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.

"He's the one who backed the Blue Harbour tour last year, right?"

"And the Royal Albert Hall residency."

The room shifted.

A minute ago, they had been watching me like I was the jealous ex-girlfriend ruining Adrian Vale's showcase. Now they were looking at the screen, then at me, trying to decide whether the message was real.

Lily recovered first.

She gave a small laugh, soft enough to sound embarrassed for me.

"Mira," she said, "you don't have to do this."

I looked at her. "Do what?"

"Pretend Nathaniel Reed is planning some kind of ceremony with you." Her eyes moved around the room, making sure everyone heard. "I know you're hurt, but dragging someone like him into this is… a lot."

A few people murmured.

Adrian still had not spoken.

His face was dark, his eyes fixed on Nathaniel's name. He knew exactly who Nathaniel Reed was. Everyone in that room did.

Reed Music Group backed venues, publishing deals, festival stages, and enough private rooms in enough cities to make or stall a career without raising its voice. Adrian had spent years trying to get near that circle.

I picked up my phone before another notification could drop down.

My hands were steadier than I expected.

I sent Nathaniel one message.

What ceremony?

His reply came almost immediately.

The one you asked me for, Mira. Unless you've changed your mind.

A second later, another message followed.

And I would rather not list Vale anywhere near you, but I promised to ask.

I stared at the screen and exhaled.

Of course.

Nathaniel had always had a way of turning impossible things into calendar items.

Three nights ago, when I called him from the car and asked whether he had meant what he said about Royal Albert Hall, I thought I was clinging to an old joke, something reckless and half-broken that only sounded brave because I had nothing left to lose.

Nathaniel had taken it seriously.

He had booked the hall.

Lily was still smiling, but it had started to strain at the edges.

"Well?" she asked. "Are you going to tell everyone Nathaniel Reed is marrying you now?"

The way she said marrying made a few people laugh.

It was the wrong kind of laugh this time. Uncertain. Careful.

Adrian finally looked at me.

"Turn off the screen," he said to the assistant.

The assistant fumbled with the connection, and the display went black.

But the room had already seen enough.

Adrian crossed the space between us, his voice low. "What the hell are you doing?"

"I was showing proof that Lily used my mother's line."

"You know what I mean."

I slipped my phone into my bag. "Then say it clearly."

His jaw tightened. "Nathaniel Reed is not someone you use to make a point."

I almost laughed. "That's what you're worried about?"

"I'm worried you're humiliating yourself."

There it was again.

Not that Lily had sung from my mother's tape. Not that he had kept that tape for a showcase while my mother was dying. Not that the entire room had just seen proof.

He was worried about the part that embarrassed him.

Adrian stepped closer, blocking the room from me as if privacy could be created by standing in the way.

"Do you understand who he is?" he said. "People like Nathaniel don't get involved in drama like this. If you made him part of some revenge act, you're going to regret it."

"Revenge act?"

"You left my house, called him, and now there's some ceremony at Royal Albert Hall?" He gave a short, humorless laugh. "Mira, come on."

Lily stood a few feet behind him, her eyes bright again.

"Adrian," she said gently, "maybe don't push her. She's clearly not thinking straight."

I looked past Adrian at her.

"You should be more worried about the tape."

Her expression flickered.

Miles Hart spoke before she could answer.

"I'd like to hear the original recording."

The room quieted.

Grant shifted in his chair. "Miles, this probably isn't the best time."

"It seems like the only useful time," Miles said.

His gaze stayed on me. "If the line came from Evelyn Lane's tape, the arrangement needs to be cleared properly. And credited properly."

Lily's face went pale again.

Adrian looked cornered for the first time that night.

"This is getting out of hand," he said.

"No," Miles replied. "This is what happens when no one handles the song like it belongs to the person who wrote it."

That sentence landed harder than I expected.

For seven years, I had heard people call my work Adrian's sound, Adrian's instinct, Adrian's emotional honesty. I had watched my lyrics become his interviews, my arrangements become his genius, my silence become his clean story.

Now one person in the room had said it plainly.

The song belonged to me.

Adrian heard it too. His mouth tightened.

Lily's eyes filled again, but nobody moved to comfort her this time.

I picked up my coat.

"Mira," Adrian said.

I stopped.

His voice changed, softening in a way that would have once made me stay.

"Don't walk out like this."

I looked at him.

For seven years, I had wanted him to say that. I had wanted him to ask me to stay in a room full of people, to choose me when it mattered, to stop pretending that I was just part of the machine that kept him shining.

Now he was saying it because Nathaniel Reed's name had appeared on a screen.

Too late.

Lily stepped beside him, no longer bothering to hide her panic. "Adrian, are you really going to let her ruin the release over one line?"

One line.

My mother's last song had become one line.

I turned back to Adrian.

"If I told you I'm really marrying him," I said, "would you still think this was about you?"

The room went silent.

Adrian stared at me, the color slowly draining from his face.

Lily's mouth parted.

Someone near the back whispered, "Marrying Nathaniel Reed?"

I did not wait for the next question.

I walked out before anyone could turn my life into another discussion around Adrian Vale's table.