Natasha's Stance.

I woke up and immediately wrote in my password-locked diary.

“David is stealing from me. Michelle is pregnant with his child. Trust Margaret, Yuri, and Adrian Cole. Trust no one else.”

Every minute, I read yesterday's entry and remember who I'm fighting.

This is my life now.

Michelle was already making breakfast, wearing yoga pants and one of David's shirts.

“Good morning, Tasha. How are you feeling doing?” She set the pill organizer on the counter. “Did you sleep well?”

My face went slack, confused. “I think so. What day is it?”

Her eyes light up like she just won the lottery. “It's Thursday, sweetie. You have a fitting today for your tour costumes, remember?”

I blinked slowly, playing the role perfectly. “Oh yes. I don't know what I'd do without you keeping me organized.”

I took the pills, faked the swallow, and hid them in my napkin when she turned to pour coffee.

The moment she left the room, my confused look vanished.

I added the pills to a plastic bag and locked it in my pain bench.

I was meeting with Samuel Briggs today, the entertainment lawyer Margaret recommended. We met at Margaret's, where David won't find out.

I spread out my evidence across the dining table. Samuel looked impressed and worried in equal measures.

“Ms. Volkov, this is airtight evidence of fraud, theft, and conspiracy.” He tapped the copyright documents. “But there's a problem. Your husband made you sign a comprehensive management agreement years ago. Legally, he owns the rights to anything you create during your marriage.”

“That agreement was based on trust. He violated that trust.”

“I agree. But we need to prove coercion or fraud in the inducement. If we can show David manipulated you into signing away your rights when you were vulnerable, we can void the entire agreement.” He looked at me. “We need to prove he was planning this from the beginning.”

My mind drifted back to fifteen years ago. David found me at that hotel bar, desperate, broke, and grieving, and he promised me the world.

“This was always the plan. He didn't fall in love with me. He acquired me.”

Margaret placed her hand over mine. “Let yourself remember, child. Before the disease takes it.”

I closed my eyes and let the memory come.

I was nineteen and alone in America. I played piano at the Belmont Hotel bar for tips, eating one meal a day, sending every spare dollar to Russia for my grandmother's care.

David walked in wearing a suit that cost more than I made in six months. He sat at the bar for an hour, just listening.

“You're extraordinary,” he said when I finished. “You're wasting your talent in this place. I can make you a star.”

I laughed bitterly. “Everyone said that.”

“I'm not everyone. I'm David Richmond. My family owns Richmond Records. Let me manage you. I'll take care of everything. You just focus on playing. Trust me.”

He left a five hundred dollar tip, more money than I'd seen in months.

A week later, my grandmother died. I had nothing. No money for the funeral, no family in America, no future.

I called David, sobbing.

He came immediately, paid for everything, and made me feel safe when the world was crushing me.

“Let me take care of you,” he whispered. “You'll never be alone again.”

And I signed whatever he put in front of me.

When I opened my eyes, Margaret was watching me with such sadness.

Samuel leans forward. “If we can find evidence that David researched you before that first meeting, we can prove predatory intent. Do you have access to his old emails?”

“I know his passwords. He never changed them because he never thought I'd look.”

That night, while David slept, I went through his home office, and I went back fifteen years in his email. Though, everything was now saved in different folders.

And there it is.

An email chain between David and his father, dated three weeks before David “discovered” me.

I had to put my hand over my mouth to keep me from screaming.

I was purchased, a long-term investment in human form.

Without hesitation, I photographed every email with shaking hands.

The next morning, Michelle arrived glowing with news.

“Tasha! I have something exciting to share.” She was practically bouncing. “I'm pregnant!”

My face arranged into surprise and joy. “Oh Michelle! That's wonderful! Who's the father?”

“Oh, my boyfriend, of course. It's still new, so I'm keeping it private. But I wanted you to know since we're so close.”

The lies come so easily to her.

“I'm so happy for you. You'll be a wonderful mother.”

Inside, I was screaming so loud I was surprised the windows didn't shatter.

That afternoon, Michelle left her phone on the kitchen counter, unlocked. I shouldn't look, but I was long past shouldn't.

The screen shows a text thread with David.

David: “Did you tell her about the pregnancy?”

Michelle: “Yes. She believed the mystery boyfriend story. God, she's so stupid. I can't wait to move into the penthouse permanently. I've already picked out new furniture.”

David: “Perfect. After the first tour concert, we'll announce we're together. The timing will seem natural. Her farewell, our new beginning.”

I photographed it all before she came back.

That evening, David came home with white roses, not even my favorite color, and handed me an envelope.

“Dinner reservations for tomorrow night at that French restaurant you love. Just the two of us.”

I'm genuinely touched for half a second until I saw Michelle in the background, smirking.

This is a setup.

“That's so thoughtful, darling. Thank you.”

That night, I met with Adrian in his car parked on the next street. The moment I settled into the call, all the strength I had been performing crumbled.

“I can't do this.” I sobbed so hard I could barely breathe. “They're destroying everything. Maybe I should just give up.”

He took my hand. “Is that really what you want?”

“I don't know! I'm so tired of fighting, so tired of pretending to be strong. And I'm terrified.” The words poured out. “What if I forget why I'm even fighting? What if six months from now I don't remember any of this?”

“Then I'll remind you every day if I have to.” His voice was fierce. “Natasha, you're not just fighting for your music. You're fighting for every artist who's been exploited by people like David and Richard.”

“What if I lose?”

“Then you lose fighting for something that matters. But you won't lose.” He squeezed my hand. “Because you're not alone anymore.”

He showed me his research. “I found something. Michelle failed out of Juilliard eight years ago for plagiarism. She's done this before, Natasha.”

We met with Margaret and Samuel to revise our strategy. Though the Lincoln Center concert was scheduled for next week and I doubt even David knows about it, I need a new venue he or his father's money won't be able to buy.

“I have an idea. I'm on the board in Steinway Hall. We can book it for a private recital but livestream it globally. David won't be able to stop it without causing a scene.” Margaret suggested.

“And I'll present the medical evidence live,” Adrian added.

“I'll play every composition Michelle claims to have written,” I said. “I'll show the world those pieces came from me.”

Samuel looked worried. “It's risky. If David figures out what you're planning…”

“We'll keep this a secret. And when the curtain goes up, we'll hit them with everything at once.”

I got home to find David waiting up for me.

“Where have you been?” There was an edge to his voice. “You've been disappearing a lot lately.”

I kept my face neutral. “Just doctor's appointments for my condition.”

“You seem different. Have you been taking your medications?”

“Of course. Michelle gives them to me every morning.”

“Good.” But he didn't look convinced.

Natasha's Stance

I woke up with my diary in my hand and yesterday's entry screaming at me: “THEY KNOW. BE CAREFUL.”

I didn't remember writing it.

The fog in my head was thicker than usual, and for the first time, I couldn't tell if it was the disease or the drugs or pure terror.

Margaret had given me a silver pen yesterday, an elegant, expensive-looking pen.

“Keep it with you always,” she had said. “Click it twice to record. It'll help you remember.”

I slipped it into my pocket, clicking it twice as I headed downstairs.

Michelle arrived early, before David left for work. They were in the kitchen together when I came downstairs, and their conversation stopped abruptly.

“Good morning, Tasha!” Her brightness seemed aggressive. “How are you feeling? You look tired.”

“I'm fine.”

David looked at me over his coffee cup. “Michelle told me you had a confused episode yesterday. You asked her the same questions three times.”

I didn't remember asking her anything three times. But that was the trap; I could never be certain what was real anymore.

“Did I? I'm sorry, Michelle.”

“It's okay.” She touched my arm with false sympathy. “It's not your fault.”

After David left, Michelle handed me the pill organizer. But this time, I noticed something I had missed before. Somehow, the pills looked slightly different, larger.

“Michelle, these pills look different.”

Her smile didn't waver. “Dr. Harrison adjusted your dosage. It'll help with the confusion.”

This was good. At least they didn't know that I had switched doctors. Perhaps I should keep going to see Dr. Harrison to make it look more real.

Too bad my thoughts can't be recorded. I have to remember this on my own.

“I want to call him.”

“Of course! But he's in surgery all day. I can have him call you tomorrow.”

Tomorrow. Always tomorrow. Always one more day of poison.

I took the pills, pretended to swallow, and hid them as usual. But Michelle didn't leave right away. She watched me, waited.

“Open your mouth,” she said softly.

My heart stopped.

“What?”

“I said open your mouth, Tasha. I want to make sure you swallowed the pills.”

We stared at each other, all pretense gone.

“Open your mouth or I'll call David and tell him you're refusing medication. That's grounds for immediate intervention.”

I opened my mouth slowly. She looked inside, saw it was empty, and her face changed.

“Where are the pills, Natasha?”

I blinked at her, letting genuine fear creep into my voice. “What pills? Michelle, you're scaring me.”

“Don't play games with me!” She grabbed my arm, harder than necessary. “The pills I just gave you… where are they?”

“I've taken them. What are you talking about?” I asked, my voice trembling. “Michelle, are you okay? You're acting crazy.”

Her face flushed with rage. “Stop lying! I know you haven't been taking them.”

“Why are you yelling at me?” I backed away, making sure the fear showed on my face. “What's wrong? Michelle, why are you so obsessed with my medications? Why do you care so much if I take them? They are just vitamins.”

“Because it's my job to…”

“Your job?” I let my voice break. “Your job is to assist with my schedule, not force pills down my throat! You're grabbing me, yelling at me…” I touched my arm where she'd gripped it. “Why are you being so aggressive?”

The kitchen door swung open, and David walked back in. “I forgot my phone. What's all the shouting?”

Michelle turned to him, frantic. “David, she's been faking! She didn't swallow her medications! She's been spitting them out and lying to us!”

He looked between us, his face neutral. “What happened?”

“I gave her the pills, and when I asked her to check, they were gone! She's been pretending this whole time!”

I let tears well up in my eyes. “David, I don't understand what's happening. Michelle is accusing me of things I didn't do. She grabbed my arm… Look!" I showed him the red marks. “She seems so angry with me. What did I do wrong?”

His eyes narrowed at Michelle. “Did you actually see her spit out the pills?”

“No, but…”

“Did you see them in her hand? On the floor?”

“No, but they were in her mouth, and now they're gone!”

I moved closer to David, seeking protection. “Darling, I'm so confused. Why does Michelle care so much about my pills? She's been so intense about them lately, watching me so closely.” I turned to look at Michelle, my voice soft and wounded. “And the way you just spoke to David… your tone was so intimate, like you're closer to him than you are to me.”

David shot Michelle a warning look, his jaw tightening.

“I'm your assistant!” Her voice was shrill now. “Of course I care about your health!”

“But you hurt me,” I whispered, showing him my wrist again. “Why would my assistant hurt me? Why would she be so aggressive about pills?”

Just as David opened his mouth to respond, just as Michelle stepped forward to defend herself, I let my face go slack. Confusion washed over my face like a wave. I blinked several times, then smiled brightly at Michelle as if seeing her for the first time.

“Michelle! Oh good, you're here! Do you have my morning vitamins?” I looked around the counter. “I haven't taken them yet.” I turned to David with fresh brightness. “Darling! Good morning! I thought you'd already left for work.”

I moved to kiss his cheek like none of the previous conversation had happened.

The silence was absolute.

Michelle stared at me, her mouth opening and closing like a drowning fish.

David's face was a mask, but I could see the gears turning behind his eyes. Was I faking the confusion, or had I genuinely forgotten the last five minutes?

“Did I… say something wrong?” I asked, looking between them with perfect innocence. “Why is everyone so quiet?”

David recovered first, his voice normal. “No, darling. Everything's fine. Michelle was just leaving.”

After Michelle fled and David finally left for real, I sat at the kitchen table and clicked the pen to stop recording. My hands were shaking, but from adrenaline, not fear.

I had just given them exactly what they wanted to see; proof that I was losing my mind.

But I had something they didn't know about: every word recorded on Margaret's pen.

I pulled out my phone and texted the group chat with Margaret, Adrian, and Samuel: "They're getting suspicious. We need to move up the timeline. How soon can we execute?"

Margaret's response came immediately: "Steinway Hall is confirmed for this Saturday. We will go public in three days."

I just had three days to hold it together, to keep playing the confused, deteriorating wife while preparing to destroy them both.

Three days until I showed them exactly what happened when you underestimated Natasha Volkov.

I looked down at my wrist where Michelle had grabbed me. The red marks were already fading, but I photographed them anyway. Every piece of evidence mattered.

My phone buzzed with another text, this time from an unrecognized number: "Ms. Volkov, this is Noah Peters from the New York Times Arts section. I heard rumors about a special performance at Steinway Hall this weekend. Would love to discuss. Very interested in your story."

I smiled. Margaret had been busy.

I typed back: "Saturday at 8 PM. Come prepared for the performance of a lifetime and bring your fact-checkers."

They were planning to have me committed on Monday.

But on Saturday, I would destroy them first.

I went to my piano and sat down, my fingers finding the keys like coming home. I began to play one of "Michelle's" compositions, the one that had won critical acclaim last year, the one that had her name in all the credits.

The irony was beautiful. I was playing my own stolen work in the house of the man who stole it, and he had no idea I knew.

I played until my fingers ached, until the music drove out the fear and the rage and left only cold determination.

Three more days.

Then I would show them what happened when you tried to bury Natasha Volkov alive.

They thought taking away my music was killing me.

They had no idea my music was about to kill them.

Natasha's Stance

Friday morning arrived with a text from David: "Dinner is cancelled tonight. I have an emergency meeting with Dad. Don't wait up."

It was perfect. That gave me the evening to finalize everything.

Michelle showed up at noon with her usual fake cheerfulness, but there was something different in her eyes.

"Tasha, we need to talk." She sat down across from me at the kitchen table. "David and I think it's best if you cancel any plans you have this weekend. You've been so confused lately, and we don't want you to embarrass yourself."

I blinked at her with innocent confusion. "Plans? What plans?"

Her shoulders relaxed slightly. "Good. We were worried you might have scheduled something without telling us."

"Why would I do that? You handle my entire schedule, Michelle. You know everything I do." I smiled sweetly at her, watching her squirm.

"Right. Of course." She pulled out her tablet. "So I've been working on the farewell tour itinerary. We're thinking twelve cities, starting in two months. That should give you enough time before..." She trailed off delicately.

"Before I can't remember my own name?" I finished for her, my voice small and broken.

"Tasha, don't say it like that." She reached for my hand, and it took everything in me not to yank it away. "We're trying to preserve your legacy. This tour will be beautiful."

"A beautiful ending," I whispered. Then I looked at her, letting tears fill my eyes. "Michelle, can I ask you something?"

"Anything."

"Do you think David still loves me? He's been so distant lately. Sometimes I wonder if... if there's someone else."

I watched her face carefully. The flash of guilt was so quick I almost missed it.

"Of course he loves you, Tasha. He's just worried about you. We both are." She squeezed my hand. "You're imagining things. The disease makes you paranoid sometimes."

"You're right. I'm being silly." I wiped my eyes. "I don't know what I'd do without you, Michelle. You're my best friend."

The word "friend" made her flinch.

After she left, I pulled out the burner phone Adrian had given me and called Samuel.

"Everything's ready," he said. "The legal documents are filed and sealed until tomorrow night. The moment you make your announcement, they'll be unsealed and served. David won't know what hit him."

"And the money?"

"Every penny you've transferred is secure in accounts under your maiden name. He can't touch them. The moment the guardianship attempt fails, which of course, will fail, you'll have complete financial independence."

"What about Richmond Records?"

"That's the beautiful part. According to the contracts you signed, if you can prove fraud or coercion, everything reverts to you. Not just the rights to your compositions, but a significant portion of company equity. Your work has been their primary revenue stream for ten years."

I smiled. "So I won't just get my music back. I'll own a piece of the company that stole it."

"Exactly. And I've already had preliminary conversations with three major labels interested in your catalog. You'll be fine, Natasha. Better than fine."

That evening, I went to Steinway Hall for a private rehearsal. The venue was smaller than Carnegie Hall, more intimate, but that was perfect. I wanted to look them in the eyes when I destroyed them.

Margaret was already there, supervising the technical setup. "The livestream is ready. We're estimating over a million viewers based on advance publicity. Every major music journalist will be watching."

"And the surprise guests?"

"Yuri's flight lands at six tomorrow. He'll be backstage with the documents. Dr. Cole will present his findings at eight-fifteen, right before your performance."

I sat at the piano, my fingers hovering over the keys. This instrument had been my salvation through everything; poverty, grief, loneliness, betrayal. Tomorrow it will be my weapon.

I began to play the piece that started everything, the composition I wrote the week after my grandmother died. The piece David had registered under Michelle's name last year, claiming she'd written it as a "tribute to her own late grandmother."

The lies were so elaborate, so cruel.

My phone buzzed. A text from David: "The meeting is taking too long. I probably won't be home tonight. Love you."

I didn't bother to respond.

Another text, this time from Michelle: "Hey! Want to grab breakfast tomorrow? Girl time before your quiet weekend?"

She was checking on me, making sure I wasn't planning anything.

"I can't tomorrow, I’m feeling tired. Maybe next week?" I replied.

"Of course! Rest up, sweetie."

I set my phone down and continued playing, each note a promise of what was coming.

At midnight, I went to David's office one last time. I needed one more piece of evidence, something I'd been looking for all week.

In the back of his filing cabinet, behind folders of tax documents and contracts, I found it: a handwritten ledger.

David's father was old-school. He kept records of everything, and David had inherited the habit.

The ledger detailed every penny they'd made from my compositions over the past ten years. Broken down by song, by licensing deal, by merchandise. The total made me dizzy.

Forty-seven million dollars.

They made forty-seven million dollars from my work while paying me a "salary" of two hundred thousand a year.

I photographed every page, my hands shaking with rage.

At the bottom of the last page, in David's handwriting: "Final extraction timeline: Guardianship by March 1st. Institutionalization by March 15th. Marriage dissolution by April. Total asset acquisition complete by May 1st."

I was a business plan. A liquidation strategy.

I put everything back exactly as I found it and went to bed in the guest room. I couldn't stand the thought of sleeping in our bed one more night.

Tomorrow, I would burn their entire world down.

And I couldn't wait.