Chapter 3

How did Brayden and I end up like this?

In our toughest days, we worked three jobs to save for studio time to cut a record.

A single jar of beef paste stretched for nearly half a year.

Even when it molded, we couldn't bear to throw it out.

I knocked on studio doors with my manuscripts while Brayden lugged his guitar, performing at three bars a night.

Later, I wrote a song that shot me to fame.

I turned down a million-dollar offer from a top singer and gave my polished sheet music to Brayden for free.

When I was caught in a plagiarism scandal, facing contract termination and lawsuits, he risked his own future.

He signed a bet with the company. "If you help her win the lawsuit, I guarantee this year's album sells a million copies. Otherwise, treat it as a breach. Worst case, I'll go back to gigging to pay off the debt."

Thankfully, he pulled it off.

His fanbase skyrocketed to tens of millions, landing him among top-tier singers.

That same year, we were photographed leaving our shared apartment.

At one of his new song launches, a deranged fan threw acid at me.

Before I could scream, Brayden's face was in front of mine.

The stench of burning flesh lingered in my memory for a long time.

"Don't look." His body shook with pain, but he covered my eyes. "With me here, no one will hurt you."

But now.

I gave a bitter smile and tucked the sheet music I hadn't sent to the lawyer back into the drawer.

My grandpa had just been moved out of the ICU, and I had no energy left to deal with our ruined relationship.

The past six months of wedding planning had stalled my career, and my grandpa's illness drained most of my savings.

I refused to touch Brayden's money.

I needed to sell some copyrights to cover Grandpa's ongoing treatment.

But when I contacted another agent with a new song I'd written, I was told the copyright belonged to Joyce Shaw.

"What?" The news hit me like a lightning bolt.

How could a song I'd spent over thirty days and nights perfecting belong to someone else?

"Didn't you watch last night's 'Star Songwriter' live stream?"

I shook my head. "I've been at the hospital these past few days."

"Joyce's voice hasn't recovered, so she couldn't compete normally, but she invited Brayden to perform her so-called new song."

In the video, their gazes locked, tender and lingering.

Every note was painfully familiar to me.

I called Brayden to confront him, but Joyce answered. "Let's meet, Ms. Walton."

In a café's private room, she slapped a check in front of me. "I know you need the money. Ten million to buy out the performance rights to your eighty-two songs."

I didn't reach for it. "Is this your idea or Brayden's?"

She smiled lightly. "Do you think a newcomer like me has that kind of money? Brayden said you haven't written a song in half a year. Your inspiration's probably dried up. Those eighty-two songs no longer have exclusive rights. You might as well take the money, retire, and look after your grandpa."

I stayed unmoved.

Then she pulled out a ring, the inner band's J&B worn and faded.

The world went silent.

I felt like I'd plunged into icy depths, every cell aching with cold.

Forcing myself to focus, I pushed the check back with trembling fingers. "If he wants a divorce, let him tell me himself."

But Brayden never came.

Instead, a fire swept through, burning away my memories.