I gave up my spot at the Vienna Conservatory just to stay behind and help Adrian practice. In the ten years since, he went from an obscure, struggling street musician to a world-renowned virtuoso. For every single one of his concerts, I sat in the very front row. He promised me that once this tour ended, he would dedicate the encore—a piece called "Homeward"—to me. It was the first piece I had ever written for him. But at the final stop of the tour, he changed the program at the last minute. Next to "Homeward" on the credits, there was a new name. Zora. His new protégé. In the dressing room, Zora clutched the sheet music to her chest, looking up at me with wide, hesitant eyes. "Gina, I'm so sorry. Adrian said this piece suited my style better. I never meant to take credit for your hard work." Adrian adjusted the cuffs of her blouse, his expression entirely serene. "She’s young, Gina. She needs the exposure. Besides, you haven't played in years. Don't make a big deal out of this." I stared at the sheet music. It still bore the faint, smudged pencil marks from the nights I had stayed up late revising it. When the performance ended, the hall erupted into thunderous applause. The host asked Adrian where the inspiration for the piece had come from. He looked at Zora, his smile warm and gentle. "It came from a very talented girl." Sitting in the audience, I felt something snap deep inside me. Like a piano wire giving way. Ten years ago, I walked off my own stage to let him stand on his. Ten years later, he took the last piece of music I had left and handed it to someone else. The draft in the rehearsal room had finally died down. It was time for me to leave, too. … The dressing room door clicked shut, but the muffled roar of the applause still vibrated through the walls. Adrian handed his tuxedo jacket to his assistant. When he turned and saw me standing by the music stand, his brow furrowed slightly. "Why are you still here?" I held the program with the altered credits, my fingers squeezing the paper until the edges went soft. "Why is Zora's name on "Homeward"?" Adrian took a glass of water from the assistant and took a sip. "It was a last-minute adjustment. The promoters thought a co-credit would generate more buzz." I stared at him. "I wrote that song, Adrian." He set the glass down, his voice level and untroubled. "I know that. Which is why I didn't remove your name. Zora helped shape the final performance. Sharing the credit isn't a big deal." Right then, Zora pushed the door open. Her stage makeup was still on, and her eyes were rimmed with red. "Gina, please don't be mad at Adrian. It's my fault. I shouldn't have mentioned how much I loved the piece. He was only trying to give me a chance." Adrian glanced at her, his voice softening. "Don't cry. You were wonderful tonight." Those words felt like a needle pricking my fingertip. Once, after every concert, I was always the first person he looked for. No matter how loud the crowd chanted his name, he would push through the sea of people, drape his arm over my shoulder, and whisper, "Did you hear it? I played that for you." Now, standing beside Zora, his glances at me felt like an afterthought. An inconvenience. I set the crumpled program down on the vanity. "I'm not fighting you over a line in a booklet, Adrian. I just want to know: when did you decide to let her play it?" He finally looked up at me. "Last month." Last month. I remembered a night he came home incredibly late, smelling of the old wood and polish of the rehearsal studio. I had asked if he’d been practicing all that time. "Yeah," he’d muttered, rubbing his hand. "My wrist is stiff. Don't press." I had heated up a therapeutic compress for him that night, gently massaging his wrist for half an hour. As it turned out, his wrist hadn't been aching from his own practice. It was from hours spent teaching Zora how to play my song. Zora tugged lightly on Adrian's sleeve. "Adrian, they're waiting for us at the afterparty. We shouldn't keep everyone." Adrian nodded, then looked back at me. "Go on home first. It's crowded tonight. Let's not make a scene over something so minor." I let out a dry, quiet laugh. "Minor?" His tone cooled. "Gina, you haven't performed in years. Leaving your compositions to gather dust in a drawer does nobody any good. Zora is bringing it to life. She's letting people actually hear it. That's a good thing." I looked down at the vintage case sitting near the door. Wrapped around its latch was a broken string. It was the old piano wire Adrian had replaced for me ten years ago, right before I was supposed to fly out for my audition in Vienna. He had told me then: "When you get back, we'll open our own studio together." Then came the car crash. His right wrist was shattered. I withdrew my enrollment, stayed behind to guide him through physical therapy, sat by him while he practiced, and dragged him back to the stage step by painful step. I had kept that broken wire all these years. It was a relic of a path I never got to take. I reached down, untangled the wire, and slipped it into my purse. Adrian noticed, his eyebrows drawing together. "What are you doing with that?" "It's mine." "It's just an old wire." "You're right," I said, zipping my purse closed. "It's just an old wire." Zora looked down, whispering, "If it makes Gina unhappy, I can clarify things in the press interviews. I can say you did most of the writing." "There's no need," Adrian cut in immediately. "We're sticking to the press release as planned." He turned to me, his gaze carrying the weary warning of a man dealing with an unreasonable child. "Zora's career is just starting to take off, Gina. Don't let your moods ruin this for her." I didn't say another word. On the digital monitors lining the corridor, footage of the curtain call was playing on a loop. Adrian and Zora stood side by side on stage, the golden spotlight washing over them like a warm, exclusive blessing. I had sat in the shadows of the auditorium, entirely out of frame. My phone buzzed in my coat pocket. It was an email notification from the Composers and Lyricists Association. The supplementary materials I had submitted for the original copyright of "Homeward" had officially been approved. I stared at the screen, my thumb hovering over the glass for a long, silent moment. From behind me, Adrian's voice drifted over. "Gina, don't bother coming to the afterparty. It'll only make things awkward for everyone." I clicked the phone off and pushed through the side exit. Before the heavy door clicked shut behind me, I caught Zora's soft, tinny voice: "Adrian, is Gina mad at us?" Adrian's reply was perfectly calm. "She'll get over it in a few days. She always does." Back at the apartment, a thin layer of dust had settled over the piano lid. I tossed my keys onto the entryway table. When I flipped the light switch, the living room felt hollow, almost blindingly empty. I bought this piano when I was twenty-four. I had just received my audition invitation for Vienna and had saved up for two years to buy this secondhand Steinway. I remembered Adrian running his fingers over the keys back then, promising, "When I make it big, I’m buying you the best grand piano in the world." He did make it big. He upgraded his car, bought a penthouse, and leased a state-of-the-art studio. But this piano remained in our living room. He always told me: "Old instruments have soul, Gina. Let's not disturb it." I walked over and lifted the cover. The string next to middle C was slightly flat, its tone muffled when I pressed it. My phone rang. It was Adrian. I picked up, hearing the loud, clinking atmosphere of a VIP lounge in the background. "You make it home?" "Yes." "Good. Do me a favor and dig up the original draft of "Homeward" tomorrow morning. Zora has an exclusive interview the day after, and they want to film some of the creative process." My fingers froze on the keys. "Whose creative process?" He missed my tone entirely. "Zora's, of course. Just let her use your drafts as reference material so she doesn't look out of her depth on camera." "Adrian," I said quietly, "do you even hear yourself?" The noise on his end dimmed slightly as he stepped away. His voice dropped. "Gina, tonight was dramatic enough. Stop overanalyzing this." "So you want my original manuscripts to fabricate her genius?" "It’s just PR packaging," he said, sounding annoyed. "That's how the industry works. You used to be in this world, Gina. Don't act like you don't know how the game is played." I let out a soft laugh. "Used to be." So that was what I was to him now. A past tense. Zora's voice drifted through the receiver. "Adrian, the champagne is poured! Come on, we're waiting!" Adrian answered her, then turned back to the phone. "Just have it ready by nine tomorrow morning. And Gina? Don't go posting anything passive-aggressive on social media." I hung up. Less than a minute later, a text from Zora popped up on my screen: "Gina, I'm so sorry if Adrian sounded insensitive. He just wants me to do the piece justice. He really isn't trying to take anything from you." Before I could lock the screen, another one came in: "Honestly, I've always admired how long you've stood by his side. But I guess the stage belongs to the people who still play, right?" "The people who still play." I stared at those words, then looked down at my own hands. My fingers were long and slender, with faint calluses still lining my palms. I hadn't stopped playing because I couldn't. I stopped because Adrian didn't want me to. In the early years of his comeback, nothing terrified him more than the mention of my prestigious composition awards. He couldn't stand the whisper that he was riding his wife's coattails. So, I stepped back. I retreated into the background, polishing his scores, writing his themes, and sitting up in the dark listening to his recordings over and over to fix every tiny mistake. I had believed that in a marriage, there was no need to keep score. I didn't realize that when you don't draw boundaries, you eventually lose even your own name. The next morning, Adrian returned. He smelled faintly of gin and carried an elegant, embossed gift box. "Zora bought this for you," he said, placing it on the kitchen counter. "Consider it an apology." I didn't reach for it. "Did she break something of mine?" He frowned. "Must you always be so hostile?" I looked at the box. "What is it?" "A silk scarf," he replied. "She spent a long time picking it out. Don't be ungrateful." I opened the box. Inside lay a pale blue silk scarf, embroidered with a small white fawn in the corner. It was the exact style Zora had been wearing around her neck in the photos from her press junket the night before. Adrian offered a quick, dismissive explanation. "The brand sent her two. She said the blue would look nice on you." I closed the box. "Thank her for me, but I don't want it." His patience finally snapped. "Gina, you used to be different." I looked up, meeting his eyes. "Different how?" He was silent for a second. "At least you used to have some grace." I pushed the box back across the counter. "Then let's assume I've lost it." Adrian stared at me, a cold, dry smile touching his lips. "You really think I can't perform "Homeward" without you, don't you?" He pulled out his phone and tapped the screen, turning it toward me. On the video, Zora sat at the grand piano. As she reached the chorus, she looked up at him, smiling. Adrian stood beside her, murmuring softly, "Bring the volume down here. Make it sound like opening the door to your own home." My heart dropped. That exact phrase was a handwritten annotation I had penciled into the margins of my original score years ago. He slipped the phone back into his pocket. "She's a quick study." I kept my eyes on him. "Adrian, that was "my" door." His expression flickered, but he quickly recovered. "Well, now it belongs to the stage." The staff at the studio looked away when I walked through the lobby. The receptionist scrambled to her feet, offering a quiet, nervous smile. "Hi, Gina. Adrian is in Studio A." I nodded and walked down the hall. The door wasn't fully closed. Zora was playing "Homeward", hitting a sharp, jarring note in the third measure. Adrian sat beside her on the bench, gently placing his hand over hers. "Don't rush it. Your wrists are too tense. Breathe." Zora smiled, leaning in. "Did you teach Gina the same way?" Adrian paused. "She didn't need to be taught." "That must have been nice," Zora murmured. "She must have been incredibly talented." Adrian's voice was flat. "The past is the past." I knocked twice against the doorframe. They both turned sharply, and Adrian withdrew his hand from hers. "How long have you been standing there?" I set a thick manila folder on the table. "I didn't bring the drafts you wanted. I brought something else." He opened the folder, and his face instantly went dark. "A copyright declaration?" "The full credits for "Homeward"—composition, arrangement, the initial demo recordings, and the writing timeline. I've officially registered all of it. Any future commercial use of the piece will require my explicit written consent." Zora’s face drained of color. "Gina... are you doing this to block me?" I looked her dead in the eye. "Yes." The room fell dead silent. Adrian slammed the folder shut. "Do you really have to drag this through the mud?" "Am I the one making it ugly, Adrian?" He stood up and stepped close, his voice a low, threatening hiss. "Gina, the studio has seven tour dates left under contract, and "Homeward" is our headlining piece. Holding the copyright hostage over a personal grudge is incredibly selfish. You're putting everyone's livelihood at risk." "I'm simply taking back what belongs to me." "What belongs to you?" He let out a harsh, mocking laugh. "If my name wasn't attached to that piece, Gina, who would have ever listened to it? It would be nothing." I stared at him. There it was. The ugly truth he had harbored for a decade. Zora stepped forward, tears brimming in her eyes. "Gina, I can step down. Truly. But Adrian worked for six months to prepare for this tour. You can't ruin his entire career just because you don't like me." "His career?" I pulled the folder toward me. "Then play something else. Just stay off my music." Adrian grabbed my wrist. His grip wasn't violent, but it was firm enough to lock me in place. "Don't push this to a point where you can't take it back." I looked down at his fingers. This was the hand that once shook so violently he couldn't even hold a glass of water. When I was helping him through his rehabilitation, he would break out in a cold sweat from the pain, yet he would look at me and whisper, "Don't worry, honey. I'll get better." I had been so terrified back then. Terrified that his career was over, that he would spend the rest of his life in a dark, bitter depression. So, I tore up my own invitation to Vienna. I poured every hour of my youth into him. And now, his hands were perfectly healed. Healed enough to pin my wrist down to pave the way for another woman. I slowly pulled my arm out of his grasp. "I want a divorce, Adrian." Zora gasped. Adrian's expression barely shifted; he looked at me as if I were a child throwing a temper tantrum. "Take a couple of days to calm down." "I am calm." "Have you even drafted the papers?" He gave me a cold, patronizing look. "The studio shares, the apartment, the royalties... have you thought about any of that?" "I have." His smirk vanished. "It doesn't matter what you've thought about. The studio is in my name. The touring networks are mine. Every industry connection belongs to me. If you walk out that door, Gina, who is going to remember you?" I didn't answer. Zora whispered, "Adrian, don't say that. You're hurting her." Adrian loosened his collar. "She needs a dose of reality." I tucked my wrist into my sleeve. A red band of irritated skin was already beginning to bloom. That afternoon, Adrian called an emergency meeting. In front of the entire staff, he announced, "We are pausing the promotional campaign for "Homeward". Gina is dealing with some personal issues, and she will be taking a step back from all studio projects indefinitely." Several arrangers glanced my way, then quickly looked down at their laps in awkward silence. Zora sat right beside him, offering a soft, sympathetic murmur to the room: "Please don't judge Gina. She's just... very protective of Adrian." I stood near the door, offering no explanation. As people filed out, the young receptionist slipped a paper bag into my hands. "Gina," she whispered. "I found this in the back of the archives. I thought you should have it before things get cleared out." I opened it. Inside was my old leather music binder. Tucked into the front pocket was a yellowed photocopy of my admission invitation from the Vienna Conservatory, creased at the corner. I remembered when the original went missing. Adrian had told me it must have been lost when we moved apartments. But on the back of this copy, written in his precise, familiar handwriting, were the words: "Hold response. It is more important that she stays." I stood in the quiet archive room, clutching the piece of paper, my hands cold and stiff. Outside, footsteps shuffled past. It hadn't been a tragic twist of fate. It hadn't been an accident. He had pulled the plug on my life himself. Adrian walked in just as I closed the binder. He glanced at the paper bag. "Who gave you permission to rummage through the archives?" I looked up. "I'm taking what's mine. Is that a problem?" He stepped closer, reaching out to grab the binder. I took a step back, and his hand hung suspended in the air. "Gina, you are acting completely out of line lately." I let out a sharp laugh. "Unlike the way you need me to act, right?" His brow furrowed. "There’s a promotional livestream with the press tonight," he said, shifting back to business. "I need you to appear with me." "Me?" "Yes," he said, as if it were the most natural request in the world. "As the original composer, you'll say a few words in support of Zora's interpretation. It'll put the copyright rumors to rest." I stared at him. "You want me to go on camera and hand over my song to her?" "It's not handing it over," he said softly. "It's helping us. It's a gesture of grace." "Gina. A gesture." That was the word of my life. I had bowed out to facilitate his comeback, his fame, his dignity. And now, I was expected to bow out to validate Zora's career. "And if I say no?" Adrian placed a contract on the desk between us. "Your mother's care facility fees for next quarter are scheduled to be paid directly from the studio's accounts. But with these copyright disputes, our business accounts are frozen for audit. It would be a shame if her payments were disrupted." I glared at the document, my blood running cold. "Are you threatening my mother?" His voice was smooth, devoid of heat. "I'm reminding you of how interconnected our lives are. If things get ugly, everyone suffers." Zora peeked her head into the room. "Adrian, the streaming crew is ready." She saw me and immediately bit her lip, looking appropriately guilt-ridden. "Gina... maybe we should just call it off. I don't want your mother's care to be affected because of me." I looked at her, seeing the thinly veiled triumph sparkling in her eyes. But Adrian only saw her sweet compliance. "Go get ready, Zora." The live set was set up in the second-floor studio. The ring lights were blinding, washing every trace of natural color from our faces. The host handed us the cue cards ahead of time. "Question 1: Gina, how do you feel about Zora's fresh take on 'Homeward'?" "Question 2: Do you agree that Zora represents the next generation of creative classical artists?" "Question 3: How do you and Adrian support each other's artistic journeys?" I rested the cards on my lap. Adrian sat close beside me, leaning in to whisper, "Read the script. No improvising." "Adrian," I whispered back, "do you ever regret anything?" He kept his eyes on the camera monitors, ignoring me. "We can discuss whatever settlement you want after the stream is over." "What about Vienna?" His fingers stiffened. I quietly slid the folded photocopy across the table, placing it right before him. The color drained from his face. Zora leaned in, trying to peek. "What's that?" Adrian slammed his hand down over the paper, sliding it out of sight. "Just some old paperwork. Nothing important." I held his gaze. "You hid the original acceptance letter, didn't you?" He remained silent. And that silence was loud enough to fill the room. The director's voice crackled through our earpieces, counting down: "Three, two, one. We're live." The red light on the camera flickered on. The host offered a polished, camera-ready smile. "Welcome back, everyone. Tonight we have virtuoso Adrian Lockhart, composer Gina Mercer, and rising star Zora Albright, here to share the beautiful story behind the hit composition, "Homeward"." Adrian slipped seamlessly into his public persona, smiling warm and wide. "This piece has a very special place in Gina's and my hearts, and we're absolutely thrilled that Zora could bring her unique voice to it." The host turned to me. "Gina, we've heard you've been incredibly supportive of Zora's performance of your work. What was that process like for you?" Underneath the table, Adrian's hand found my wrist, wrapping around the tender, reddened skin he had bruised earlier. His grip tightened in a silent, agonizing squeeze. I stared straight into the lens. And suddenly, I saw myself at twenty-four again. Standing in the freezing rain by a mailbox, clutching her sheet music, waiting for a letter that would never arrive because it had already been intercepted. I slowly pulled my arm back, breaking his grip. "Actually, I don't support it at all." The studio went dead silent. The host's smile froze mid-air. Adrian’s voice was a low, terrifying vibration. "Gina." I leaned closer to my mic. "Homeward" was not a collaborative effort. Zora had absolutely nothing to do with the composition or the arrangement. Every single draft, demo, and copyright registration is in my name alone." Zora’s face turned paper-white. She stammered, looking frantically at the camera. "Gina... there must be some misunderstanding. Adrian said you gave us your blessing." I turned to look at her. "I don't." Adrian stood up abruptly, lunging forward to cut the broadcast feed. But before he could reach the switch, the massive digital backdrop behind us flickered, displaying a massive screenshot of an old email. "Sender: Admissions Office, Vienna Conservatory of Music." "Recipient: Adrian Lockhart." The email read: "Please confirm if Ms. Gina Mercer is officially declining her enrollment offer." Directly below was his reply: "Yes, she is declining."
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