Virgin Dot Com Novel

[Jasmine's POV] Morning arrives with the particular anxiety of exposure. The panel is at ten-"Women in Music Production: Breaking Barriers and Building Careers"-and I'm supposed to have insights worth sharing. Supposed to be the woman who successfully navigated this industry, not the one who disappeared for five years into domestic obligation and is now testing whether she still exists professionally. I text the group chat from the hotel bathroom where I'm attempting to make myself look competent. The responses come quickly, overlapping.

Liam: You're going to be brilliant Asher: Remember you're the most talented person in that room Finn: Kick ass, take names, make us proud Their encouragement should settle the nerves crawling up my spine. Instead, it just highlights the distance-them there with our daughters, me here pretending I'm still the person who deserves this platform. Pretending five years hasn't eroded whatever authority I used to carry. The panel room is packed. I take my seat at the long table with three other women producers, face the audience of hundreds, and my hands won't stop shaking.

The moderator introduces us with credentials that sound impressive when stripped of context. Jasmine Harlow-Blackwood, producer of multiple platinum albums, known for innovative approaches to vocal layering and atmospheric production. She doesn't mention that I haven't finished a significant project in five years. That most of my recent work is commissioned tracks done between school pickups and bedtime routines. That I'm here on the strength of past achievements, not present relevance. But then the questions start. And something shifts.

I speak about balancing artistry and commercialism-the constant negotiation between creative vision and market demands. About staying authentic while acknowledging that bills need paying and artists need audiences. The words flow with unexpected ease, drawing on years of experience I'd forgotten I had. Drawing on the part of me that still knows this world, still speaks this language. The audience leans forward. Takes notes. Nods along with points I'm making about the industry's evolving relationship with independent production. And I realize-I'm good at this. Still good at this.

The woman who exists underneath maternal obligation hasn't disappeared. She's just been hibernating, waiting for permission to emerge. Midway through, I scan the audience and find Elijah. Third row, slightly left. He's nodding along to something I'm saying about the importance of trusting your artistic instincts even when A&R is pushing different directions. His expression is focused, engaged, and the recognition of his presence makes my pulse kick up in ways that have nothing to do with public speaking anxiety. Afterward, people want to talk.

They cluster around the table with business cards and questions and multiple offers for commissioned work. Producers wanting collaboration. Artists seeking my specific approach to their projects. Label executives mentioning budgets that make my breath catch. "Your work on the Vesper album was transformative," a woman from Capitol Records says, pressing her card into my hand. "We have three artists who could benefit from your production style. Can we schedule a call?" Yes.

The answer rises automatically even as my mind is calculating logistics-how to fit studio time around kindergarten schedules, whether commissioned work can happen remotely or requires Los Angeles presence. Whether I can be Jasmine-the-producer without sacrificing Mommy-who-holds-everything-together. The realization settles with devastating clarity: I've been hiding my light. Focusing only on motherhood while letting the professional part of me atrophy. Not because they demanded it-the men have always supported my work. But because guilt convinced me I couldn't be both.

Couldn't be artist and mother without one suffering. What if that's bullshit? What if I've been performing martyrdom that no one actually required? Between sessions, I find a quiet corner and call Liam. He answers on the first ring, slightly breathless. "How'd it go?" "Good. Really good, actually." I'm still processing, words tumbling out faster than I can organize them. "The panel went well, and afterward-Liam, I have five legitimate offers for commissioned work. Real projects with actual budgets." His pride radiates through the phone. "See? I told you.

You're incredible." The certainty in his voice makes my chest tight. He believes it with the conviction of someone who's never doubted me, even when I've doubted myself. Even when I disappeared into maternal obligation and stopped believing Jasmine-the-artist still existed. "I miss you." The admission escapes before I can stop it. Vulnerable. Raw. "Miss you more." His voice drops lower, intimate despite the distance. "Counting hours until you're home." The conversation feels good. Normal. The easy connection we used to have before paternity tests and assistants and slow dissolution.

Maybe distance is giving us perspective. Maybe we can survive this-the fractures, the doubts, the weight of everything we've built. "How are the girls?" I ask, because I need to know. Need evidence they're surviving my absence. "Missing you. But okay. We're managing." There's exhaustion in his tone but also satisfaction. Pride in successfully navigating territory he usually leaves to me. "Zoe had a meltdown about her hair this morning, but Finn handled it. Even did those twisty things she likes." Something in my chest eases. They're managing.

Proving they can function without me orchestrating from the center. The relief is complicated-gratitude tangled with the terrifying recognition that I might be less essential than the guilt suggests. We talk until his next meeting demands attention. Exchange I-love-yous that feel genuine, uncomplicated by all the baggage we've been carrying. When the call ends, I'm smiling. Feeling something close to optimistic about returning home. Then evening comes, and I'm meeting Elijah for that drink. We don't go to the hotel lounge.

He suggests a dive bar three blocks away-actual dive, not the manufactured authenticity of corporate bars pretending to be gritty. The kind of place where the bartender knows regulars by name and the music playing isn't curated for ambiance. Just exists. We claim stools at the far end of the bar. He orders whiskey neat again, and I get something stronger than wine because I need the armor. Need something to blunt the awareness already humming beneath my skin just from proximity. The conversation goes deeper than last night.

Past industry talk into actual substance-what drives us as artists, what we're chasing when we create. Purpose and meaning and all the questions that don't have easy answers. "Why production?" he asks, turning to face me more fully. "Why not performing yourself?" "Control." The answer comes without filtering. "Performing means being seen. Production means shaping how others are seen. There's power in that. Safety." He considers this, nods slowly. "Hiding behind other people's talent while exercising yours." "Exactly." Something eases in my chest that he understands without judgment.

"What about you?" "Same, actually. I tried performing for about six months. Hated every second." He laughs, self-deprecating. "Turns out I'm much better at helping other people find their voice than using my own." We talk about failed projects and the songs that haunt us. The ones we're still chasing and might never catch. He mentions his divorce-amicably ended two years ago, no kids, still friendly with his ex-wife who married a dentist and moved to Portland. "And you?" he asks, casual but genuinely curious.

"The vague 'complicated family situation' you mentioned?" The question makes my stomach drop. I should tell him everything-the girls, the three men, the unconventional structure that defines my entire existence. But the words stick in my throat because here, in this space, I'm just Jasmine. Not Mommy. Not partner navigating polyamorous complexity. Just me. "Complicated," I repeat, and try for honesty without detail. "I have children. Twin daughters. And my relationship situation is... non-traditional." He waits for elaboration. When none comes, he nods.

"We all have complicated." He doesn't push. Doesn't ask follow-up questions or probe into details I'm not offering. Just accepts the boundary I'm drawing and respects it, and the relief that floods through me is disproportionate. We keep talking. Hours dissolve. And at some point-I'm not sure when-I become aware of our knees touching under the bar. Just contact through denim, nothing dramatic. But neither of us moves away. The touch registers with disproportionate intensity. Heat spreading from the point of contact, radiating up my thigh, settling low in my belly with dangerous warmth.

I should shift. Should reestablish professional distance. But I'm frozen, hyperaware of his proximity and my body's response to it. He's telling a story about a disastrous studio session. Gesturing with his hands, animated and engaged. His hand brushes mine on the bar-accidental, just fingers grazing fingers as he reaches for his glass. But the contact sends electricity through my nervous system. Sharp. Undeniable. I pull back. Not dramatically, just slight repositioning that creates space between us.

The movement is instinctive, self-preservation kicking in before conscious thought catches up. I'm in a committed relationship. Three committed relationships. This-whatever this is-can't happen. Something shifts in his expression. Recognition, maybe disappointment, but also understanding. He leans back slightly, his knee no longer pressed against mine. The loss of contact is physical ache, and I hate that I notice. Hate that I want to close the distance again. "Sorry," he says quietly. "I didn't mean-" "It's fine." My voice comes out steadier than expected. "Just... boundaries." "Right.

Of course." He's studying me now, and there's something in his eyes-respect, but also acknowledgment of what's happening between us. Of the chemistry neither of us is acting on but both definitely feel. "Complicated." "Very." The word hangs in the air between us. Complicated barely covers the territory-the family waiting at home, the fractures I'm supposed to be healing, the fact that I'm sitting in a Nashville dive bar thinking about how another man's accidental touch makes my skin burn. We finish our drinks.

Talk about safer things-tomorrow's panels, the state of the industry, anything that doesn't require examining what just happened. What almost happened. What's still hovering in the charged space between us. Eventually, the bar starts closing. We walk back to the hotel in careful silence, maintaining physical distance that feels more significant than the inches actually separating us. At my door, he stops. Respects the boundary I established. Doesn't try to push into territory I've made clear is off-limits. "Tomorrow's the last day," he says.

"One more panel in the morning, then everyone flies home." "Yeah." My keycard trembles in my hand. "Back to real life." "Maybe we could grab coffee? Before panels?" His voice is careful, offering without demanding. "Just coffee. Public space. Very professional colleague thing." I should say no. Should draw a line here before anything happens that can't be undone. Should protect the life I built, fractured as it currently is. "Coffee sounds good." The words emerge before I can stop them. His smile is genuine, warm, but there's something underneath. Awareness of what we're both not saying.

Of the want we're both not acting on but definitely acknowledging. "Goodnight, Jasmine." "Goodnight, Elijah." I close the door. Lean against it. My body is still humming with awareness, skin hypersensitive, pulse racing. The ghost of his touch lingers on my hand where our fingers brushed. My knee remembers the pressure of his. My phone buzzes. Text from Finn: Girls are asleep. House is too quiet without your chaos. Come home soon. I text back love and reassurance and promises. Mean every word even as my body is still processing the electricity of Elijah's proximity.

Even as part of me is already anticipating tomorrow's coffee, counting hours until I see him again. Lying in bed, I think about Liam's pride during our call. Think about coming home to the life we've built. Think about whether I can integrate these two versions of myself-Jasmine-the-artist who's emerging in Nashville and Mommy-who-holds-everything-together waiting back home. Think about whether I want to.

Think about Elijah's respect when I established boundaries, and how much harder it's going to be to maintain those boundaries tomorrow when I'm walking toward temptation instead of away from it. Virgin Dot Com