My phone started buzzing before I made it out of Adrian's driveway.

At first, I thought he had come out of the shower and noticed I was gone. But when I pulled over at the end of the street, the notifications were all from the band group chat.

Someone had posted a video from the label after-party.

In it, Lily sat beside Adrian on the small stage at the back of the bar, holding my microphone with both hands. She was singing the harmony from The Last Firework, the part I had sung with Adrian for seven years.

She missed the first entrance.

Adrian laughed, leaned close, and sang the line into her ear so she could catch up. Their faces almost touched. The room broke into whistles and teasing applause, and Lily hid her face against his shoulder as if she had not known exactly what she was doing.

A minute later, she sent another message.

First day with the band and already stealing the best seat in the house. Guess the new girl gets better treatment than the seven-year veterans. Thank you, A, for believing in me.

Adrian replied almost immediately.

You earned it.

Then he added a little star emoji.

I stared at the screen until the car behind me honked.

Three years ago, I had written the chorus that got us our first radio play. That night, I tried to joke in the group chat like other girlfriends did.

Do I get a gold star, Mr. Frontman?

The message sat there all day.

Adrian never replied.

When I asked him about it later, he looked embarrassed for me.

"Mira, don't do that in front of the band. It makes us look childish."

Back then, I thought maybe I had made things awkward.

Now I watched him flirt with Lily in front of the same people, using the kind of silly message he had once made me feel ashamed for sending.

It turned out Adrian was not too private.

He just did not want to be that way with me.

I turned off my phone and drove away.

Over the next few days, I began handing off my work. I sent Rachel the updated tour calendar, forwarded venue contracts to Grant, and moved my lyrics, demos, and old voice notes into a private drive before anyone could quietly rename them as band material.

I stopped answering Adrian's calls.

When I had to go into the studio, I used the back entrance and left before rehearsals ended. Adrian and Lily became harder to avoid anyway. Her name appeared on revised set lists, radio prep notes, festival mood boards. By Friday, someone had taped a new rehearsal schedule to the studio door.

Lily Monroe — acoustic closer with Adrian.

I read it once, then kept walking.

On Monday morning, my father called from Pasadena.

His voice was low and strained.

"Mira, your mom woke up asking for the song."

I stopped in the middle of the parking lot.

"The Last Firework?"

"The old version," he said. "The one you two made when you were little. She keeps saying she wants to hear it before she sleeps."

My mother had been in hospice for three weeks.

Some days she knew me. Some days she thought I was still eight years old, sitting beside her in motel laundry rooms while she hummed over the sound of dryers. The melody that became The Last Firework had started there, between the heat of old machines and the smell of cheap detergent, when she tapped the rhythm against my knee and told me not to forget it.

The original cassette was not with me.

Adrian had it.

Two weeks earlier, he had taken the tape and my mother's signed release because the label wanted to digitize the recording for our anniversary show. He said it would be beautiful to open the acoustic set with my mother's voice before we sang the finished version together.

I had trusted him with it.

I had asked for it back twice.

Both times, he told me Grant was handling it.

"Dad, I'll get it," I said, already reaching for my keys. "Keep her awake if you can. I'm coming."

I called Adrian on the way to his house.

No answer.

I called again.

Still nothing.

By the sixth call, my hands were shaking against the steering wheel. I sent one text.

My mother is asking for the old tape. I need it now. Answer me.

The message showed delivered.

No reply.

Adrian's house sat behind a white gate in the hills. I had lived there for four years, though my name had never been on the deed because Adrian said it was cleaner with the label, the press, and the taxes. I used to believe him when he said things like that.

The gate code had been changed.

So had the front door code.

For a moment, I stood there staring at the keypad, wasting seconds I did not have. Then I remembered the side window by the laundry room, the one Adrian kept saying he would fix after the tour.

It was locked now.

I broke it with a stone from the garden.

The alarm started screaming the second I climbed in, but I ignored it and ran to Adrian's office.

Halfway down the hall, I stopped.

The house looked different.

A pink suitcase lay open beside the guest room. A curling iron sat on the bathroom counter. Glittery heels had been kicked under the couch. On the dining table, beside Adrian's neat stack of vinyl proofs and tour passes, Lily's marked-up lyrics were spread out in pink highlighter.

My lyrics.

The Last Firework, with hearts drawn around the chorus and little notes in the margin.

Make this softer.

Ask A if I can sing this line alone.

I thought of the yellow lamp I had once bought at a flea market because it looked like something from my mother's old apartment. Adrian had taken one look at it and said, "Please don't bring that cheap-looking thing into my house."

Now Lily's things were everywhere, and somehow his house had survived.

I forced myself into the office.

The cassette was not on his desk. Not in the drawers. Not in the cabinet where he kept contracts he never read. I checked the shelf beside the safe, then the black case where he kept hard drives from studio sessions.

Nothing.

I was still searching when the office door burst open.

Two officers came in with security behind them.

"Hands where we can see them."

I tried to explain, but one of them pushed me against the wall before I got more than a sentence out.

"I used to live here," I said, my cheek pressed hard to the plaster. "My mother is in hospice. Adrian has her tape. I need to find it."

The officer looked at the broken window, the open drawers, and the papers scattered on the desk.

"Ms. Monroe reported a break-in," he said. "She said Mr. Vale has a former employee who has been unstable and may be trying to access private band files."

"She's lying."

"Then you can explain that at the station."

At the station, they took my phone and bag.

I told them I had lived with Adrian for years. They said Lily had told them I moved out and had no permission to enter.

I told them I was a co-founder of the band's company. They said Grant had confirmed my role was "being reviewed" and that Lily was now attached to the upcoming acoustic set.

I told them my mother was dying and wanted to hear a tape that belonged to her.

They told me to wait.

Through the glass, I saw my phone light up on the officer's desk.

Dad.

It rang until it stopped, then lit up again with his name.

By the time someone came back to speak to me, my throat hurt from asking.

"Please," I said. "My mother is in hospice. She's waiting for me. Let me call my father."

The officer glanced at the file. "Mr. Vale is unreachable, and Ms. Monroe says they need to inventory the house before deciding how to proceed."

"She doesn't own the house."

"She made the report."

"My mother could die tonight."

He looked at me with the flat patience of someone who had heard too many emergencies.

"Then you shouldn't have broken a window."

I sat back down.

For the rest of the day, I watched my father's calls flash across my phone while Adrian stayed unreachable and Lily decided what was missing from a house she had entered yesterday.

It was close to midnight when the door finally opened.

Adrian walked in wearing a black coat, sunglasses pushed into his hair, and the expression of a man pulled away from something more important.

Lily followed half a step behind him.

Adrian looked annoyed when he walked into the station.

Lily followed behind him in one of his oversized hoodies, her hair loose around her face. She stayed close to his side, quiet and pale, like she had been the one sitting under fluorescent lights for hours while her father's calls kept flashing on a phone she was not allowed to touch.

Adrian took one look at me and frowned.

"Was this really necessary?"

My throat was raw from asking the officer for my phone.

"My mother is in hospice," I said. "I called you nine times."

"I was in rehearsal."

"You didn't answer my text."

His jaw tightened. "Because I didn't think you'd break into my house."

"I needed the tape."

"You could have asked."

"I did ask."

Lily's eyes filled at once. "Adrian, I'm sorry. The alarm went off, and security called me because I was still at the house. I saw the office drawers open, and I panicked."

Adrian looked at her first.

That tiny movement told me enough.

The officer brought over a form. "Mr. Vale has agreed not to press charges for now. Ms. Lane will be released after signing the warning. She is not to return to the property without permission."

Adrian signed without reading.

I held out my hand. "My phone."

The officer gave it back.

There were twenty-seven missed calls from my father.

The last voicemail was from forty minutes ago.

I pressed play.

"Mira." My father's voice broke on my name. "She waited as long as she could. I played the little recording from my phone, but she kept asking for the real one. She kept saying you'd bring it. Honey, she's gone. I'm so sorry."

For a moment, I could not move.

The station kept going around me. Phones rang. Someone laughed near the front desk. An officer walked past with a coffee in one hand and a folder in the other.

Adrian's irritation finally slipped.

"Mira?"

I looked up at him.

"Where is the tape?"

He frowned. "What?"

"My mother's cassette. The release form. The drive you said Grant was digitizing. Where is it?"

His expression changed.

"I gave it to Grant."

"You gave my mother's only original recording to your manager?"

"He was handling the anniversary package."

"Did he send it back?"

Adrian did not answer.

Lily glanced between us, then said softly, "I thought Grant said you were saving the original for the showcase."

Adrian turned toward her too late.

I stared at him.

"You kept my mother's tape for a showcase?"

"It wasn't like that."

"She was asking for that song before she died."

His face went still.

Lily covered her mouth. "Mira, I didn't know—"

"Don't."

She stopped.

Adrian reached for my arm, but I stepped back.

"I didn't know it was that urgent," he said.

"You didn't know because you didn't pick up the phone."

He swallowed. "You said she had good days and bad days."

"She was in hospice."

"You should have told me clearly."

"My text said my mother was asking for the old tape and I needed it now. How much clearer did it need to be?"

Adrian opened his mouth, then closed it again.

For once, he had nothing ready. No excuse, no joke, no way to make the room believe he had only been misunderstood.

After a long silence, he lowered his eyes.

"I'm sorry," he said.

The apology came quietly, almost stiffly, as if he was not used to saying it without turning it into someone else's fault.

I used to wait for those words. After forgotten dinners, missed calls, bad interviews I had cleaned up for him, lyrics he sang like they had come from nowhere, I used to think one real apology would make the years feel less foolish.

Now it only made me tired.

"You should be sorry," I said.

His face tightened.

For a moment, he looked like he understood there was nothing left to fix. Then he looked at me the way he looked at a bad show before the encore, still convinced the night could be saved if he chose the right song.

"Let me make it up to you."

I said nothing.

"I know this isn't the right time," he said quickly. "But next week is your birthday."

I froze.

Adrian noticed.

His voice grew gentler.

"I booked the private room at San Vicente weeks ago. It was supposed to be a surprise. Just dinner. You, me, a few people from the label."

Lily's fingers tightened around his sleeve.

Adrian did not look at her.

"And Miles Hart will be there," he added. "You always said he was the only producer you'd trust with your songs. I invited him for you."

That name made me pause despite myself.

Miles Hart had produced half the records I loved before I knew what production was. He was the kind of person who could hear a rough demo and know whether there was a career inside it. For years, I had tried to get one meeting with him and never made it past his assistant.

On Sunday night, I still went to San Vicente.

I told myself it was only because of Miles Hart.

Adrian's apology had come too late, and whatever he called a birthday dinner no longer had anything to do with me. But Miles was the one producer I had tried for years to meet, and I was tired of losing opportunities just because Adrian had attached himself to them first.

The private room was already half full when I arrived. Low lights, dark wood, expensive wine, people speaking in the careful voices industry people used when every sentence might become leverage later.

Near the entrance, a small card with my name sat beside a vase of white roses.

Happy Birthday, Mira.

For a second, it almost looked sincere.

Then I saw the screen behind the small stage.

THE LAST FIREWORK

Acoustic Release Preview

Adrian's photo was on the left.

Lily's was on the right.

My name sat underneath in smaller letters.

Written by Mira Lane.

Technically, Adrian had kept his promise.

That almost made it worse.

A label assistant hurried over with a tablet. "Mira, thank God. Adrian said you could check the final set order before we start."

I looked at her.

She froze, realizing too late that no one had told me I was supposed to work at my own birthday dinner.

Before she could apologize, Adrian crossed the room toward me.

"You came."

"You said Miles Hart would be here."

"He is." Adrian glanced toward the back of the room. "I'll introduce you after the first set."

"The first set?"

His expression shifted. "It's just two songs. The label wanted to hear Lily on the acoustic arrangement."

I looked past him.

Lily stood near the stage in a pale slip dress, laughing with Grant and two label executives. Her hair was pinned loosely, her makeup soft, her hand resting on my microphone stand like she already belonged there.

"So this is her showcase."

"It's a preview," Adrian said. "Don't make it ugly."

There it was again. Whenever something hurt me, he called it ugly.

Miles Hart was seated near the back with a glass of water in front of him, silver hair, black jacket, the kind of calm face that made everyone around him look louder than they were. I had wanted ten minutes with him for years.

So I swallowed what I wanted to say and stayed.

Dinner began. Adrian made a short toast, mentioning my birthday only after he thanked the label, the band, the radio team, and "everyone who believed in the next chapter."

People clapped. Someone near me said happy birthday. Lily smiled from beside him as if she were generous for allowing it.

Then Adrian picked up his guitar.

Lily stepped to the second microphone.

The microphone I had used for seven years.

Adrian looked at the room. "We wanted to share a new version of The Last Firework tonight. Lily brought something fresh to it, something I think the song needed."

My fingers went cold around the stem of my glass.

He started playing.

At first, the arrangement was familiar. Softer than mine, slower, built for Lily's breathy voice. She came in on the first verse and missed the lower note, but Adrian covered her easily.

Then she reached the bridge.

And sang a line that was never in the released version.

When the last firework fades, promise me you'll still look at the sky.

The room blurred for a second.

That was my mother's line.

She had sung it into the old cassette when I was eight, half laughing because the dryer in the motel laundry room was too loud and I kept missing the rhythm. It was not in any lyric sheet. It was not in any demo I had sent the band.

It was only on the tape Adrian had kept.

Lily finished the song to warm applause.

Grant looked pleased. The label executives nodded. Miles Hart leaned back in his chair, unreadable.

Adrian stood beside Lily, proud enough that something inside me finally snapped.

"Wait."

The room quieted.

I stood.

"That bridge isn't Lily's. It came from my mother's old tape."

Lily's face changed for less than a second before her eyes filled.

"Mira," she said softly, "I know this song is emotional for you, especially right now, but Adrian gave me the tape as reference. I thought we were all trying to honor your mother."

"You sang an unreleased line from her recording and let everyone think you brought something fresh to it."

"I never said I wrote it."

"You didn't correct him either."

Adrian set the guitar down. "Mira, not here."

"Where, then? In the house where you locked away her tape? At the station where I missed my father's calls?"

The room went still.

Grant cleared his throat. "Maybe we should take this outside."

"No," I said. "I have the transcript."

I had asked my father to send me the photo of the old notebook that morning. The page was shaky, half-smudged, but it had my mother's handwriting and the line Lily had just sung.

I opened it on my phone.

Lily stepped closer, her voice trembling just enough for the room to hear. "If you have proof, show it. I'll apologize."

Adrian looked at her, then at me.

For once, he seemed unsure which version of the night would hurt him less.

The label assistant connected my phone to the screen.

My mother's notebook appeared behind the stage.

Evelyn Lane, 2008.

When the last firework fades, promise me you'll still look at the sky.

A murmur moved through the room.

Lily went pale.

Before anyone could speak, a message dropped down from the top of the screen.

Nathaniel Reed:

Royal Albert Hall confirmed the private ceremony slot. The program is locked.

The room went quiet.

"Reed Music Group?" someone whispered near the bar. "They back half the serious rooms in London."

"And Royal Albert Hall?" another voice murmured. "What ceremony is she talking about?"

I looked up at the screen, then at Adrian.

For the first time all night, he was not looking at Lily.

He was staring at Nathaniel's name.