The email subject line read: ‘LILAH STOLE MY SONG.’

I stared at it, frozen, my finger hovering over the keyboard. It was sent to every major label, publisher, and my manager. Attached was a demo—my voice, but Mira’s lyrics, perfectly synced. My stomach dropped. This wasn’t just sabotage. It was erasure.

My phone buzzed. My husband’s name flashed. I let it ring. We hadn’t spoken since the argument last night—the one where he called me ‘ungrateful’ for wanting my own studio time. Now, here it was: his golden ex had framed me, and he’d probably believe her.

I packed a duffel bag with shaking hands. The house felt like a stage set, everything I loved twisted into a lie. Downstairs, my piano waited—one last song before I vanished.

As the final chord faded, my phone lit up again. Unknown number. A voice, smooth and certain: ‘I know what they did. Meet me tomorrow. Let’s make music that can’t be stolen.’

I didn’t know who he was. But I knew this: if I stayed, I’d disappear. If I went… I might finally be heard.