When My Ex Handed My Songs to His Mistress

The studio was in a converted warehouse in downtown LA. Industrial windows. Exposed brick. The kind of place that charged by the hour and didn't ask questions.

I got there first. Set my bag on the console. Pulled out the flash drive with the track I'd been saving. Not the love song Chase stole. Something else. Something bigger.

I'd written it six months ago and kept it locked away because I knew what it was. A career-maker. The kind of song that changes everything.

The door opened. Jude walked in carrying two coffees and grinning like he'd won something.

"You showed up," he said.

"I said I would."

"People say a lot of things." He handed me a coffee. "You actually do them."

I took it. He'd gotten it right. No idea how.

He shrugged off his jacket and looked around the room. "So. What are we making?"

I plugged in the drive. "Something that's going to make people forget Chase Porter exists."

His grin widened. "I'm listening."

I hit play.

The track filled the studio. It opened quiet—just piano and a heartbeat of percussion—then built into something massive. Strings. Synth. A melody that climbed and climbed until it cracked open. I'd layered my own voice as a guide vocal. Rough. Unpolished. But the bones were there.

Jude went completely still.

I watched him. He wasn't nodding along or tapping his foot. He was frozen. Eyes closed. Breathing slow.

The track ended.

Silence.

Thirty seconds of it. Maybe more.

Then he opened his eyes and looked at me.

"This is the best thing I've ever heard," he said quietly. "If you let me sing this, I will spend the rest of my career trying to deserve it."

Something in my chest loosened. I didn't know it had been tight until that moment.

"Let's get to work," I said.

---

We recorded until two in the morning.

Jude took direction like he'd been waiting his whole life for someone to give it. I told him to pull back on the first verse. He pulled back. I told him to let the bridge break. He broke. No pushback. No ego. Just trust.

Between takes, he sprawled on the couch and ate cold noodles straight from the container. "You're terrifying, you know that?"

I looked up from the console. "What?"

"The way you hear things. It's like you're listening to a different song than the rest of us." He grinned. "It's kind of hot."

I rolled my eyes. "Focus."

"I am focused." He sat up. "I'm also capable of multitasking."

I ignored him and pulled up the next track. But I was smiling. I couldn't help it.

The second night, he showed up with ramen from my favorite Silver Lake spot. I stared at the bag.

"How did you—"

"You mentioned it once. Three months ago. At that label party." He set it on the console. "You said it was the only place that got the broth right."

I looked at him. He wasn't grinning this time. Just watching me.

"Thank you," I said.

He nodded. "You're welcome."

We didn't talk about it again. But the ramen kept showing up.

The fourth night, I walked into the studio and found a record on the mixing console. Vintage pressing. Joni Mitchell. The exact album I'd mentioned wanting weeks ago in a conversation I barely remembered.

Jude was already in the booth, warming up. I held up the record.

"Where did you find this?"

He looked over. Shrugged. "Around."

"Jude."

"I have a guy." He grinned. "You like it?"

I looked down at the record. The cover was worn but the vinyl was pristine. "Yeah. I like it."

"Good." He adjusted the mic. "Now can we record? You're the one who said we're on a deadline."

I set the record down carefully. "Let's go."

---

On the fifth night, Jude's manager showed up.

Marcus Cole was forty-something, sharp-eyed, and protective in the way managers get when their artist is their whole livelihood. He stood in the back of the studio with his arms crossed and watched me work.

I felt his eyes on me the whole session. Measuring. Judging.

I ignored him.

Three hours later, I called it. Jude pulled off the headphones and stretched. "That's the one."

I nodded. "Yeah. That's the one."

Marcus waited until Jude left the booth. Then he walked over.

"Can I talk to you?"

I saved the session and turned. "Sure."

He looked at me for a long moment. "I was worried you were using him. Rebound project. Easy revenge on your ex."

I didn't blink. "And now?"

"Now I think you're the real thing." He glanced at the console. At the waveforms still glowing on the screen. "I've been in this business twenty years. I know what genius looks like." He looked back at me. "Don't blow this."

"I won't."

He nodded. Started to leave. Then stopped. "For what it's worth? That kid in there would walk through fire for you. I've never seen him like this."

I didn't know what to say to that.

Marcus left.

Jude came back in carrying two coffees. He handed me one and sat on the couch. "Marcus give you the speech?"

"Something like that."

"He means well. He's just—" Jude waved a hand. "Protective."

"I get it."

Jude looked at me. "For the record? He's right. About the walking through fire thing."

I met his eyes. "Jude—"

"I'm not asking for anything." He leaned back. "I'm just saying. In case you were wondering."

I looked down at my coffee. My hands were steady.

"I wasn't wondering," I said quietly. "But thank you."

He smiled. "Anytime."

We sat there in the quiet studio. The track we'd just finished glowed on the screen. Outside, the city hummed.

And for the first time in years, I felt like I was exactly where I was supposed to be.