Chapter 2

Ethan didn't leave. He planted himself in the middle of my father's studio like he owned the place—which, given the financial arrangement he was proposing, he practically would.

"This is ridiculous," he said, his voice smooth but edged with something sharp underneath. He ran a hand through his golden hair, a gesture I once found impossibly attractive. Now it just looked rehearsed. "Vivian, you're not thinking clearly. Damien Wolfe? The man is a predator. He chews up artists and spits them out. Ask anyone."

"I didn't ask for your opinion," I said.

His eyes narrowed. He wasn't used to hearing that word from me—no. In my previous life, I had never said it. Not once. Not when he asked me to rewrite an entire album in two weeks. Not when he took my name off the credits. Not when he told me to smile for the cameras and pretend the songs were "collaborative."

Rosalind, sensing she was losing control of the situation, did what she always did. She escalated.

"Daddy," she said, her voice quivering, turning to our father with those devastating doe eyes. "Please talk to her. She's doing this to hurt herself. She's been under so much stress lately—I'm worried about her mental state."

There it was. The classic Rosalind maneuver. If she couldn't manipulate me directly, she'd undermine my credibility. Paint me as unstable, emotional, irrational.

My mother looked up from her tissue, concern deepening in her eyes. My father hesitated, glancing between us.

"Vivian," he began carefully. "Maybe we should take some time to—"

"There's nothing to discuss," I cut in. "The Wolfe contract saves Carter Music. Rosalind marries Ethan. Everyone gets what they want. Unless—" I turned to look directly at my sister. "—Rosalind doesn't actually want to marry Ethan?"

The trap was elegant in its simplicity. She had spent years cultivating the image of a woman secretly, hopelessly in love with Ethan Cross. If she refused him now, the entire facade would crumble.

Rosalind's mouth opened. Closed. Her fingers tightened on the edge of the piano bench.

"Of course I—I mean, it's not about what I want," she stammered, trying to recover. "It's about what's best for you, Vivian."

"Then it's settled," I said with a smile that didn't reach my eyes. "You'll marry Ethan. I'll sign with Wolfe. Everyone sacrifices something for the family."

Ethan stepped toward me, closing the distance until I could smell his cologne—that expensive, woodsy scent I used to bury my face in after long studio sessions. His hand caught my wrist.

"You're making the biggest mistake of your life," he said, his voice dropping to that low, intimate register he used when he wanted something. "Wolfe doesn't just own your music, Vivian. He owns you. For five years. Do you understand what that means?"

"Better than you think," I said, pulling my wrist free.

"Is this about the Midnight Aria credits?" he asked suddenly, his eyes searching my face. "Because I told you, the label made that call, not me. I was going to fix it."

Midnight Aria. My magnum opus. A fourteen-track concept album that I had written entirely alone over the course of a year—every note, every word, every arrangement. It had won Album of the Year. Ethan's name was the only one on it.

In my past life, I had believed his excuse. I had swallowed the lie and kept writing.

"You were never going to fix it," I said quietly. "And we both know it."

Something shifted in his expression. A crack in the armor. For just a moment, I saw something that might have been guilt—or might have been fear that I was slipping beyond his control.

"Vivian—"

"I think you should go, Mr. Cross," I said, using his surname deliberately. The formality hit him like a slap. "You and Rosalind have a wedding to plan."

I walked out of the studio and didn't look back.

Behind me, I heard Rosalind's voice, high and desperate: "Ethan, don't worry. She'll come around. She always does."

But as I climbed the stairs to my old bedroom, I made a silent vow.

This time, Vivian Carter would never come around again. This time, the ghost would step out of the shadows—and the whole world would hear her voice.