Chapter 3 — They Stole Our Anniversary Song

By morning, every entertainment site in America had published the same photograph.

Adrian’s arm around my waist.

My champagne glass raised.

Sophie standing beside us in white silk.

The headlines called her my discovery.

One outlet described her as the young singer I had personally chosen to continue my legacy.

I read that line twice.

A legacy was something people discussed after a career ended.

Or after a person died.

Maya called before eight.

“Tell me you approved none of this.”

“I approved nothing.”

“Adrian’s publicity team sent a release at midnight. They’re calling Sophie your protégée and saying you’ll executive-produce her debut album.”

“Save everything.”

“I already did.”

A cough seized me before I could say more. I pressed a towel to my mouth and waited for the spasm to pass.

When I pulled it away, there were three dark red spots on the cotton.

“Lena?”

“I’m here.”

“You need to go back to the hospital.”

“I have something to finish first.”

At ten, I walked into rehearsal room three.

Sophie stood beside the piano with both hands knotted in front of her. Adrian was close enough for her shoulder to brush his arm.

“It’s okay,” he murmured. “Lena’s demanding, but she knows what she’s doing.”

The reassurance sounded practiced.

I put my bag beside the piano.

“Leave.”

Adrian frowned. “I should stay.”

“I can’t evaluate her while she’s watching you for permission to breathe.”

Sophie’s cheeks flushed.

Adrian looked from her to me. “One hour.”

“This is my session.”

His jaw tightened, but he left.

Sophie watched the door close.

“You can stop performing now,” I said.

Her eyes widened. “I’m sorry?”

“The frightened-bird routine. It works on Adrian. It won’t work on me.”

“I’m not pretending.”

“Then sing.”

I played a scale.

Her voice was sweet and airy, the kind that photographed well and disappeared beneath heavy instrumentation. As the notes climbed, her jaw tightened. The upper register narrowed until the sound became thin and strained.

I changed keys.

She missed the transition.

“Again.”

On the third attempt, her voice broke.

Tears sprang to her eyes.

I stopped playing.

“Who told you that you could sing my catalog?”

“Mr. Cole said my tone could be developed.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

She stared at the floor. “The creative team said audiences miss how you sounded when you were younger.”

The truth entered the room quietly.

Not another artist.

A replacement.

“They changed my hair,” Sophie continued. “My clothes too. They said the resemblance would help people connect with me.”

“Do you want to be me?”

Her head snapped up. “No.”

“Then why are you wearing my jacket?”

She touched the lapel.

“I didn’t know it was yours.”

Of course she didn’t.

That was how Adrian worked. He moved things from one woman to another and made each believe the transfer was harmless.

“Sing something you chose yourself,” I said.

She selected a soft pop song. Her expression changed as soon as she began. The notes weren’t powerful, but they were intimate and warm. She had a real voice beneath all the imitation.

It simply wasn’t mine.

When she finished, I closed the piano.

“You can build a career around that sound. But you cannot sing the songs I write for myself.”

Her lips parted. “Does that mean you won’t produce my album?”

“I never agreed to produce it.”

Confusion crossed her face.

“Mr. Cole said—”

“I know what he said.”

I picked up my bag and went upstairs.

Adrian was behind his desk, reading the morning’s coverage on a tablet.

“Well?”

“She has a pleasant commercial voice.”

“I knew you’d see it.”

“She cannot sing my music.”

“We can lower the keys.”

“That won’t fix the lack of range or power.”

“She’s young. Train her.”

“No.”

He placed the tablet down.

“Why are you determined to make this difficult?”

“Because you announced that I was producing her album without my permission.”

“It was positioning.”

“It was a lie.”

“It got her three offers before breakfast.”

“Using my name.”

“Our names are connected.”

“My reputation is not marital property.”

Adrian rose and came around the desk.

“Lena, listen to yourself. You have spent years saying women in this industry should help one another. Now I put a talented young artist in front of you, and suddenly you’re threatened.”

“I’m not threatened by Sophie.”

“Then prove it.”

He touched my hair, winding a strand around one finger the way he used to when we were young.

Once, the gesture could dissolve every argument between us.

Now all I felt was the calculation behind it.

“The company has already invested almost two million dollars in her launch,” he said. “Don’t let my work go to waste.”

“Your work?”

His hand dropped.

“Go home,” he said. “You look exhausted.”

“There’s a rest room through there. I’ll stay until traffic clears.”

For a moment, suspicion tightened his expression.

Then his phone rang, and business reclaimed him.

I entered the adjoining room and shut the door.

The space smelled like Adrian’s cedar cologne. A narrow bed stood against one wall. On the desk, a laptop glowed beside a stack of contracts.

I had no intention of searching it.

Then I saw the screen.

The United States Copyright Office registration portal was open.

At the top of the page was the title:

MÖBIUS

My chest tightened.

I moved closer.

The listed writers were Sophie Lane and an in-house producer named Mason Grant.

My name appeared nowhere.

The song I had written at our kitchen table, built from a melody Adrian used to play in our basement apartment, now legally belonged to two people who had never heard it until someone stole it from my computer.

I scrolled down.

An attachment contained a split sheet bearing a digital version of my initials.

The signature was dated three days ago.

I had been at Cedars-Sinai that morning.

A folder beside the registration page held the production files. Adrian had changed the key, flattened the bridge, and stripped away the final high note.

He had broken the song until Sophie could wear it.

My hands trembled, but I did not close the laptop.

I photographed every page.

Then I forwarded the registration confirmation, split sheet, internal emails, and revision history to an encrypted address Maya had created that morning.

Footsteps sounded outside.

I returned the browser to the page I had found and moved away from the desk just as Adrian opened the door.

“You’re still here.”

“I was resting.”

His gaze moved to the laptop.

The room seemed to hold its breath.

Then his phone buzzed again.

“I have to take this.”

He left without noticing anything.

I walked out of Cole Records carrying enough evidence to destroy Sophie’s debut before it began.

But I didn’t use it.

Not yet.

At home, I locked the studio door and opened the original version of “Möbius.”

The first guitar chord filled the room.

I had written the song as a promise: two people traveling the same unbroken surface, always finding their way back to each other.

Now the metaphor felt cruel.

A Möbius strip had only one side.

Perhaps our marriage had too.

Adrian had lived on the visible surface—CEO, husband, architect of our success.

I had lived beneath it, writing songs the world loved while remaining hidden inside my own marriage.

I called the attorney Maya had recommended.

“Rachel Shaw.”

“My name is Lena Hart.”

There was a pause.

“I know who you are.”

“I need to stop a fraudulent copyright registration.”

Her voice became brisk. “Do you have the original files?”

“Yes.”

“Creation dates?”

“Yes.”

“Communications showing who accessed or transferred them?”

“Yes.”

“And has the disputed work been commercially released?”

“Not yet.”

“That matters. Once it enters distribution, the damage becomes more complicated.”

I looked at the calendar.

Sophie’s showcase was Friday.

Four days away.

“How quickly can we stop it?”

“If your evidence is as strong as you say, we can send preservation and cease-and-desist notices today. We may also challenge the registration and alert the distributor.”

“I don’t want them alerted yet.”

Another pause.

“You want them to proceed?”

“I want everyone responsible to put their name on the decision.”

Rachel understood immediately.

“You’re building a record.”

“I’m building an exit.”

I sent her the files.

Thirty minutes later, she called back.

Her controlled tone had disappeared.

“Ms. Hart, this is bigger than one stolen song.”

My fingers tightened around the phone.

“What did you find?”

“The administrator credentials used to access your archive are tied directly to Adrian Cole. The split sheet was routed through his executive account.”

I closed my eyes.

Some part of me had still hoped for an explanation involving an overeager employee, a clerical error, anything that left a fragment of the man I had married untouched.

Rachel continued.

“But that isn’t the most important part.”

“What is?”

“The application hasn’t been finalized. The distributor hasn’t received the master, and the public performance license for Friday still depends on your publishing entity.”

I opened my eyes.

“What does that mean?”

“It means they think they’ve stolen your song.”

Her voice sharpened.

“But legally, they’ve handed you the power to bring down the entire launch the moment Sophie starts singing.”