Chapter 4

The afterparty was a blur of forced smiles and industry schmoozing.

Liam was a natural, charming and witty, but I felt drained, the confrontation with Ethan and the resurfacing of the vlog weighing heavily on me.

I found a quiet corner, nursing a glass of water, when the memories started to flood in, unbidden.

The breakup.

It wasn't a slow fade, a mutual drifting apart. It was a guillotine.

Ethan had just won his first major award, a precursor to the Golden Notes. He' d been nominated alongside me, for a duet we' d written. He won, I didn' t.

The night before the awards, he' d been all promises. "When I win, Maya, when we win, because this is ours, I' m going to get down on one knee. Right there."

He didn' t win for our duet. He won for a solo track his new, aggressive manager had pushed.

After the ceremony, in the sterile silence of our hotel room, the award gleaming mockingly on the dresser, he' d dropped the bomb.

"Maya, this isn't working."

I' d stared at him, confused. "What isn't working? The song? The promo?"

"Us," he' d said, his voice devoid of the warmth I' d known for years. "You' re... you' re great, Maya. But you' re... average. You don' t have that star quality. You' ll hold me back."

Average.

The word had struck me like a physical blow.

"I need someone... more," he' d continued, not meeting my eyes. "Someone who can match my trajectory. Someone who can elevate my brand."

Elevate his brand.

We weren' t talking about love, about dreams, about promises. We were talking about a career strategy.

"And I' ve found her," he' d added, almost as an afterthought. "Brittany. She gets it. She' s ambitious."

The next day, pictures of Ethan and Brittany, hand-in-hand, all smiles, were plastered across every entertainment site. "Pop' s New Power Couple!" the headlines screamed.

He hadn't even waited a day.

The humiliation had been absolute.

I' d fled. Packed my bags, left Austin, left everything behind.

Berklee. Boston. A desperate attempt to reclaim my music, my sanity.

That' s where I met Liam.

He was in town for a tech conference, visiting some old MIT buddies. I was in a crowded coffee shop near the campus, agonizing over a lyric, my notebook open, my coffee cold.

I' d gotten up to get a refill, and when I came back, he was standing by my table, holding my notebook.

"Lost something?" he' d asked, a kind smile in his eyes.

He wasn' t in music. He didn' t know who Ethan was, or who I was, or the wreckage I was trying to escape.

He just saw a girl with a notebook full of sad songs.

He' d listened. He' d understood. Not the specifics of the music industry betrayal, but the universal pain of a broken heart, of a shattered dream.

His quiet strength, his steady support, his genuine belief in my talent, not as a brand asset, but as an artist... it had been a lifeline.

We started as friends. Long talks, shared meals, him patiently listening to my half-formed songs, me slowly learning to trust again.

Love had bloomed unexpectedly, quietly, like a resilient desert flower after a long drought.

A buzz from my phone pulled me back to the present.

A notification. Ethan' s management.

A cease-and-desist letter. Email.

"Regarding the unauthorized dissemination of archival footage and subsequent creation of unwarranted media hype detrimental to our client' s current professional endeavors and personal relationships..."

I snorted. Unwarranted hype? He' d been the one to come find me.

I typed a quick reply. "Tell Ethan if he doesn' t back off, I' ll release the photos from his garage band days. The ones with the bad perm and the Spandex. Consider this my cease-and-desist."

I hit send and blocked the email address.

Liam appeared at my elbow, a concerned look on his face. "You okay? You looked a million miles away."

I leaned my head on his shoulder. "Just... revisiting some old ghosts."

I told him about the cease-and-desist.

He chuckled. "Spandex, huh? I' d pay to see that."

"It wasn't pretty," I said, a genuine smile finally breaking through.

"So," he said, his arm around me, his tone light, playful. "My wife, the indie darling, threatening pop royalty with bad hair day photos. I love it." He kissed my forehead. "Don't let him get to you, Maya. He' s the past. We' re the future."

His words were a comfort, a shield.

But as we left the party, dodging the paparazzi, I knew Ethan wouldn' t give up that easily. He never did.