Chapter 1

They called us the Carter twins. Hollywood's golden songbirds.

That was the story, at least. The beautiful lie.

I was Vivian Carter, the older twin by four minutes. In my last life, I was a ghost. Not dead—not yet—but invisible. I wrote every song that made Ethan Cross the biggest name in music. I stayed up until 3 a.m. rewriting bridges and harmonies while he slept. I bled melody into blank pages and watched him accept Grammy after Grammy, thanking "his incredible team" without ever once saying my name.

My sister, Rosalind, was the face. The charm. The one who could walk into a room and make every man in it forget his own name. She was supposed to sign a brutal five-year creative contract with Damien Wolfe, the CEO of Wolfe Entertainment, the most feared man in the music industry. A deal that would give him total ownership of whatever she produced, in exchange for enough money to pull our family's failing label, Carter Music, from the edge of bankruptcy.

She never signed it. I did.

No—in my first life, I didn't sign it either. I married Ethan instead, and Rosalind was sent to Wolfe. But she never intended to honor the deal. She sabotaged it from the inside, leaked Wolfe's private contracts to the press, and came crawling back to Ethan within six months, playing the victim.

And Ethan welcomed her with open arms.

Because by then, he had everything he needed from me. The songs. The sound. The brand. All built on my bones.

The night I discovered their affair, I found them in his private studio—the one I had designed—playing my unreleased album. My lyrics in her mouth. My melodies in his arrangement. They had repackaged my soul and slapped her name on it.

"You were never the artist, Viv," Ethan said, not even bothering to look up from the mixing board. "You were the engine. Rosalind is the star."

Three weeks later, the studio caught fire. My notebooks. My original recordings. My handwritten lyrics going back ten years—all of it, gone. The official report called it an electrical fault.

I was inside when it started.

I didn't make it out.

When I opened my eyes again, I was twenty-three years old, sitting on the cracked leather couch in my father's home studio in Nashville. The same faded gold records on the walls. The same smell of old wood and coffee.

My father, Henry Carter, was pacing. His face was gray with worry. My mother sat silently by the window, twisting a tissue in her hands. Rosalind was perched on the piano bench, her posture a masterpiece of fragile beauty—back straight, chin slightly lowered, eyes glistening with unshed tears.

I knew this moment. I had lived it before.

"The situation is simple," my father said, his voice heavy. "Ethan Cross's label wants a partnership through marriage. One of you marries him, and Cross Entertainment absorbs Carter Music as a subsidiary. We keep our name, our catalog, and our dignity."

He paused, rubbing his temples.

"The other option is Damien Wolfe. He's offered a five-year contract. Whoever signs gives him full creative control over everything they produce. In return, he pays off all of Carter Music's debts—every cent. But his reputation…" My father trailed off, shaking his head. "They call him The Wolf for a reason. He's destroyed careers. He's cold, controlling, and ruthless."

Rosalind bit her lip. A single tear rolled down her cheek—perfectly timed, perfectly placed.

"I'll do it," she whispered. "I'll sign with Wolfe. Vivian should be with Ethan. She loves him. And Ethan… he needs her."

Her voice broke on the last word. It was exquisite. Oscar-worthy.

In my last life, I had rushed to her side, held her hands, and said, "No, Rosie. I could never let you sacrifice yourself like that. I'll figure something out. You should be with someone who loves you."

And so I had married Ethan Cross, and Rosalind had been sent to Wolfe—only to betray him and come back to steal everything I had.

But this time, I saw it. The micro-expression she couldn't quite suppress. The briefest flicker of satisfaction in her eyes as she watched me react to her tears. She wasn't offering to sacrifice herself. She was baiting me into sacrificing myself for her.

She wanted Ethan. She had always wanted Ethan.

And she wanted me locked away in Wolfe's cage, producing songs she could eventually steal.

The realization hit like ice water.

"No, Rosalind," I said. My voice was calm. Steady. "You're right."

The room went still.

I stood up. "You said you'd do it for the family. So you should be with Ethan Cross. You're perfect for each other."

I turned to my father. "I'll sign the contract with Damien Wolfe."

Rosalind's mask shattered. Her eyes went wide, real panic flooding her features for the first time. "Vivian, stop it! You love Ethan! You can't just throw yourself away—Wolfe will eat you alive!"

The studio door crashed open.

Ethan Cross filled the doorway, six-foot-two of golden boy fury. His jaw was clenched, his blue eyes blazing. He must have been listening from the hall.

"Vivian." His voice was low, dangerous. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

He looked at me the way he always had—not as a woman, but as an asset. A songwriting machine in a pretty package. The idea that I might choose to leave his orbit was incomprehensible to him.

"I said," I repeated, meeting his gaze without flinching, "I'm signing with Damien Wolfe."

And for the first time in two lifetimes, I watched the color drain from Ethan Cross's perfect face.