My Boyfriend Turned My Grief Into His Hit Songs

The drive back was completely silent. I didn’t turn on the radio. I didn’t look at my reflection in the rearview mirror.

Blood had dried sticky between my fingers, gluing the velvet box to my palm.

When I got to the apartment, I went straight to the bathroom. I washed my hands with cold water. The red swirl went down the white drain in pale pink circles. I pulled open the medicine cabinet and wrapped a strip of clean gauze around the cut on my palm.

Then I walked over to my desk. I pulled open the bottom drawer, past the stacks of old chord sheets and blank notebooks. I dropped the velvet box inside. The wood shut with a dull, heavy thump.

Dante came home at three in the morning.

The front door banged open. He kicked off his boots in the foyer, humming the chorus to *Ghost in the Garden*. His hair was a sweaty mess. His jacket carried the sharp smell of stage smoke, spilled beer, and sweet citrus perfume. Dallas’s scent.

"Sylv?" he called out, stepping into the bedroom.

I was sitting on the edge of the mattress in the dark.

"Hey," he said, flicking on the small bedside lamp. He squinted at me and grinned. "Man, the crowd went insane tonight. Sixty thousand people, Sylv. All of them screaming the chorus."

*My chorus,* I thought.

He leaned down and pressed a quick kiss to the crown of my head. It was brief and careless, like checking a chore off a list.

"You look beat," he said, tossing his jacket onto a chair. "Go to sleep. Don't stay up brooding over whatever sad lyrics you're working on."

I didn't answer. I didn't scream. My chest felt cold and flat.

I just watched his back as he pulled off his shirt and slid under the duvet. Within two minutes, his breathing slowed into a steady snore. I lay beside him, staring up at the plaster ceiling until the morning light turned the room gray. I didn't have the words yet. But I knew I would need them soon.

***

Four days later, the Golden Melody pre-gala aired live.

It was a Tuesday evening. Dante was out in West Hollywood with his team. I sat on the living room rug, watching the red-carpet broadcast on our television.

The screen flashed with bright, blinding bursts from dozens of cameras. The host, a blonde woman in an emerald dress, held up her microphone with a huge smile.

"And here he is, folks! Dante Chapman, the lyrical voice of a generation, arriving for tonight's gala!"

Dante stepped onto the carpet. He looked flawless. He wore a tailored black suit with an open collar and a thin silver chain. Right at his side was Dallas.

She wore a dark suit jacket over a plain white tee, paired with worn sneakers. Her hair was pulled into a loose ponytail. She carried a lowball glass of bourbon, looking completely at ease in front of the press.

"Dante, congratulations on the nominations!" the host cheered. "Everyone is talking about *Ghost in the Garden*. The critics are calling it the rawest, most heartbreaking song of the year. Where did that kind of pain come from?"

Dante smiled. It was that slow, brooding look he always practiced in front of our bathroom mirror.

He turned toward Dallas. He slid an arm around her waist and pulled her tight against his side. The photographers yelled, their flashes firing faster. Dallas lowered her eyes, biting her lip with a practiced, modest blush.

"Honestly?" Dante said softly into the mic. "I hit rock bottom when I wrote that. I was ready to give up on music completely."

He looked down at Dallas. His eyes were wide and tender under the stage lights.

"Then this girl showed up. She gave me a reason to get out of bed every morning. She’s the one person who pulled me through the dark." He tapped Dallas’s shoulder gently with his knuckles. "She's my muse. My anchor. Without her, none of these words would exist."

Dallas let out a soft laugh, resting her forehead against his lapel for a brief second. "You did the work, bro," she whispered, loud enough for the microphone to catch.

The host sighed. "What an incredible bond. Creative soulmates!"

Dante flashed a dazzling smile at the lens and guided Dallas down the carpet, his hand resting firmly on her lower back.

He didn't mention a girlfriend.

He didn't mention Sylvia Owens.

He erased me. He took the memories of my Nana’s dying breaths and handed them to a girl who drank whiskey and called him bro.

I picked up the remote. I pressed the power button.

The television went black.

The living room fell into dead silence. The low hum of the refrigerator sounded like a roar.

I didn't cry. My eyes stayed completely dry. The hurt had burned out, leaving behind a cold, sharp stillness.

I reached for my laptop on the coffee table.

My fingers moved over the keyboard. I opened an incognito window and typed: *Top entertainment copyright attorneys Los Angeles.*

Dozens of links popped up. Huge firms with glass offices and long lists of celebrity clients. Then my gaze caught on a smaller firm based downtown.

*Mitchell Law Group. Kian Mitchell, Lead Counsel. Specializing in intellectual property theft, uncredited ghostwriting, and creator rights.*

Under his photo, a short quote was printed in small type: *The creator's voice does not belong to whoever shouts it loudest.*

I stared at the screen. He had a lean, sharp face and quiet, serious eyes. No fake Hollywood grin.

There was a paper coffee napkin sitting next to my mug. I grabbed a pen from the rug.

With a steady hand, I wrote two words across the paper:

*Kian Mitchell.*

I looked at the black ink. I folded the napkin once, creasing the edge between my thumb and forefinger, and slipped it deep into my jacket pocket.

I wasn't ready to call him yet.

Not until I found out just how much they had stolen.