Chapter 2 — Sing It in Her Name

I did not confront Adrian the next morning.

That was what the old Lena would have done.

She would have stormed into his office, demanded an explanation, and believed the first softened word that sounded like love.

Instead, I photographed the security log, exported the access history, and copied every unfinished song onto two encrypted drives.

One went into a safe-deposit box.

The other went to Maya Brooks.

My manager stared at the drive in her palm as though I had handed her a weapon.

“Tell me what happened.”

We were alone in a vocal booth at Cole Records. Through the glass, an engineer adjusted the mix for the anniversary edition of my first hit, “Wildfire.”

I had postponed this recording twice because of my throat. Canceling again would trigger questions, and I wasn’t ready for the world to know.

“Someone from the label accessed my private archive.”

“Someone?”

“Adrian’s administrator account.”

Maya swore under her breath.

“He downloaded ‘Möbius.’”

Her eyes widened. “The song you wrote for your anniversary?”

I nodded.

“Does he know you saw the log?”

“No.”

“Good. Don’t tell him yet.”

It was the same conclusion I had reached, but hearing it from her made the danger feel real.

Maya had managed me for eight years. She was sharp enough to hear a lie before someone finished telling it and loyal enough to bury a body, though she often reminded me that she preferred legal solutions.

She folded her fingers around the drive.

“I’ll get this to an entertainment attorney who has no ties to Cole Records.”

“Quietly.”

“Obviously.”

“And I want a full audit. Publishing agreements, masters, licensing income, everything.”

Her expression changed.

“Lena, what aren’t you telling me?”

Pain tightened around my throat. I swallowed carefully.

Before I could answer, the engineer pressed the talkback button.

“We’re ready when you are.”

I stepped to the microphone.

The opening guitar of “Wildfire” filled my headphones.

I had written the song at nineteen on the bathroom floor of our basement apartment because the acoustics made my cheap guitar sound warmer. Adrian had added the bridge before sunrise.

The original recording had made us famous.

This version was supposed to prove I was still untouchable.

I sang the first verse cleanly.

By the pre-chorus, my throat began to burn.

Then the melody climbed.

I drew breath for the high note that had once come as naturally as speaking.

Nothing came.

The sound cracked in the middle and collapsed into a rasp.

Silence followed.

The engineer looked down. Maya closed her eyes.

Beyond the glass, Adrian stood beside the mixing console.

I hadn’t seen him enter.

He pressed the talkback button. “Again.”

I took a sip of water.

The second attempt failed earlier.

On the third, I couldn’t finish the first line.

Adrian pushed open the booth door.

“What is going on?”

“My throat hurts.”

“That doesn’t explain this.”

His tone made the engineer suddenly fascinated by the control board.

Maya stepped between us. “She’s sick. We’re done for today.”

Adrian ignored her. “You have a televised performance in twelve days.”

“I won’t be doing it.”

His eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”

“I need time off.”

“For what?”

“To rest.”

For surgery, perhaps. For chemotherapy. For learning how to live without the only thing the world valued me for.

I kept all of it behind my teeth.

Adrian glanced at the microphone, then back at me.

“Fine. Use the break to work with Sophie.”

I laughed once.

It came out scraped and ugly.

“That’s what you care about?”

“This is a business.”

“I can barely sing.”

“Then write.”

Maya stared at him. “Adrian, she was at the hospital yesterday.”

Concern flickered across his face, but it arrived too late to feel real.

“What did the doctor say?”

“That I need rest.”

It wasn’t the whole truth, but it was more than he deserved.

He studied me as if I were another damaged asset on his balance sheet.

“All right,” he said at last. “Go home.”

Then he added, “I’ll have Sophie’s vocal coach send you her range.”

I removed the headphones and walked past him.

Maya followed me into the hall.

“Lena.”

I stopped beside a wall covered with photographs from my tours.

“I have cancer.”

The words left my mouth so quietly she leaned closer.

“What?”

“Laryngeal cancer.”

All color drained from her face.

“The doctors don’t know yet whether they can save my voice.”

She pressed a hand over her mouth.

I had expected pity. Instead, Maya’s eyes filled with fury.

“Does Adrian know?”

“No.”

“You have to tell him.”

“Yesterday, I tried. Then his new project called.”

“Lena—”

“If I win next week, I want the award collected in my name. After that, I’m filing for divorce.”

Maya stared at me.

“And the tour?”

“Canceled.”

“The album?”

“Shelved.”

“You’re talking about walking away from everything.”

“No.” I looked through the glass at Adrian, who was already answering an email. “I’m talking about taking what’s left of me with me.”

That afternoon, I sent Adrian one message.

Bring Sophie to rehearsal room three tomorrow. I want to hear her voice.

His reply arrived in less than thirty seconds.

Finally. Ten a.m.

No question about my health.

No offer to come home.

At six, I left the building and searched the executive garage for my silver Aston Martin.

Its parking space was empty.

I called security.

“Mr. Cole authorized Ms. Lane to take it this morning,” the attendant said.

My hand tightened around the phone. “He gave her my car?”

“He said it was company property.”

It wasn’t.

I had bought it with the advance from my third album.

Adrian pulled up beside me in his black Mercedes and lowered the window.

“Get in.”

“Where is my car?”

“Sophie needed it for photographs.”

“You lent her my car without asking me.”

“She needed something that fit the image.”

“My image?”

His gaze sharpened. “Don’t start.”

“I want it returned tonight.”

“She has an appearance.”

“Then she can call a rideshare.”

Adrian got out and opened the passenger door.

“We have a dinner in twenty minutes.”

“I’m not going.”

“You need to.”

“Why?”

“Producers, promoters, two streaming executives. People we can’t afford to offend.”

“We?”

His expression shifted into something almost tender.

“I’m going to tell them about us.”

I forgot the pain in my throat.

For ten years, Adrian had refused to acknowledge our marriage publicly. Every anniversary had been spent behind locked doors. Every red carpet ended with us leaving in separate cars.

“Why now?”

“Because hiding it doesn’t make sense anymore.”

Hope was a humiliating thing.

Even after the hospital, Sophie, and the stolen files, some wounded part of me still wanted to believe him.

I got into the car.

The dinner was held in a private room above a restaurant in West Hollywood.

Adrian seated me at his right hand.

After the first course, he stood with a glass of champagne.

“There’s something I should have shared years ago,” he said. “Lena Hart isn’t only the greatest artist I’ve ever worked with. She’s my wife.”

For one suspended moment, no one spoke.

Then the room erupted.

People congratulated us. Someone called it the best-kept secret in music. A producer asked whether we had wedding photographs.

Adrian slipped an arm around my waist.

Cameras flashed.

I looked up at him and remembered our courthouse wedding, when he had kissed my forehead and promised that one day we would stop hiding.

He poured champagne into my glass.

“I can’t drink.”

“Just a sip.”

Every person in the room was watching.

I lifted the glass. The alcohol burned across my throat like gasoline over an open flame.

Adrian waited until everyone was smiling again.

“Now that the secret is out, I’d like to introduce someone Lena and I believe in.”

The door opened.

Sophie walked in wearing one of my old stage silhouettes—a white silk dress beneath a fitted black jacket.

My husband smiled at her.

“Sophie Lane is the future of Cole Records. She’s also Lena’s new protégée.”

Applause filled the room.

Adrian’s hand tightened around my waist before I could move.

One by one, producers promised Sophie songs, showcases, opening slots, and studio time because they believed my name stood behind her.

I understood then.

He had not finally chosen me.

He had spent our marriage like currency.

And while everyone toasted the beautiful story of the secret wife and her young protégée, I activated the recorder on my phone.