The hum of an empty studio, the scent of cedarwood and stale whiskey, the echo of a ghosted melody—they were all still here. Time hadn't moved in Vortex Studios. The walls, soaked in decades of hits and heartbreaks, welcomed Maya Delaney like a reluctant ghost returning home. She stood in the doorway of Studio B, her fingers clutching the strap of her guitar case, her heart hammering against her ribs like it wanted to bolt.
Three years. It had been three years since she last stood in this room, the place where she'd bled her soul into lyrics, chords, and memories she never asked to keep. Back then, she was the fire behind Julian Vance's rise—the voice that gave his music depth, the pen behind his poetry. And for a while, she had been in love. Madly, destructively, stupidly in love.
Julian Vance. His name alone used to melt her, spark something wild and reckless in her. He had a face carved for magazine covers and a voice that could seduce stadiums. But it wasn't just the fame or the music—it was the way he saw her when no one else did. At least, that's what she believed. Until she realized he only ever saw her reflection in his spotlight.
He took everything she gave and asked for more. Her talent. Her body. Her trust. Her silence. And when she was emptied out, when she had nothing left to give, he called her difficult. Unstable. Ungrateful.
She left without fanfare. No lawsuits. No interviews. Just disappeared. She traded her penthouse view and recording sessions for a quiet apartment above a bookstore in Santa Monica. Now, she taught music to kids and worked weekends at a vintage vinyl shop. Her life was quiet. Her heart was scarred but hers again.
Until Zara Carrington came knocking.
Zara. Sharp as glass, cold as marble. Julian's longtime manager and, some would argue, the devil's concierge. She showed up in Maya's world like a hurricane in heels. All tailored suits, blood-red lips, and no time for pleasantries.
"He needs you," she had said, sliding an envelope across Maya's kitchen counter. "One song. No credit. No press. Just you, the words, and the melody."
Maya didn't even open the envelope. "No."
"It's not a request."
"Then it's definitely a no."
Zara didn't flinch. "He's falling apart. We both know you're the only one who can write what he needs."
"Good. Let him fall."
Zara left the envelope anyway. And despite every bone in Maya's body telling her to burn it, she read it. Then she read it again. One line in particular snagged her breath:
I want to make it right. I need your words one last time.
She didn't believe him. Julian Vance didn't do apologies or closure. He did headlines. He did seduction. He did damage. But something about those words—it wasn't about him. It was about her. About ending the cycle, closing the book on a chapter that had haunted her long enough.
And so, here she was.
Studio B looked the same. The same grand piano sat in the corner, its black lacquer dulled by fingerprints and dust. The same velvet couch, now slightly more threadbare. The gold records on the wall, proof of their shared past, gleamed in muted judgment.
Maya set her guitar case down and walked toward the piano. Her fingers hovered over the keys, trembling. She pressed a single note. A minor. Low and haunted.
She closed her eyes. Flashes hit her like aftershocks.
Julian behind her, guiding her fingers across the chords. His mouth on her neck, whispering promises he never intended to keep. Fights that started with "you never support me" and ended with "you'd be nothing without me."
Maya opened her eyes, the note still ringing.
"Let's see if I'm still nothing," she whispered to herself.
The door creaked open behind her. She didn't have to turn to know who it was. The air shifted. A heat snaked through the room that had nothing to do with the thermostat.
"Didn't think you'd actually show," Julian said.
His voice. That goddamn velvet-and-smoke voice. It hadn't changed. Still low, still seductive, still dangerous.
She turned slowly.
There he was. Taller than she remembered, broader too. His tousled dark hair fell just right over eyes that still knew how to pierce her. He wore a black tee and jeans, simple but deliberate. Always deliberate. Julian Vance didn't do anything without purpose.
"Didn't do it for you," she said.
His smirk faltered just enough to be satisfying. "Then why are you here?"
Maya stood, folding her arms. "Because I need to burn the past down. And you? You're the match."
He chuckled, stepping into the room like he owned it—like he still owned her. "You always did have a way with words."
"Don't mistake my presence for permission. We're not back here. We're not anything. I'm here to write. That's it."
Julian approached the piano, his fingers brushing the keys next to hers. The proximity was a punch to the gut.
"So we start from scratch," he murmured. "Just music."
Maya met his eyes. "Just the truth."
For a moment, something flickered across his face. Regret? Memory? It was gone too fast to name. But she saw it. And she filed it away.
She turned back to the piano, sat, and began to play. A melody unfolded. It wasn't polished. It wasn't pretty. But it was real.
Julian closed his eyes. She felt him absorb it, shape it in his mind like he always had. But this time, she wouldn't let him bend it into something unrecognizable.
This time, the song was hers.
They worked in silence, an electric tension hanging between them. His notebook stayed closed. Hers didn't. She scribbled lyrics with fury and grace, pulling lines from wounds that never quite healed. And he watched her.
When the sun dipped low outside the soundproof windows, she stood.
"I'll be back tomorrow. Alone, if I can help it."
Julian moved to speak, but she held up a hand.
"Don't. This isn't about you anymore, Julian. Not really. This is my reckoning. And maybe your ruin."
As she walked out, she left the door slightly ajar. Not for him. For the past. So it could find its way out, one verse at a time.
She was no longer his muse. She was his ghost. She was his curse.
She was the anthem to his downfall.
And by the time this was over, everyone would know it.