Riley Emmalu Paul Facebook ad: “2000 readers are reading now”

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Meta Ad Library ID

922735456780221

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Facebook, Instagram, Audience Network, Messenger and Threads

Relaunches

11

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My husband won Song of the Year with a ballad I wrote about our miscarriage—performed it as a duet with my best friend, their foreheads touching under a single white spotlight—thanked her at the podium as "the only woman who makes the music real"—while I sat in the balcony's last row wearing a laminate that read GUEST because his publicist said wives onstage "kill the fantasy." He didn't mention me once. Not in the acceptance speech. Not in the press room. Not in the four interviews he gave backstage, each one crediting Sienna Frost—my college roommate, my maid of honor—as his "creative soulmate." The song was called "Small Hands." I wrote it at three in the morning on our bathroom floor, eleven weeks pregnant and bleeding. The melody came between sobs. The lyrics poured from somewhere so deep I didn't know it existed. Jax found me there. Read the tear-stained pages. Said: "This is good. I can use this." Not: Are you okay? Not: I'm so sorry about our baby. I can use this. Fourteen months later, "Small Hands" had two billion streams, a Grammy nomination, and a music video featuring Sienna cradling a prop infant while Jax sang my grief like it was his art. Now they stood on the Grammy stage—Jax in the black custom suit I'd picked out, Sienna in silver that caught every flash—and a billion people watched them sing my worst night back to me as a love song. "This award belongs to Sienna," Jax said into the microphone, his voice thick with rehearsed emotion. "She walked into my life and unlocked something I couldn't reach alone. Baby, this is ours." The camera found Sienna. Perfect tears. Perfect gratitude. The audience erupted. I sat frozen in row triple-Z, between a sound engineer's wife and a catering coordinator. The nosebleed section. Where the people who actually make the music go to be invisible. My phone buzzed. Text from Jax: Don't wait up. After-party at the label. Sienna's coming. —J He didn't even pretend anymore. I stood. Gathered my coat. Walked out of the Crypto.com Arena while my husband's voice echoed through the halls, singing the words I'd bled onto a page. Small hands, I held you for a moment / Small hands, you slipped right through... In the parking garage, my hands trembled. Not from grief. From something older. Harder. My other phone buzzed—the encrypted one no one knew about. Frank Osborne. The only person on Earth who knew both my names. V — Titan Records missed their Q4 payment. $400M outstanding. Mercer has formally requested an emergency meeting with Vesper's founder. He's begging. He doesn't know. —F I stared at the screen. The world saw Wren Collier—quiet, invisible songwriter wife who wasn't talented enough to have her own career. Nobody saw V—anonymous founder of Vesper Music Group, the most powerful independent music empire on the planet. Worth thirty-one billion dollars. My husband had just credited his mistress with my life's work on live television—while drowning in four hundred million dollars of debt to a company he didn't know was mine. I dialed Frank. "Set the meeting. I'm done being a ghost."

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plotaranovel.com

2000 readers are reading now

My husband won Song of the Year with a ballad I wrote about our miscarriage—performed it as a duet with my best friend, their foreheads touching under a single white spotlight—thanked her at the podium as "the only woman who makes the music real"—while I sat in the balcony's last row wearing a...