Chapter 13
Anna
The best thing about Joel Price being such a hotshot rockstar?
He has to leave sometime.
And tonight? Tonight is blissfully Joel-free.
No humming. No guitar. No frustratingly loud presence lingering in my space, waiting to get under my skin.
Which means tonight is just me, my couch, and an uninterrupted night of my favorite K-drama.
I stretch out, arms wide, luxuriating in the freedom of it all.
Finally.
Finally, I get one damn night without his voice in my ears, without the constant reminder that he exists too close, too often. It might only be a few days since he invaded, but it feels like years at this point.
I exhale, letting my body sink deeper into the cushions. This is exactly what I need. A night of soft blankets, takeout, and brain-melting romance with an emotionally unavailable male lead who isn’t Joel Price.
I hit play on the next episode and grab my takeout box to settle in.
The music swells, dramatic and sweeping, pulling me in even though I know exactly how this scene will go.
The hero is standing on the edge of a city sidewalk, his knuckles white around a crumpled letter, his jaw tight like he’s trying to swallow a thousand things he should have said. He watches her walk away, shoulders stiff, not looking back, even though we know she wants to.
I dig into my takeout container, swirling noodles around my chopsticks without looking away from the screen.
God, I love this shit.
The camera cuts to his expression—the heartbreak in his eyes, the devastation, the quiet plea he won’t say aloud. He shifts forward, like he might run after her, like he wants to so badly he’s physically stopping himself.
I let out a small huff through my nose. “Just go after her, dumbass.”
Of course, he doesn’t. That’s not how these scenes work.
Instead, it starts to rain.
Classic.
Fat droplets hitting the pavement, soaking through his jacket, his hair. He doesn’t move. He just stands there, watching her disappear into the night, drowning in his own silence.
I scoop up another bite of noodles, chewing slowly as I watch him suffer.
Ugh. So angsty. So dramatic. I love it.
The heroine stops.
Not fully—just a pause in her step, like something tugged her back for half a second. She doesn’t turn, doesn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her face.
But it’s enough.
Enough to let him know she feels it too.
I shift slightly, twirling my chopsticks against the rim of the container.
It’s stupid. Just a TV show.
Except—
Except the way he looks at her—like he’s waiting for her to turn around, like he needs her to but can’t ask her to—
My breath catches.
Because for a split second, I remember the way Joel looked at me before he left tonight.
Like he wasn’t going to ask.
Like he wasn’t going to say a single thing about the show, but he wanted me to.
Like he was waiting for something—anything.
My fingers tighten around the blanket in my lap.
Nope, I do not like this train of thought.
I don’t care about his stupid show. I don’t care about whatever expression he had on his face.
I’m only here for the K-drama and to witness these two finally get over their stupid differences.
And yet—
My stomach twists again.
I force my attention back to the screen, but the drama doesn’t feel as fun anymore.
Because now my thoughts are spiraling.
He’s probably on stage right now.
Probably standing in the spotlight, playing my fucking song, and I’m sitting here letting him take up space in my head like a complete idiot.
My jaw tightens.
It’s not like he invited me.
Not that I would have gone. But still, he could have mentioned it. Could have asked, even knowing I’d say no.
But he didn’t.
I grab another bite of noodles, but they taste flat now, like cardboard in my mouth. I push the takeout container onto the coffee table, suddenly restless. My skin feels too tight and my blood feels itchy in my veins.
This is stupid.
I should be enjoying this—a night of peace. But instead, my brain is doing exactly what I swore I wouldn’t let it do.
Thinking about he-who-shall-not-be-named.
Or thinking about the way he looked at me before he left, like he desperately wanted me to say I’d come with.
I shake my head, pulling my blanket tighter around me.
No.
Maybe a night alone was a bad idea.
I need a distraction.
I could put on another episode.
I could call Lily. No, she’s probably at the stupid club watching the stupid performance since she practically lives there now.
I could—
My gaze flicks toward the hallway.
Toward my office.
My stomach flips over and my noodles try to make a comeback.
Nope.
No, no, no.
If I could disappear into the couch, I would. Instead, I tuck my legs under me. I am not doing this.
I am not thinking about that god forsaken envelope.
It’s been sitting in my desk drawer for over a year now, untouched.
For good reason.
It doesn’t matter. It’s just another attempt to make me feel bad for poor old Joel. Misunderstood musician.
Whatever bullshit is inside, it won’t change anything.
I cross my arms, planting myself firmly on the couch.
I’m not opening it.
I don’t care what it says.
I don’t.
My eyes drifted to the television. The drama is still playing, but I’m not watching it anymore.
My fingers tap against the blanket, restless.
My knees bounce.
I exhale slowly, trying to force my body to settle. Of course, it doesn’t.
My eyes flick to the hallway again.
Damn it.
Just forget about it, Anna. Nothing has changed,
I reach for my drink, take a slow sip, then set it down.
A beat passes, then I reach for the remote, pressing pause.
I mean, I could just read it.
Not because I care—but because it’s unfinished business.
I hate unfinished business.
And if I read it—if I finally open the stupid thing—then maybe I can stop thinking about it. Besides, knowledge is power right?
Maybe I can shove it back in his face later.
Maybe I can use it against him.
Or maybe you’re just looking for an excuse.
The thought slithers through my mind before I can stop it.
My jaw tightens.
No.
That’s not what this is.
This is practical. This is self-preservation.
This is me taking control.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I throw off the blanket, stand up, and march down the hall.
My feet hesitate for half a second at the office door. Then I shove it open before I can second-guess myself.
The room is dim, the desk lamp casting a soft glow over the papers stacked neatly beside my laptop.
The drawer is closed. But I’m all too aware of what’s inside.
It’s been in there since the day he gave it to me.
I reach out, fingers hovering over the handle.
My pulse kicks up.
I tell myself it’s just irritation.
I tell myself I don’t feel anything else.
And then I pull the drawer open.
The envelope sits exactly where I left it, tucked beneath a few random bills and old receipts.
For a moment, I just stare at it.
This is a mistake.
I know it.
I can feel it.
But my hand moves anyway, fingers curling around the edge of the envelope, pulling it free.
It feels heavier than it should.
I don’t breathe as I tear it open.
The torn edges of the envelope feel sharp against my fingertips, the weight of it settling like a stone in my palm. My heart kicks against my ribs, loud in the quiet room.
I tell myself I don’t care what’s inside.
I tell myself I won’t let it mean anything.
But my hands shake just a little as I reach inside.
The first thing I pull out is a thick stack of papers, folded neatly. I smooth them open, my brows furrowing.
Legal documents.
The words Copyright Transfer Agreement stare back at me, official and cold, stamped with dates and signatures—Joel’s and someone else’s, probably his lawyer’s.
My pulse jumps.
I scan the details, my brain sluggishly piecing them together.
He signed over everything.
Every right. Every royalty. Every single cent the song has ever made.
My fingers tighten around the pages.
What the hell?
Something slips free from between the documents, landing on my lap.
I blink.
A check.
The number printed across it makes my stomach drop.
My breath catches, my mind struggling to wrap around the figure staring back at me.
This isn’t some small payout. This isn’t a token sum to clear his conscience.
This is hundreds of thousands of dollars.
My fingers tremble as I grip the edges, like the weight of it might be too much to hold.
There’s a sticky note attached.
Anna,
This is what I owe you. It should have always been yours.
—Joel
I press my lips together, pulse pounding.
This isn’t just an apology.
This is a debt paid in full.
I grip the check so tightly the paper creases under my fingers.
This is too much.
Too real.
Too final.
My heart lurches, and I hate that I feel anything at all.
I press my lips together, forcing my breath steady.
This is just guilt. This is him trying to erase what he did. It doesn’t change the past. It doesn’t undo the fact that he stole my words and made them his.
My stomach twists as I set the contract aside.
I don’t want it.
I don’t want anything from him.
And yet, my hand moves back to the envelope, pulling out the next thing.
It’s a single sheet of lined paper, edges curled slightly, like it’s been handled too many times.
My breath catches.
I know this paper.
I know the way the ink bleeds at the edges, the way my own handwriting slants unevenly, the lyrics crammed into the margins because I never learned to write neatly in a notebook.
My original lyrics.
The ones I wrote before he ever touched them.
But they’re not just mine anymore.
Joel’s handwriting is all over them.
Messy scrawls in the empty spaces, words circled, lines rewritten.
His notes.
My throat closes up.
I scan them, my eyes catching on his edits, his thoughts—
This line is perfect.
Feels raw, don’t change it.
What if this is the second verse instead?
I swallow hard.
I shouldn’t care.
I shouldn’t care that he cared. That he didn’t just steal it outright.
That he saw something in my words.