The Last Firework

Miles Hart had produced half the records I loved before I knew what production was. He was the kind of person who could hear a rough demo and know whether there was a career inside it. For years, I had tried to get one meeting with him and never made it past his assistant.

On Sunday night, I still went to San Vicente.

I told myself it was only because of Miles Hart.

Adrian's apology had come too late, and whatever he called a birthday dinner no longer had anything to do with me. But Miles was the one producer I had tried for years to meet, and I was tired of losing opportunities just because Adrian had attached himself to them first.

The private room was already half full when I arrived. Low lights, dark wood, expensive wine, people speaking in the careful voices industry people used when every sentence might become leverage later.

Near the entrance, a small card with my name sat beside a vase of white roses.

Happy Birthday, Mira.

For a second, it almost looked sincere.

Then I saw the screen behind the small stage.

THE LAST FIREWORK

Acoustic Release Preview

Adrian's photo was on the left.

Lily's was on the right.

My name sat underneath in smaller letters.

Written by Mira Lane.

Technically, Adrian had kept his promise.

That almost made it worse.

A label assistant hurried over with a tablet. "Mira, thank God. Adrian said you could check the final set order before we start."

I looked at her.

She froze, realizing too late that no one had told me I was supposed to work at my own birthday dinner.

Before she could apologize, Adrian crossed the room toward me.

"You came."

"You said Miles Hart would be here."

"He is." Adrian glanced toward the back of the room. "I'll introduce you after the first set."

"The first set?"

His expression shifted. "It's just two songs. The label wanted to hear Lily on the acoustic arrangement."

I looked past him.

Lily stood near the stage in a pale slip dress, laughing with Grant and two label executives. Her hair was pinned loosely, her makeup soft, her hand resting on my microphone stand like she already belonged there.

"So this is her showcase."

"It's a preview," Adrian said. "Don't make it ugly."

There it was again. Whenever something hurt me, he called it ugly.

Miles Hart was seated near the back with a glass of water in front of him, silver hair, black jacket, the kind of calm face that made everyone around him look louder than they were. I had wanted ten minutes with him for years.

So I swallowed what I wanted to say and stayed.

Dinner began. Adrian made a short toast, mentioning my birthday only after he thanked the label, the band, the radio team, and "everyone who believed in the next chapter."

People clapped. Someone near me said happy birthday. Lily smiled from beside him as if she were generous for allowing it.

Then Adrian picked up his guitar.

Lily stepped to the second microphone.

The microphone I had used for seven years.

Adrian looked at the room. "We wanted to share a new version of The Last Firework tonight. Lily brought something fresh to it, something I think the song needed."

My fingers went cold around the stem of my glass.

He started playing.

At first, the arrangement was familiar. Softer than mine, slower, built for Lily's breathy voice. She came in on the first verse and missed the lower note, but Adrian covered her easily.

Then she reached the bridge.

And sang a line that was never in the released version.

When the last firework fades, promise me you'll still look at the sky.

The room blurred for a second.

That was my mother's line.

She had sung it into the old cassette when I was eight, half laughing because the dryer in the motel laundry room was too loud and I kept missing the rhythm. It was not in any lyric sheet. It was not in any demo I had sent the band.

It was only on the tape Adrian had kept.

Lily finished the song to warm applause.

Grant looked pleased. The label executives nodded. Miles Hart leaned back in his chair, unreadable.

Adrian stood beside Lily, proud enough that something inside me finally snapped.

"Wait."

The room quieted.

I stood.

"That bridge isn't Lily's. It came from my mother's old tape."

Lily's face changed for less than a second before her eyes filled.

"Mira," she said softly, "I know this song is emotional for you, especially right now, but Adrian gave me the tape as reference. I thought we were all trying to honor your mother."

"You sang an unreleased line from her recording and let everyone think you brought something fresh to it."

"I never said I wrote it."

"You didn't correct him either."

Adrian set the guitar down. "Mira, not here."

"Where, then? In the house where you locked away her tape? At the station where I missed my father's calls?"

The room went still.

Grant cleared his throat. "Maybe we should take this outside."

"No," I said. "I have the transcript."

I had asked my father to send me the photo of the old notebook that morning. The page was shaky, half-smudged, but it had my mother's handwriting and the line Lily had just sung.

I opened it on my phone.

Lily stepped closer, her voice trembling just enough for the room to hear. "If you have proof, show it. I'll apologize."

Adrian looked at her, then at me.

For once, he seemed unsure which version of the night would hurt him less.

The label assistant connected my phone to the screen.

My mother's notebook appeared behind the stage.

Evelyn Lane, 2008.

When the last firework fades, promise me you'll still look at the sky.

A murmur moved through the room.

Lily went pale.

Before anyone could speak, a message dropped down from the top of the screen.

Nathaniel Reed:

Royal Albert Hall confirmed the private ceremony slot. The program is locked.

The room went quiet.

"Reed Music Group?" someone whispered near the bar. "They back half the serious rooms in London."

"And Royal Albert Hall?" another voice murmured. "What ceremony is she talking about?"

I looked up at the screen, then at Adrian.

For the first time all night, he was not looking at Lily.

He was staring at Nathaniel's name.