Part 3The Ghostwriter Takes Back Her Voice

The next morning, I walked into Gilbert's record label office.

The receptionist, dressed in a sharp designer blazer, didn't even bother to look up as I entered. Her eyes, when they finally flicked over to me, were filled with unvarnished disdain.

I ignored her silent judgment and walked past the open-plan bullpen straight toward the conference room at the end of the hall.

I pushed the door open.

Gilbert and Cynthia were already inside. Cynthia was wearing a tailored charcoal blazer, and around her neck hung the very "solidarity" necklace she had bought for Gilbert.

"Oh, Maeve. You actually came," Cynthia said, a smug smile playing on her lips. "And here I thought you were going to stick to your little rebellion."

Gilbert sat in the leather executive chair, keeping his eyes on his tablet. "At least you realized you were wrong. Go grab Cynthia a coffee, and we'll call it even."

I walked up to the mahogany conference table.

"I'm not here to apologize," I said. "I'm here for my manuscript."

Gilbert finally looked up. "What manuscript?"

"My remaining thirty-two songs."

Cynthia let out a sharp, mocking laugh. "Maeve, are you out of your mind? Those songs were created while you were under contract with the label. They are work-for-hire. The copyrights belong to us."

I looked Cynthia dead in the eye. "I wrote those songs in my own apartment. I didn't use a single kilowatt of your electricity, nor did I use a single cent of your budget. How exactly is that work-for-hire?"

Gilbert frowned, slamming his tablet onto the desk. "Maeve, don't push your luck. The company pays you five grand a month. Do you think we pay you just to sit around?"

"That money was my salary for acting as your personal assistant and keeping your life from falling apart," I said, staring him down. "It wasn't payment for my music."

Gilbert slapped his hand against the desk. "You want to play bean-counter? Fine!" He pulled out a leather-bound checkbook, scribbled a figure, tore the check off, and threw it across the table.

"Ten thousand dollars," he sneered. "For the remaining thirty-two songs. Take the money and get out of my sight."

I looked down at the slip of paper.

Ten thousand dollars.

For thirty-two songs.

That was roughly three hundred dollars a song.

"Gilbert, is this really what my life's work is worth to you?"

"What else do you want? A million? Take a look in the mirror, Maeve. Who do you think made those songs hits in the first place? If it weren't for my voice, those tracks would be rotting in your hard drive."

Cynthia chimed in, tossing her hair. "Honestly, Gilbert, ten grand is too generous. We could hire any hungry ghostwriter off the street for a couple hundred bucks. Maeve is just trying to extort us."

I looked at the two of them, a wave of profound disgust washing over me.

I picked up the check.

Gilbert smirked. "What? Still think it's too little? If you don't want it, leave it."

I gripped the edges of the check with both hands and ripped it straight down the middle.

Rip.

Gilbert’s smirk vanished. "Maeve, what the hell are you doing?"

I stacked the two halves together and ripped them again, repeating the motion until the check was reduced to a handful of tiny white shreds.

"Are you insane?" he yelled, jumping to his feet. "That was ten thousand dollars!"

I raised my hand and threw the confetti straight into his face.

The white scraps rained down over his styled hair and expensive suit.

"Keep your money, Gilbert," I said softly. "Consider those songs a donation. It's the price I pay for feeding a stray."