Chapter 3

I moved out the next morning.

I packed light—clothes, my laptop, a single notebook of compositions I'd hidden under a loose floorboard in my bedroom years ago. Everything else—the awards on the shelf that bore Ethan's name, the framed photos of the Carter twins smiling for magazine covers, the golden life I'd built for everyone but myself—I left behind.

My father tried to stop me at the door. "Vivian, at least wait until the Wolfe contract is reviewed by our lawyers—"

"I've already read it," I said. "Every clause. I'll sign it today."

His face crumpled. He looked old in that moment, older than his years. I almost felt sorry for him. Almost. But I remembered that in my last life, he had stood silently by while Ethan stripped my name from everything I'd created. He had chosen the path of least resistance, and that path had led to my death.

"I love you, Dad," I said. "But I have to do this."

I drove to Wolfe Entertainment's headquarters in downtown Los Angeles. The building was a monolith of black glass and steel, sleek and imposing, a physical manifestation of the man who ran it. While Ethan's label operated out of a sun-drenched campus designed to look approachable, Wolfe's empire made no such pretense. It was a fortress.

The lobby was cold. Marble floors, minimal art, security checkpoints. A young woman in a crisp black suit met me at the front desk.

"Ms. Carter? I'm Lena Park, Mr. Wolfe's executive assistant. He's expecting you." She glanced at my single suitcase and small bag with barely concealed surprise. "Is that… all you've brought?"

"I travel light," I said.

She led me through a series of corridors to a private elevator that required a keycard and a biometric scan. We rode up in silence to the top floor.

The doors opened onto a vast, minimalist office. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of Los Angeles. The room was dominated by a massive grand piano—a Steinway, I noted, concert-grade, its black surface gleaming. The walls were lined not with gold records or celebrity photos, but with original music manuscripts behind glass. I recognized a few—handwritten scores by composers whose work I had studied religiously.

And at the far end of the room, behind a desk that held nothing but a single laptop, sat Damien Wolfe.

The photos didn't do him justice. Not because he was handsome—though he was, in a severe, sharp-angled way—but because no photograph could capture the sheer, concentrated intensity of his presence. He had dark hair, cut close, and eyes so pale gray they were almost silver. A thin scar ran along his jawline, disappearing beneath his collar. He was dressed entirely in black, and he didn't stand when I entered.

He studied me in silence for a long moment. His gaze was clinical, assessing—not the way a man looks at a woman, but the way a surgeon examines an X-ray. Looking for fractures. For hidden damage.

"Sit down, Ms. Carter," he said. His voice was low, precise, and completely devoid of warmth.

I sat in the chair across from his desk. Lena disappeared, closing the door behind her.

"You're not the twin I was expecting," he said.

"No," I agreed. "Does that change the terms?"

"That depends." He leaned back slightly. "Your sister was offered this contract because of her public profile. She has a fanbase, a brand, name recognition. You have none of those things. Publicly, you're a background figure. A co-writer at best. Why should I invest in someone the industry doesn't even know exists?"

It was blunt. Brutal, even. But honest. I found I preferred it infinitely to Ethan's charming lies.

"Because I wrote every song Ethan Cross has ever performed," I said. "Every single one. And I can prove it."

For the first time, something shifted in those silver eyes. Not surprise exactly—more like the sharpening of a blade.

"That's a significant claim," he said, his tone unchanged.

I opened my bag and pulled out the notebook—the one from under the floorboard. It was battered, its pages yellowed and dog-eared, filled with my handwriting. Lyrics, chord progressions, melody lines, production notes. Every song that had made Ethan Cross a star, documented in my hand, dated years before their official release.

I placed it on his desk.

"Every song," I repeated. "Including Midnight Aria."

Damien Wolfe looked at the notebook. Then he looked at me. And for the first time, something that wasn't coldness entered his expression.

It was interest.

He reached for the notebook, his long fingers careful, almost reverent, as he opened the first page. He read in silence. One page. Two. Five. Ten. His expression didn't change, but I saw his jaw tighten, saw his breathing slow—the subtle signs of a man encountering something that genuinely moved him.

He closed the notebook and looked up at me.

"When can you start?" he asked.