The knock came at seven in the morning. Sharp. Insistent. The kind of knock that said *I know you're awake.*

I opened the door to Simone holding two coffees and a paper bag that smelled like butter and cinnamon. She looked me up and down—still in the same clothes from yesterday, hair pulled into a knot—and pushed past me into the hotel room.

"You look terrible," she said.

"Good morning to you too."

She set the coffees on the desk and pulled a pastry from the bag. "Eat. Then tell me everything."

I took the coffee. It was hot and strong and exactly how I liked it. Simone had known me long enough to get that right without asking.

"I left," I said.

She bit into her pastry and grinned. "I know. I got your text at midnight. I would've come sooner but I figured you needed to sleep."

"I didn't sleep."

"Of course you didn't." She sat on the edge of the bed and looked at me. Really looked. "How do you feel?"

I thought about it. "Calm."

"Good. That's the right answer." She took another bite. "The only tragedy here is you didn't do this three years ago. That man has been wearing your talent like a rented suit."

I laughed. It came out rough but real.

Simone leaned forward. "Did you send the resignation?"

"Last night. To Keegan."

"And?"

"He responded this morning. Wants to meet."

She raised an eyebrow. "When?"

"This afternoon."

She nodded slowly. "Good. Don't let him lowball you. You wrote every single song that label's made money on for the last five years. He knows it. Make sure he pays for it."

"I'm not asking for money."

"Then ask for rights. Full catalog. Every demo. Every note." She pointed at me with the pastry. "You walk out of that building owning everything you made, or you don't walk out at all."

I looked at her. "You've been thinking about this."

"I've been thinking about this since the day you introduced me to that man and he didn't remember my name after the third time." She finished the pastry and dusted her hands. "Now burn the rest of it down."

---

The label offices were on Sunset. Glass and steel. I'd been here a hundred times but it felt different now. Like I was walking into a building I used to own.

Keegan's assistant waved me through. No wait. No small talk. Just a nod and an open door.

Keegan stood when I walked in. He was fifty-something, gray at the temples, always in a suit that cost more than most people's rent. He gestured to the chair across from his desk.

"Naomi."

"Keegan."

He sat. I sat. He didn't smile. Neither did I.

"I got your email," he said.

I waited.

He opened a drawer and pulled out a bottle of Scotch. Thirty-year. I'd seen it on his shelf for years but never seen him pour it. He set two glasses on the desk and filled them both.

"I should have said something years ago," he said. "That's on me."

I picked up the glass. "Said what?"

"That you were the best thing in this building. That Chase Porter wouldn't exist without you. That I knew it and I let it happen anyway because it was easier." He looked at me. "I'm not apologizing. I'm just telling you I knew."

I took a sip. The Scotch burned clean.

"I want full rights to my catalog," I said. "Everything I wrote. Everything I produced. Every demo I handed over."

He didn't blink. "Done."

"I want it in writing by tomorrow."

"You'll have it by tonight."

I set the glass down. "That's it?"

"That's it." He leaned back in his chair. "You're the most competent person I've ever worked with. I'm not going to insult you by pretending this is a negotiation."

I stood. He stood.

"Good luck, Naomi."

I walked out.

---

The new apartment was in downtown LA. Tenth floor. Big windows. The Yamaha barely fit but I'd made it work. I always made it work.

I sat on the floor with my phone in my hand. Jude's messages were still there. A dozen of them. Voice notes. Texts. A video of him messing around on a guitar at two in the morning.

I opened the most recent voice note.

His voice filled the room. Warm. A little rough. "Hey. So I keep hearing this melody in my head and I genuinely think you're the only person alive who could tell me what to do with it. No pressure. Just—call me if you want. Or don't. I'll still be here."

I listened to it three times.

Then I typed: *Are you free this week? I have something I want to play for you.*

I hit send before I could think too hard.

The reply came thirty seconds later.

*I'm free right now.*

I smiled. Put the phone down. Looked around the apartment. It was mine. The piano. The space. The silence.

For the first time in years, I could hear myself think.

And what I thought was: *Let's see what happens next.*

The studio was in a converted warehouse in downtown LA. Industrial windows. Exposed brick. The kind of place that charged by the hour and didn't ask questions.

I got there first. Set my bag on the console. Pulled out the flash drive with the track I'd been saving. Not the love song Chase stole. Something else. Something bigger.

I'd written it six months ago and kept it locked away because I knew what it was. A career-maker. The kind of song that changes everything.

The door opened. Jude walked in carrying two coffees and grinning like he'd won something.

"You showed up," he said.

"I said I would."

"People say a lot of things." He handed me a coffee. "You actually do them."

I took it. He'd gotten it right. No idea how.

He shrugged off his jacket and looked around the room. "So. What are we making?"

I plugged in the drive. "Something that's going to make people forget Chase Porter exists."

His grin widened. "I'm listening."

I hit play.

The track filled the studio. It opened quiet—just piano and a heartbeat of percussion—then built into something massive. Strings. Synth. A melody that climbed and climbed until it cracked open. I'd layered my own voice as a guide vocal. Rough. Unpolished. But the bones were there.

Jude went completely still.

I watched him. He wasn't nodding along or tapping his foot. He was frozen. Eyes closed. Breathing slow.

The track ended.

Silence.

Thirty seconds of it. Maybe more.

Then he opened his eyes and looked at me.

"This is the best thing I've ever heard," he said quietly. "If you let me sing this, I will spend the rest of my career trying to deserve it."

Something in my chest loosened. I didn't know it had been tight until that moment.

"Let's get to work," I said.

---

We recorded until two in the morning.

Jude took direction like he'd been waiting his whole life for someone to give it. I told him to pull back on the first verse. He pulled back. I told him to let the bridge break. He broke. No pushback. No ego. Just trust.

Between takes, he sprawled on the couch and ate cold noodles straight from the container. "You're terrifying, you know that?"

I looked up from the console. "What?"

"The way you hear things. It's like you're listening to a different song than the rest of us." He grinned. "It's kind of hot."

I rolled my eyes. "Focus."

"I am focused." He sat up. "I'm also capable of multitasking."

I ignored him and pulled up the next track. But I was smiling. I couldn't help it.

The second night, he showed up with ramen from my favorite Silver Lake spot. I stared at the bag.

"How did you—"

"You mentioned it once. Three months ago. At that label party." He set it on the console. "You said it was the only place that got the broth right."

I looked at him. He wasn't grinning this time. Just watching me.

"Thank you," I said.

He nodded. "You're welcome."

We didn't talk about it again. But the ramen kept showing up.

The fourth night, I walked into the studio and found a record on the mixing console. Vintage pressing. Joni Mitchell. The exact album I'd mentioned wanting weeks ago in a conversation I barely remembered.

Jude was already in the booth, warming up. I held up the record.

"Where did you find this?"

He looked over. Shrugged. "Around."

"Jude."

"I have a guy." He grinned. "You like it?"

I looked down at the record. The cover was worn but the vinyl was pristine. "Yeah. I like it."

"Good." He adjusted the mic. "Now can we record? You're the one who said we're on a deadline."

I set the record down carefully. "Let's go."

---

On the fifth night, Jude's manager showed up.

Marcus Cole was forty-something, sharp-eyed, and protective in the way managers get when their artist is their whole livelihood. He stood in the back of the studio with his arms crossed and watched me work.

I felt his eyes on me the whole session. Measuring. Judging.

I ignored him.

Three hours later, I called it. Jude pulled off the headphones and stretched. "That's the one."

I nodded. "Yeah. That's the one."

Marcus waited until Jude left the booth. Then he walked over.

"Can I talk to you?"

I saved the session and turned. "Sure."

He looked at me for a long moment. "I was worried you were using him. Rebound project. Easy revenge on your ex."

I didn't blink. "And now?"

"Now I think you're the real thing." He glanced at the console. At the waveforms still glowing on the screen. "I've been in this business twenty years. I know what genius looks like." He looked back at me. "Don't blow this."

"I won't."

He nodded. Started to leave. Then stopped. "For what it's worth? That kid in there would walk through fire for you. I've never seen him like this."

I didn't know what to say to that.

Marcus left.

Jude came back in carrying two coffees. He handed me one and sat on the couch. "Marcus give you the speech?"

"Something like that."

"He means well. He's just—" Jude waved a hand. "Protective."

"I get it."

Jude looked at me. "For the record? He's right. About the walking through fire thing."

I met his eyes. "Jude—"

"I'm not asking for anything." He leaned back. "I'm just saying. In case you were wondering."

I looked down at my coffee. My hands were steady.

"I wasn't wondering," I said quietly. "But thank you."

He smiled. "Anytime."

We sat there in the quiet studio. The track we'd just finished glowed on the screen. Outside, the city hummed.

And for the first time in years, I felt like I was exactly where I was supposed to be.

The studio in Burbank smelled like stale air and expensive cologne. Chase sat in the producer's chair and watched Paloma through the glass. She had the headphones on too tight. Her eyes were closed. She was singing the bridge he'd handed her three weeks ago.

The bridge Naomi wrote.

Except now the words were different. Paloma had changed "the rain that brought you to me" to "the night we found our destiny." She'd swapped "your hand in mine, a streetlight dying" for "two hearts aligned, our love undying."

It rhymed. That was something.

The track ended. Paloma pulled off the headphones and smiled at him through the glass. Bright. Eager.

"How was that?"

Chase looked at the producer. Mike. Twenty years in the business. Had worked on the first album. The one that went platinum.

Mike's face was carefully blank.

"Let's do another take," Chase said.

Paloma's smile dimmed. "Was something wrong?"

"Just want to get it perfect."

She nodded and put the headphones back on.

Mike leaned over and lowered his voice. "You want my opinion?"

Chase kept his eyes on the glass. "No."

"The bones are good. But the lyrics—"

"I said no."

Mike sat back. Said nothing.

They recorded six more takes. Each one sounded exactly like the last. Technically fine. Emotionally empty. Like a perfect replica of something real.

When they wrapped, Paloma came out of the booth glowing. "I think we got it."

"Yeah," Chase said. "We got it."

She kissed his cheek. He barely felt it.

After she left, Mike saved the session and started packing up. Chase stayed in the chair.

"You releasing this?" Mike asked.

Chase looked at the waveforms on the screen. They looked right. They sounded wrong.

"Yeah," he said. "I'm releasing it."

Mike nodded. Didn't say anything else. He'd been in the room when Naomi worked. He knew.

Chase released the single on a Friday.

By Saturday morning, it was trending on Twitter.

Not the way he wanted.

---

I woke up to seventeen texts from Simone.

I opened the thread.

*Oh my god*

*Oh my GOD*

*Have you seen Twitter*

*Please tell me you've seen Twitter*

*I'm adding EIGHTEEN new items to the list*

*This is Christmas*

I scrolled up. She'd sent screenshots. Tweets with thousands of likes. Memes. A side-by-side comparison of Chase's new single and one of his old ones—the one I'd written—with the caption: "How did we go from THIS to THIS."

Someone had made a TikTok. A dramatic reading of Paloma's lyrics set to sad violin music. It had two million views.

I set the phone down. Picked up my coffee. Took a sip.

Simone called.

I answered. "Good morning."

"Good morning?" Her voice was gleeful. "Naomi. This is the best morning of my life. He's getting destroyed. Absolutely obliterated. There's a thread with forty thousand likes just listing better rhymes than 'destiny' and 'undying.'"

I smiled into my coffee. "That's nice."

"Nice? NICE?" She laughed. "I want to frame this. I want to put it on my wall."

"You're enjoying this too much."

"I'm enjoying this the exact right amount." She paused. "How's the album coming?"

"Good. We're almost done."

"And Jude?"

"Also good."

"Naomi."

I sighed. "What?"

"You like him."

"I'm working with him."

"You LIKE him."

I didn't answer.

Simone made a satisfied noise. "I knew it. Okay. I have to go. I have twelve more screenshots to send you. This is art. This is poetry."

She hung up.

I looked at my phone. At the memes. At Chase's name trending for all the wrong reasons.

I felt nothing.

No. That wasn't true.

I felt relief.

---

Jude showed up at eight with Thai food and a grin.

"Have you seen—"

"I've seen," I said.

He set the food on the console. "I'm not going to lie. It's extremely satisfying."

"Simone said the same thing."

"I like Simone." He opened a container. "When do I get to meet her officially?"

"You met her last week."

"For thirty seconds. That doesn't count." He handed me chopsticks. "I want the full interrogation. I want to prove myself."

I looked at him. "Why?"

"Because she's important to you." He said it like it was obvious. Like there was no other possible answer.

I took the chopsticks.

We ate in silence for a while. Then Jude pulled out his phone.

"I want to play you something."

"We're supposed to be working."

"This is work." He scrolled through his voice memos. "Kind of."

He hit play.

A melody filled the studio. Just him and a guitar. Rough. Unpolished. But the bones were perfect. It climbed and opened and resolved in exactly the right place.

I set down my food.

He watched me. "I wrote it two years ago. The night I heard you talk about music at that Warner party. You said something about how the best songs feel like remembering something you never actually lived." He paused. "I went home and this came out."

I listened to it again. Then a third time.

"That's the bridge of track four," I said quietly.

He grinned. "I know."

I looked at him. At the way he was watching me. Open. Unguarded.

"You've been sitting on this for two years?"

"I was waiting for the right person to hear it."

I didn't let myself smile. Not right away.

But eventually, I did.

"Let's work," I said.

He stood. Stretched. Picked up his guitar.

And for the rest of the night, we built something that felt like remembering a future I hadn't lived yet.