation.

“I may be her father, but I’m not blind. And I sure as hell ain’t complicit.”

As Phil stood to leave, John added, “When that baby’s born… bring ‘em by. I want to meet the heir to a real kingdom.”

Phil smiled for the first time in weeks. “You got it.”