Chapter Text
Dear Mr. Sinatra,
I've seen her, your little business endeavor. Haunting me in my dreams. She was so small she could crawl in my bloodstream. It sends tingles down my spine! And my body shudders just thinking about the disasters that might happen to you without my folks’ experience…
Please reconsider your decision. We don't want to lose you!
With much desire for renegotiation,
Liberty Mercer
Frank Sinatra pressed his cigarette onto the ashtray, a deep sigh escaping his lungs as he leaned back on his—bright orange, of course—happy chair. It was awfully typical of those Capitol finks to use their personification as a gofer to smooth things over, his sparkling personality hiding a gang of contracts that'd put his independence as an artist to endsville. He wouldn't fall for that again.
Volta “Dottie” Sinatra, youthful except for her tall figure borne from her creator's ambition, peered over Frank’s shoulder to read the letter. She's pressed onto him. Burning with life. Unlike Liberty's cold, soulless ass.
"For a man called 'Liberty'," Frank mused, "he sure hates my freedom."
“Sure does!” Dottie's laughter rang out. But she sobered as soon as it started. “But is that true? That we'll be disastrous?”
“We may be new at this, darlin’. However,” Frank sent a reassuring smile to his creation and patted her head. In her eyes, he saw himself glimmering with successes ahead. “I've got pals beside me who want the same creativity as I do. Creativity that you will be sharin’ to the world. Don't let him get to ya, Dottie.”
“I won't," she vowed, those clear blue eyes shining like the records he'll make with her in his all-new studio. He couldn't wait. “I won't disappoint you, Mr. Sinatra.”
Frank beamed. “Marvelous.”