Ad copy

The deafening roar of sixty thousand fans vibrating through Madison Square Garden felt like a physical blow to my chest. I sat in the very last row of the nosebleed section, the harsh stadium lights occasionally sweeping over my face, illuminating the tears I refused to let fall. On the massive Jumbotron, my husband, Julian Cross, was taking his final bow. The crowd screamed his name, a frantic, almost religious devotion that echoed into the night sky. But my eyes were fixed on the massive digital credit roll behind him. *Songwriter: Chloe Sterling.* *Composer: Chloe Sterling.* *Producer: Chloe Sterling.* Eighty-seven songs. Every single track that had catapulted Julian from a struggling indie singer to a global pop sensation. All eighty-seven of them bore her name. Chloe Sterling was his CEO, his manager, and, most importantly, his ex-girlfriend. Three years ago, I had a full scholarship to Juilliard. I gave it up, choosing instead to huddle in a freezing, cramped Brooklyn apartment, pouring my soul into a cheap MIDI keyboard to ghostwrite the music that would build Julian’s empire. I did it because I loved him. I did it because he promised me that once he made it, we would stand in the light together. Now, Julian was holding the microphone, his voice choked with manufactured emotion as he addressed the weeping crowd. "I want to take a moment to thank the woman who made all of this possible. Without Chloe Sterling, there would be no Julian Cross. She is my muse, my anchor, and the genius behind the music." Down in the VIP front row, Chloe stood up, wearing a custom designer gown, and offered a graceful, practiced bow. That seat—the center VIP seat—was the one Julian had promised me just last week. I pulled out my phone, my fingers numb, and scrolled to the message I had sent him an hour before the show began. *“Why isn’t my ticket for the front row? And why is Chloe’s name on the promotional flyers as the sole writer?”* His reply from forty minutes ago stared back at me, dripping with condescension: *“Chloe is the boss, Aria. You’re just a behind-the-scenes assistant. Does it really matter whose name is on the credits as long as we get paid? Stop being so dramatic.”* On stage, the opening chords of his encore began to play. It was *Fever Dream*. Last winter, Julian had contracted a severe respiratory infection. His fever had spiked dangerously high, and I had spent two sleepless nights huddled on the hard plastic chairs of the hospital corridor, a notebook balanced on my knees, writing the melody and lyrics to *Fever Dream* to distract myself from the paralyzing fear of losing him. I couldn't listen to it. The hypocrisy was suffocating. I turned off my phone screen, stood up from the cheap plastic seat, and began the long walk down the stadium stairs. The biting autumn wind hit me the moment I stepped out of the arena, but it was nothing compared to the ice settling in my veins. I pulled my phone back out and typed one final message to the man I had given my youth, my talent, and my heart to. *“The divorce papers are on the nightstand. Remember to sign them. As for the eighty-eighth song, I don't think I'll have the time to write it for you.”* I hit send. Ten minutes later, as I was standing on the curb waiting for a cab, my phone began to vibrate violently. The caller ID flashed Julian’s name. The background noise of the stadium's backstage chaos blasted through the speaker the second I answered. "Aria, what the hell is wrong with you?" Julian’s voice snapped through the earpiece, thick with irritation and impatience. I pulled my coat tighter around my shivering frame. "There's nothing wrong with me, Julian. I've just finally woken up." I could hear his heavy footsteps pacing. "Tonight is my three-year debut anniversary. It is the biggest night of my career, the peak of my life, and you deliberately chose to throw a tantrum and ruin my mood? Are you out of your mind?" My grip on the phone tightened until my knuckles turned white. "The credits on the screen listed Chloe Sterling as the creator of eighty-seven songs. Songs that I bled to write. Who is ruining whose mood, Julian?" Julian let out a long, exaggerated sigh, the kind a parent gives an unruly child. "Didn't I already explain this to you over text? You are so unreasonable sometimes. Chloe is the CEO of Star-Crossed Media. Putting her name on the tracks elevates the brand. It attracts more investors. It's just a business strategy." A bitter, hollow laugh escaped my lips. "A business strategy? So because the copyright is technically owned by the label, that gives you the right to erase my entire existence? *Fever Dream* was born in a hospital hallway while I prayed for you to live. Did you give it to her because she's your boss, or because she's the ex you never got over?" His tone dropped, turning icy and defensive. "Are you seriously going to be this petty, Aria? You’re a ghostwriter. What do you need the vanity of a name for? Haven't I paid you your monthly salary on time?" I closed my eyes, a single tear slipping down my freezing cheek. "Three thousand dollars a month, Julian. Three thousand dollars to buy the rights to my soul, my sleepless nights, and three years of my life. You're incredibly generous." Before he could answer, a woman’s voice drifted into the background. It was melodic, sweet, and entirely fake. "Julian? Who are you arguing with right now?" It was Chloe. "Is Aria throwing another one of her little fits?" Chloe asked, her voice carrying an unmistakable air of superiority. Julian’s tone instantly shifted from aggressive to gentle, a voice he hadn't used with me in over a year. "It's nothing, Chloe. You know how she gets. Just throwing a childish tantrum over nothing." Chloe let out a soft, tinkling laugh. "Aria, honey," she called out, clearly leaning into Julian's phone. "Julian is exhausted. He just performed for two hours straight. Stop bothering him with these trivial complaints. If you’re upset about your assistant salary, I'll have accounting bump it up by another five hundred dollars tomorrow. Just let the man breathe." Bile rose in my throat. The sheer, unadulterated audacity of her offering me pennies for the millions my songs had generated made me physically sick. "Chloe," I said, my voice eerily calm. "When you stood up in the front row tonight and bowed to sixty thousand people for music you didn't write, did you feel even an ounce of shame?" Chloe scoffed, a short, sharp sound of amusement. "Aria, please. In this industry, it's called resource integration. Without my company's marketing, without my PR connections, your little songs would just be scribbles on scrap paper. You should be thanking me." "Those are my songs," I whispered, the rage finally bubbling to the surface. Julian snatched the phone back. "Enough, Aria! Are you done embarrassing yourself? Chloe is right. Without her, I wouldn't be where I am today. Do you know how ugly and bitter you sound right now?" I opened my eyes, staring at the blurred streetlights of Manhattan. "I sound ugly? You promised me that VIP seat. You told me it was mine." Julian paused, a beat of uncomfortable silence passing between us. "Chloe is our biggest investor. If she doesn't sit in the center seat, who does? You? Look at yourself, Aria. You don't even own a decent evening gown. If the paparazzi took photos of you sitting next to the industry elites looking like a peasant, how do you think the media would spin it?" His words were a jagged knife, twisted ruthlessly into my chest. For three years, I had poured every dime we had into his vocal lessons, his styling, and his studio time. I hadn't bought new clothes since we got married. I wore faded jeans and oversized sweaters so he could wear Prada. And now, I was an embarrassment to him. I took a deep, shuddering breath, locking my emotions away into a cold, dark box. "So, I'm too shameful to be seen with. Is that it?" Julian realized he had crossed a line. His voice softened, attempting a manipulative pivot. "That's not what I meant and you know it. I'm just looking at the big picture. You always do this, Aria. You only think about your own feelings. Can you please just grow up and act like an adult?" "I have grown up," I interrupted, my voice devoid of any warmth. "Which is why I am removing myself from your 'big picture'. Sign the divorce papers." Julian lost his temper completely. "Stop using divorce to threaten me! If you leave me, where the hell are you going to go? Who else is going to put up with you and your mediocre music?" I didn't bother defending my music. The world already knew how good it was. "I'll say this one last time," Julian commanded, his voice dripping with authority. "Get to the Waldorf Astoria right now. Chloe had a bit too much champagne at the after-party. You need to come drive us home. If you aren't here in twenty minutes, don't expect me to ever forgive you for this." I stared at the call screen, watching the timer tick away the seconds of my wasted marriage. "Julian," I said softly. "I really won't be writing that eighty-eighth song." I pressed the red button, ending the call, and stepped into the yellow cab that had just pulled up to the curb.