Part 1The Ghostwriter Takes Back Her Voice

At my husband's sold-out arena concert, I sat in the very last row.

The giant LED screen was scrolling through the setlist, and every single song credit—lyrics and music—read "Cynthia."

Eighty-seven songs. Every single one of them.

Cynthia was his ex-girlfriend.

Three years ago, I gave up my own chance to debut, locking myself away in a cramped apartment to write songs for him.

Now, standing on stage with tears in his eyes, he choked out his gratitude:

"Without Cynthia, there would be no Gilbert today."

Cynthia, sitting in the center of the front row of the VIP section, stood up and bowed gracefully to the cheering crowd.

That seat—Gilbert had promised it to me just last week.

I pulled out my phone and texted him.

His reply came back almost instantly:

[Cynthia is the head of the label. You're behind the scenes anyway. Does it really matter whose name is on the credit?]

On stage, he started singing the fifth song, 101 Degrees.

Last year, when he was hospitalized with a dangerously high fever, I wrote that song sitting on the freezing floor of the hospital hallway, barely sleeping for two nights.

I shut off my phone, stood up, and walked out.

Before turning it off, I sent him one last text:

[The divorce papers are on the nightstand. Remember to sign them. As for the eighty-eighth song—I don't think I'll be finishing it.]

* * *

"Maeve, what the hell is wrong with you?"

Gilbert’s voice exploded through the receiver.

In the background, I could hear the muffled chaos of the arena's backstage area—chatter, doors slamming, the distant rumble of the crowd.

I stood in the biting wind outside the stadium, pulling my thin coat tighter around myself. "Nothing is wrong with me."

The sound of leather shoes pacing against a hard floor came through the line.

"Tonight is my three-year anniversary concert. Ten thousand people," he said, his tone dripping with heavy, familiar irritation. "Do you really have to ruin this night for me?"

My fingers gripping the phone were stiff and numb from the cold.

"The credits for all eighty-seven songs on the big screen went to Cynthia. Which of us is ruining whose night, Gilbert?"

Gilbert let out a long, heavy sigh.

"I explained this to you on text," he said, exasperated, as if I were a child failing to grasp a basic concept. "Cynthia owns the label. It’s a corporate decision to list her name. Why is that so hard to understand?"

I let out a dry, humorless laugh.

"So because the label owns the rights, you get to completely erase my work? I wrote 101 Degrees sitting in a hospital hallway while you were sick. I stayed up for forty-eight hours straight. Is it really because she owns the label, Gilbert? Or is it because she's your ex?"

The line went cold. Gilbert’s voice dropped an octave, freezing over.

"Maeve, do you really have to be this petty?"

"Petty?" I asked, my voice trembling with a mix of shock and pure disbelief. "I wrote every single one of those songs, and someone else is taking the credit. And you think I'm being petty?"

"What else would you call it?" he countered, shifting his stance. "You’re a behind-the-scenes writer. Why do you care so much about some vanity credit? It’s not like I don't pay you."

I closed my eyes, the cold air stinging my face.

"A five-thousand-dollar monthly retainer. That's what you paid to buy out three years of my life and soul. God, you’re incredibly generous, Gilbert."

Before he could respond, a woman's voice drifted into the call.

"Gilbert, sweetie, who are you arguing with?"

It was Cynthia.

Her tone was light, airy, and laced with an effortless arrogance. "Is Maeve having another one of her episodes?"

Instantly, the tension drained from Gilbert’s voice, replaced by a soft, placating gentleness. "It’s nothing. She’s just acting out."

Cynthia giggled, a sound that made my stomach turn. "Maeve, Gilbert is exhausted. Tonight was a massive show for him. You really shouldn't be stressing him out over such trivial things." She paused, letting her words hang in the air. "If you feel like your retainer is too low, I can have accounting add another two grand starting next month."

Listening to her condescending charity, my chest tightened. I felt physically sick.

"Cynthia, when you stood up and bowed to that crowd for my music, did you feel even a shred of guilt?"

Cynthia gave a soft, dismissive snort. "Maeve, it’s called resource integration. Without my label's money and PR, your songs would just be a pile of worthless scrap paper."

My fist clenched in my pocket. "They are my songs."

Gilbert snatched the phone back. "Maeve, that's enough. Cynthia is right. Without her, I wouldn't be standing on this stage. Look at yourself right now. Don't you think you're being incredibly pathetic?"

I opened my eyes and stared at the distant, flickering streetlights of the city.

"I'm pathetic?" I whispered. "That VIP seat in the front row—you told me last week it was mine."

Gilbert hesitated for a fraction of a second.

"Cynthia is my lead investor," he said, his voice hardening again. "If she doesn't sit in the front row, who does? You? Look at what you wear, Maeve. You don't even own a decent dress. What do you think the media would say if they photographed you there?"

The words sliced through me with surgical precision.

For three years, I had locked myself away in a dim, drafty apartment, writing the soundtracks to his success. I hadn't bought a single piece of clothing that cost more than twenty dollars, pouring everything into his dream.

And now, he was embarrassed by my poverty.

I took a deep, steadying breath.

"So, you’re ashamed of me. I'm not presentable enough for your world."

Gilbert seemed to realize he had gone too far. His tone softened slightly, though the condescension remained.

"That’s not what I meant. I’m just saying we have to look at the bigger picture. You always do this—you only think about your own feelings. Can you please just grow up?"

"I am grown up," I said quietly, cutting him off. "Which is why I'm stepping out of your picture. Don't forget to sign the divorce papers."

Gilbert completely lost his patience.

"Maeve, stop using divorce as a threat. Where are you even going to go if you leave me? Who else do you think is going to buy those half-baked songs of yours?"

I didn't answer.

"I’m going to say this one last time," he said, delivering his ultimatum. "Get over to the hotel for the afterparty right now. Cynthia had too much to drink, and you need to drive her car home. If you aren't there in thirty minutes, don't expect me to call you back."

I looked down at the glowing screen.

"Gilbert."

"What?"

"There won't be an eighty-eighth song."

I pressed the red button and ended the call.