Chapter 9
ASHER
Leah slid the contract back across the table exactly as I’d sent it.
“I don’t need to see the presentation,” she said.
She hadn’t taken the seat beside me. She’d chosen the far end of the long table instead.
Two empty chairs and twenty-six pages of proposals sat between us.
She was wearing a dark blue sweater, hair loosely tied at the nape of her neck—no reinvented look the media had been speculating about, no new life staged for my benefit.
She’d glanced at me once when she walked in. The second look went to the clock on the wall. In the past, whenever I paused before speaking, Leah would find me an easier first line; today, the second hand got her attention first.
“Your twenty minutes have started.”
I settled back in my chair. “At least let me tell you what’s in the contract.”
“I’ve read all of it.”
“Then you know this isn’t the old arrangement. The independent label would be entirely yours. Every new work would be credited accurately, with the highest royalty split. I won’t ask you to participate in any promotion.”
“You’d only ask me to deliver four songs in six months, one of them to you.”
“That’s a launch condition, not—” I paused. “Not a way to hide you again.”
“It just hides me at a higher price.”
She said it quietly. The next slide laid out the independent team, the budget, and the control she could have—but my hand stayed on the remote, and I didn’t advance to it.
“The timeline is flexible,” I said. “Four songs down to two, or just one in the first year. We can cancel the L.A. recording sessions too. If you want to stay here, we work remotely.”
“I don’t want to negotiate delivery quantities with you.”
“Leah, I’m trying to give you what you deserve.”
She opened her document folder and took out a single sheet of plain printer paper, setting it on top of the contract. The edges had curled. It was a lineup for a small venue. Her name and another woman’s were printed side by side in twelve-point type.
“This is what I deserve,” she said.
I looked down and read Song by Tess Rowan & Leah Morgan. No label logo. No sales figures. Not even a proper promotional photo.
“I can get more people to see your name.”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
My grip tightened on the remote. “You’ve been writing songs for thirteen years. You shouldn’t be getting a public credit only in rooms with forty-something people.”
“At least those forty-something people heard the truth.”
I looked up at her.
Leah slid the flyer back into her folder. “Has the songwriting credit on ‘Still Burning’ been corrected?”
I didn’t answer right away.
“No,” she confirmed for me.
“The awards cycle and the distribution platforms are all in the middle of a promotional window. A sudden correction would trigger a full catalog review, and the label wants to?—”
“Has the creative soulmate campaign with Sabrina stopped?”
“Not entirely. Content that’s already been shot is still scheduled. But I’ve canceled the next joint album, and I’m planning to remove her from future collaborations.”
“So you’re here offering me a name, while the rest of the world still believes she wrote my song—and still believes she’s the one who made you want to sing again.”
“This contract is the first step toward fixing all of that.”
“No.” Leah looked at the proposal on the table. “It’s your way of buying my continued work without touching any of those problems.”
I wanted to say she was wrong, but I couldn’t find a single clause that didn’t end with new songs.
“I also want you to come back,” I said.
Her gaze finally moved from the contract to my face. “Back where?”
“Home.”
“The house isn’t the issue.”
“Back to us.”
“There’s no ‘us’ in your proposal. There’s only my delivery schedule, your album, and the vacancy Sabrina leaves behind.”
“I’m removing her because I’m choosing you.”
“You had the chance to choose before the release event.”
My breath caught.
She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t go back through every detail from five weeks ago. She only asked, “If I sign today, when will ‘Still Burning’ be corrected to show the real songwriting credit?”
“I’ll push for it.”
“When?”
“It’d be difficult to do before the awards cycle ends. The tour and the sponsors are all built on the existing campaign. We need a moment that doesn’t bring everything down at once.”
“And if I never give you another song?”
I looked at her. What came to mind first wasn’t an empty house. It was a blank page in a recording studio.
The reaction lasted only a second, but it was long enough for Leah to see it.
She leaned back slightly. “You raised the royalty split. You offered me an office. You’re moving Sabrina off the next album. But every version of this proposal ends with the same requirement—getting me back into your career, writing the words you can’t find yourself.”
“Because we made the best music when we were together.”
“We’re not together anymore.”
“I love you.”
The three words sounded more direct in that empty conference room than they ever had. I waited for something to shift in her expression, even for a moment.
Nothing did.
“I believe you,” Leah said.
“Then why?—”
“Because loving me has never stopped you from putting me second when it came time to choose.”
I wanted to argue. I wanted to say I’d signed off on the wrong credit for the tour, for the team, for everything we’d already built. But every one of those reasons had existed five weeks ago too. Every one of them had ended with her being called a fan.
Leah pushed the contract further away.
“You lost your wife, and you came looking for your songwriter.”
I had lost my wife, and I’d come looking for my songwriter.
I stared at her. “I don’t know how to make you believe I want more than the songs.”
“Then stop coming to me with songs.”
The clock on the wall ticked to twenty past the hour. Leah stood, picked up her folder, and didn’t wait for me to finish my next sentence.
“I’ve given Evan the catalog list,” she said. “For any existing works that need my confirmation, I’ll attend as scheduled. Beyond that, no more meetings.”
“Leah.”
She stopped at the door but didn’t turn around.
The remote was still in my hand, the screen behind me showing a three-year collaboration timeline. When she actually moved toward the door, I opened my mouth and still only managed her name.
The door opened. Evan was standing outside.
Leah handed him a preliminary catalog list. “Tell him the terms.”
Evan nodded. She walked past him without slowing down. The conference room door closed behind her, and this time there was no stage I needed to get back to, no one stopping me from going after her.
I stayed in my chair.
Evan set the list on the table and switched off the presentation screen I’d brought. “The first review is scheduled for next week. Existing catalog only—no new songs, no divorce discussion, no extending the meeting into a private negotiation. Leah can end it at any time.”
“And if I don’t agree?”
“Then everything goes through lawyers in writing. You won’t see her or hear any of the original material directly.”
I looked toward the door. Leah was gone. The hallway was silent.
“I agree.”
Evan showed no reaction to that. He reached into his bag and set an old recorder on the table. “There’s one more thing. You’ve been framing this as ‘Still Burning’ and one incorrect songwriting credit. The preliminary list says otherwise.”
“Twelve songs?”
“At least twelve core works need confirmation. You should know where the review will start.”
He pressed play.
The recording opened with the sound of a car passing over a wet road, then the steady hum of a cheap air conditioner vibrating.
I recognized the motel. Thirteen years ago, after a show that sold seventeen tickets, we’d stayed there.
I remembered sitting on the edge of the bed with my guitar.
I didn’t remember when the recording had started.
A melody without words surfaced through the noise. It wasn’t my voice.
A young Leah softly sang the complete chorus melody of what would become a number-one single, then asked, “Asher, does this feel more like what you were trying to say?” I was quiet for a few seconds on the recording.
Then I answered, “Yeah. That’s it.”