When My Ex Handed My Songs to His Mistress

The knock came at seven in the morning. Sharp. Insistent. The kind of knock that said *I know you're awake.*

I opened the door to Simone holding two coffees and a paper bag that smelled like butter and cinnamon. She looked me up and down—still in the same clothes from yesterday, hair pulled into a knot—and pushed past me into the hotel room.

"You look terrible," she said.

"Good morning to you too."

She set the coffees on the desk and pulled a pastry from the bag. "Eat. Then tell me everything."

I took the coffee. It was hot and strong and exactly how I liked it. Simone had known me long enough to get that right without asking.

"I left," I said.

She bit into her pastry and grinned. "I know. I got your text at midnight. I would've come sooner but I figured you needed to sleep."

"I didn't sleep."

"Of course you didn't." She sat on the edge of the bed and looked at me. Really looked. "How do you feel?"

I thought about it. "Calm."

"Good. That's the right answer." She took another bite. "The only tragedy here is you didn't do this three years ago. That man has been wearing your talent like a rented suit."

I laughed. It came out rough but real.

Simone leaned forward. "Did you send the resignation?"

"Last night. To Keegan."

"And?"

"He responded this morning. Wants to meet."

She raised an eyebrow. "When?"

"This afternoon."

She nodded slowly. "Good. Don't let him lowball you. You wrote every single song that label's made money on for the last five years. He knows it. Make sure he pays for it."

"I'm not asking for money."

"Then ask for rights. Full catalog. Every demo. Every note." She pointed at me with the pastry. "You walk out of that building owning everything you made, or you don't walk out at all."

I looked at her. "You've been thinking about this."

"I've been thinking about this since the day you introduced me to that man and he didn't remember my name after the third time." She finished the pastry and dusted her hands. "Now burn the rest of it down."

---

The label offices were on Sunset. Glass and steel. I'd been here a hundred times but it felt different now. Like I was walking into a building I used to own.

Keegan's assistant waved me through. No wait. No small talk. Just a nod and an open door.

Keegan stood when I walked in. He was fifty-something, gray at the temples, always in a suit that cost more than most people's rent. He gestured to the chair across from his desk.

"Naomi."

"Keegan."

He sat. I sat. He didn't smile. Neither did I.

"I got your email," he said.

I waited.

He opened a drawer and pulled out a bottle of Scotch. Thirty-year. I'd seen it on his shelf for years but never seen him pour it. He set two glasses on the desk and filled them both.

"I should have said something years ago," he said. "That's on me."

I picked up the glass. "Said what?"

"That you were the best thing in this building. That Chase Porter wouldn't exist without you. That I knew it and I let it happen anyway because it was easier." He looked at me. "I'm not apologizing. I'm just telling you I knew."

I took a sip. The Scotch burned clean.

"I want full rights to my catalog," I said. "Everything I wrote. Everything I produced. Every demo I handed over."

He didn't blink. "Done."

"I want it in writing by tomorrow."

"You'll have it by tonight."

I set the glass down. "That's it?"

"That's it." He leaned back in his chair. "You're the most competent person I've ever worked with. I'm not going to insult you by pretending this is a negotiation."

I stood. He stood.

"Good luck, Naomi."

I walked out.

---

The new apartment was in downtown LA. Tenth floor. Big windows. The Yamaha barely fit but I'd made it work. I always made it work.

I sat on the floor with my phone in my hand. Jude's messages were still there. A dozen of them. Voice notes. Texts. A video of him messing around on a guitar at two in the morning.

I opened the most recent voice note.

His voice filled the room. Warm. A little rough. "Hey. So I keep hearing this melody in my head and I genuinely think you're the only person alive who could tell me what to do with it. No pressure. Just—call me if you want. Or don't. I'll still be here."

I listened to it three times.

Then I typed: *Are you free this week? I have something I want to play for you.*

I hit send before I could think too hard.

The reply came thirty seconds later.

*I'm free right now.*

I smiled. Put the phone down. Looked around the apartment. It was mine. The piano. The space. The silence.

For the first time in years, I could hear myself think.

And what I thought was: *Let's see what happens next.*