Chapter 2

The green room doors backstage were lined with heavy rubber acoustic seals, muffling the roar of the arena into a dull, low vibration.

Ryan was standing by the polished bar cart, pouring sparkling water into a crystal tumbler.

When the brass latch clicked, he glanced up, saw Sadie and me standing in the doorway, and set the bottle down without making a sound.

"Sadie," he said, wiping his hands on a black linen napkin. "You shouldn't be back here before the post-show media window closes."

"Where is her credit, Ryan?"

I stayed firmly by the door, keeping Sadie half a step behind my right shoulder.

Ryan took a slow, deliberate sip of water and looked at our daughter.

He used his working voice—the measured, calm tone he took with record label executives when a recording schedule was running forty minutes over budget.

"Honey, you wrote four rough lines in a cold garage when I was getting clean," Ryan said gently.

"And I've thanked you for that. I'll thank you for that every day of my life."

"But adults took those raw notes into a professional studio in Nashville and spent eight months building a commercial record."

"You didn't have a chorus until she sat in the freezing cold with you, Ryan," I said, stepping forward.

"She wrote the lines, and she found the melody that gave you a song."

Ryan looked at me then.

The soft, paternal expression vanished from his face, replaced by a cold, calculating flatness.

"The label tested both versions with focus groups, Clara," he said bluntly.

"A love song gave them country radio airplay, streaming playlist placement, and a three-million-dollar arena tour sponsor."

"Major brands weren't going near a forty-year-old singer with a mugshot and a rehab history unless the label could sell a clean, romantic redemption story."

"A romantic redemption story?" I stared at him. "You're still married to me."

Ryan's eyes flicked nervously toward the closed hallway door, then snapped back to mine.

"The label believes we've been privately separated for almost a year," he said.

The air left my lungs in one sharp, icy rush.

"You called me every single Sunday from Nashville and told me you were coming home as soon as the mix was done."

Ryan didn't answer that. He looked away, shifting his gaze back down to Sadie.

"Sylvie's agency fronted the recording budget and got me back into global distribution," Ryan said, his voice tightening.

"Her name on the songwriting credit keeps her firm financially invested in my career."

"She didn't write it," I said.

"She made sure forty million people would hear it."

Ryan stepped closer to Sadie, resting one hand on the leather back of an armchair.

"This is how the music business works, Sadie. It's business."

Sadie looked at his tailored designer jacket.

Then she looked down at the right hand she had watched shake uncontrollably over a yellow legal pad two winters ago.

"I had to write a song to make you come home," Sadie said quietly.

The heavy door swung open behind us.

A production runner holding a clipboard and an illuminated tablet stepped briskly into the room.

"Mr. Cole? Sorry to interrupt, but we need your final creative sign-off on Friday's music video treatment and archive usage before the crew wraps."

On the glowing screen was the visual storyboard for Friday's shoot.

Beneath the color palette was a single line of fine print: Visual references, props, and wardrobe replicated from Ryan Cole's private family archives.

On the right side of the screen was a headshot of Bella Bennett, Sylvie's twelve-year-old daughter, beside the assigned role: CHILD FIGURE / BELLA BENNETT (FAMILY REENACTMENT).

Ryan took the stylus, tapped his initials beside FINAL CREATIVE APPROVAL, and handed the tablet back to the runner.

"Sadie and Clara are on the family access list for Friday's shoot at the barn," Ryan said smoothly, smoothing his collar in the mirror.

"Give them visitor badges. Let Sadie see how a real professional set operates. Maybe then she'll understand why commercial decisions have to be made."

He checked his gold watch, gave Sadie a quick pat on the shoulder that felt entirely hollow, and walked toward the press room.