2. Chapter Two #2
The first social media clip went up after the session.
It contained no music, no title, and no lyrics.
Serena filmed herself complaining about Hunter’s refusal to replace the studio’s bitter coffee.
He leaned into the frame to defend it, she laughed, and her hand landed on his arm when he tried to take her cup.
The clip lasted less than ten seconds. It gathered millions of views.
Later, Billy placed his tablet on the mixing desk. Numbers covered the screen. People in the comments celebrated Hunter’s smile, Serena’s touch, and the way he seemed younger around her.
“That’s hunger,” Billy said. “We don’t have to feed it yet. We just don’t tell people they’re wrong.”
Hunter scrolled past a headline about whether Serena had become his new muse.
“Wendy’s going to see this,” he said.
“Wendy knows what promotion looks like.”
“She knows what our agreement looks like too.”
Billy’s smile didn’t reach his pale eyes. “No one’s saying you’re in love with Serena. No one’s saying the song’s about her. We let people wonder what you’re making and why it sounds exciting. That’s all.”
Hunter could’ve handed the tablet back and ended it. One clear statement would do it: My wife inspired the song. Serena’s a collaborator. Stop using my marriage to sell records.
He imagined the headline vanishing from people’s feeds. He also imagined everyone around him returning to the careful respect he’d grown to hate.
“No direct lies,” he said.
“Of course not.”
That became the rule Hunter used to excuse everything that followed.
The sessions stretched across the months before the retrospective.
The studio master became a true duet, finished and ready to serve as the lead single after the Bowl premiere, but it stayed unreleased.
The title, lyrics, subject, and sound remained locked down while Serena posted silent clips of shared jokes, marked-up pages turned facedown, and Hunter working behind glass.
Every change made Hunter want to play the song for Wendy. He’d hear a harmony settle and picture her smile. He’d fix a weak line and reach for his phone. At first, he stopped because he wanted the anniversary surprise. Later, he stopped because secrecy had become part of the campaign.
At home, the cost appeared in ordinary details.
Hunter entered the immaculate kitchen and found two plates on the counter. Wendy sat with a cup of tea that had gone cold. Behind her, the hallway to her old podcast room was dark.
“I said I’d be home,” he told her.
“You also said we’d eat together.” Her voice stayed kind, which made his guilt sharper. “Is Serena’s phone always recording?”
He loosened his collar. “It gets content. That’s how younger artists work.”
“I know what content is, Hunter. I’m asking whether all of it is necessary.”
“Billy thinks the casual clips help.”
“What do you think?”
He crossed the kitchen and put his hands on her waist. Wendy let him, but she didn’t lean into him the way she usually did.
“I think the pressure’s temporary,” he said.
“You’ve said that before.”
“Because it won’t last.” He kissed her forehead. “The Bowl’s the finish line. After that, things calm down.”
Wendy studied him. Her blue eyes made him feel seen in ways the studio never did.
“When do I get to hear what you’re making?”
The honest answer rose at once. Now. He could take her to the music room, open the file named for her, and give back everything he’d let other people touch.
Instead, he smiled. “When it’s ready.”
“Isn’t it?”
“Almost.”
Her face changed so slightly that another man might’ve missed it. Hunter saw the hurt and answered it with his arms. He pulled her close, felt her breathe against him, and told himself affection was proof that nothing important had broken.
In the last two weeks before the Bowl, he’d come home after midnight and reached for Wendy in bed; she’d reached back, letting familiar desire stand in for the conversation they kept postponing.
At another session, Wendy called while Serena stood behind the studio microphone. Hunter watched her name light his phone. Serena had just found a better melodic response – a counter-harmony – to his final line, and the musicians were waiting. He silenced the call.
Eli saw him do it.
“You don’t want Serena,” Eli said later, after the others went for food.
Hunter looked up from the lyric sheet. “Hell of a way to start a conversation.”
“I’m not accusing you of wanting her.” Eli folded his arms. “I’m accusing you of wanting the man she thinks you are.”
“And who is that?”
“A man with no past, no limits, and no wife asking what the fun costs.”
Anger came fast because the words landed cleanly.
“You don’t know what happens in my marriage.”
“I know Wendy’s been here from the start. I know that song’s hers. And I know you keep choosing the room where everybody praises you over the house where one person expects an honest answer.”
Hunter stood. “You think I’m having an affair because I work late?”
“I think you’re not pursuing Serena at all. You’re using her admiration to escape being a husband.” Eli didn’t raise his voice. “Are you protecting a surprise, or are you exploiting Wendy’s trust?”
Hunter wanted to tell him to leave. He wanted to point to the band, the touring company, the label stake, and every employee whose future depended on Hunter continuing to matter.
He wanted to explain that his father had once believed talent was enough too, right up until the gigs disappeared and bitterness took everything else with them.
Instead, Hunter looked through the glass at the empty booth and heard his father’s voice calling music a stupid dream after another rejection. He remembered the man leaving anyway.
Relevance wasn’t vanity. It was safety. Wendy knew that. Wendy knew all of him and stayed.
“We’re finishing the master tonight,” Hunter said.
Eli’s mouth hardened. “That’s your answer?”
Hunter put on his headphones. “That’s the schedule.”
In the final days before the retrospective, Billy arrived at Canyonlight with a preliminary tour hold and a confidential run sheet. The studio system held the completed duet master, still unreleased and scheduled to become the campaign’s lead single after the live premiere.
Billy placed the tour document beside Hunter’s hand.
“Selected dates. We announce Serena onstage at the Bowl, then convert the hold into the full deal after the response comes in.”
Hunter read the cities. Each one meant travel, rehearsal, content, and changes Wendy hadn’t agreed to.
“This isn’t the final contract,” Billy said. “It preserves the dates.”
“The announcement makes it harder to say no later.”
Hunter looked at the run sheet. A black border marked the duet and tour section labeled CONFIDENTIAL LIVE REVEAL.
“Wendy can’t learn about a tour from the audience,” he said, his stomach doing a weird thing.
“Then tell her tonight and destroy the surprise.” Billy’s tone remained easy. “Or let her experience one uncomfortable moment, talk to her afterward, and protect a campaign that supports more people than either of us can count.”
Hunter thought of the photograph in his music room. Wendy laughing in the rain. Wendy at the kitchen counter asking when she’d hear the song. Wendy seeing every fear he carried and staying anyway.
She’d be hurt. He knew that.
He also knew he’d explain after the show. He’d tell her the song was hers, the audience story was only promotion, and the tour dates could still be discussed. Once she understood the whole picture, she’d understand why he’d waited.
Hunter signed the preliminary hold and approved the live announcement. His phone lit before Billy had gathered the papers.
Wendy: When will I finally hear the new collaboration?
Hunter looked through the control-room glass at Serena’s microphone. The studio system held the finished duet. Next to his hand lay the tour hold and Billy’s confidential run sheet.
He typed the truth, erased it, and sent the easier answer.
Hunter: Tomorrow will make everything clear.