Chapter 13
ASHER
The songwriting awards committee froze the nomination for “Still Burning” because the authorship confirmation was incomplete, giving the label three business days to submit accurate information.
“There’s still time to sign.” The label executive slid the tablet across to me. “We can say it was a system delay. The nomination gets reinstated tonight, and no one will know what happened.”
My name and Sabrina’s were listed side by side in the signature field.
I didn’t touch the tablet. “The information is inaccurate.”
“The catalog review isn’t finished. You can’t submit a final version right now either.”
“Then keep it frozen. Once the last round of review is done, handle it according to the evidence.”
Evan’s final twelve-song fact sheet sat at the edge of the table. The documentary, the suggestive clips, and the stadium tour were all still running, still selling the same story I already knew was inaccurate.
“Starting today, no more duo behind-the-scenes footage,” I said. “Cancel every late-night recording session that isn’t required for a performance. Stop using the terms creative soulmate and muse. Negotiations for the next joint album are formally terminated.”
The head of publicity looked up immediately. “What about existing promotional campaigns?”
“No new additions.”
“We can’t just pull content that’s already been contracted and scheduled. Sponsors will treat that as us voluntarily breaching the agreement.”
“Freeze unreleased material first, then list the contracts that have to be dealt with.”
I looked at the frozen nomination on the screen. “Don’t fill that gap with a new lie.”
Before I left the conference room, I signed a written directive to stop new duo shoots, suggestive publicity, and joint projects, and to freeze unreleased material.
That would not automatically correct the old songwriting credits.
For now, I was only stopping tomorrow from repeating yesterday’s mistakes.
Late that night, the lawyers delivered the final handover documents: Leah’s unreleased sole-authored work, her private materials, the remaining twenty-one notebooks, the original demos, and the archive drive were all to be returned.
My team and I would retain no release, adaptation, first-option, or listening rights, and their return would not be conditioned on the divorce, a meeting, or future work.
The lawyer asked whether I wanted to add a clause that would release certain royalties early, contingent on Leah providing new songs.
“No.”
“Do you want to keep a private copy of the archive, for personal memories only?”
I thought about the laughter on those tapes, and about the private demo she’d made after her mother died. “No.”
I signed the last page. Following Evan’s inventory, the storage team packed the materials into moisture-proof boxes with no branding. There was no letter from me inside, and no explanation of why I had finally been willing to return them.
The next day, I completed my first formal writing session with a new outside songwriter. When I walked in, a split sheet was already on the table, with separate columns for the date, melody, lyrics, structure, and production.
His name was Micah. When he wrote, he liked to say the plainest meaning of each line out loud first, then decide what was worth keeping.
Two hours in, he had written the first verse, and I had finished the chords and chorus structure.
The bridge stalled for a long time. I caught myself staring at my phone, my thumb already scrolling to the top of my contacts.
Leah’s name was still there. I locked the screen and turned the phone face-down on the table. “Leave the bridge for now.”
Micah asked, “Try again tomorrow?”
“Yeah.”
The finished version wasn’t bad. The melody was clear and the lyrics precise. It just lacked the kind of line that could quiet an entire room. I listened from the top. The bridge was still blank.
Before I left, I noted on the split sheet that Micah had written all the verse lyrics, that I was responsible for the chords, the chorus melody, and the arrangement, and that the bridge was unfinished.
Micah signed next to his contributions and pushed the sheet back to me. That ordinary piece of paper wouldn’t fix the old catalog, but it meant this new song wouldn’t start from the same wrong place.
On the morning of the third day, the boxes of old materials were shipped to the seaside town. The shipping confirmation had just landed in my inbox when another alert appeared.
Why Was Sabrina Knox’s Songwriter Nomination Quietly Frozen?
The photo below was a still from the night of the release event. Sabrina stood in the center of the lights holding the plaque, and I stood beside her, my hand still resting on the metal engraved with the wrong name. But the headline didn’t mention me.
The comments had already chosen their sole villain.
She stole his wife’s song.