After leaving Wall Street, Ken drove straight to Sunset Boulevard in Hollywood. Hidden in the arts district sat Star Voice, the private recording studio of Olivia — his eldest sister, thirty years old, a top-tier Hollywood pop star.
Movie posters flickered by on the lightboxes outside. In the rearview mirror, the financial district shrank further and further away. A mocking smile tugged at Ken's lips.
Last time around, I came here like an idiot, thinking I was "helping my sister reach the top." I stayed up all night writing songs, only to have my name stolen. This time, I'm here to take back the royalties that belong to me — and to make this so-called superstar taste what it's like without my songs: nothing.
The glass door wasn't locked. When Ken pushed it open, he caught Olivia rehearsing at the mic — singing "Starry Night," the song he had written at twenty-two after three sleepless nights in Boston University's library. Now it was her so-called "original masterpiece," the one she even performed at the Grammys, without mentioning him once.
"Stop."
Ken walked over to the mixing console, hit pause, cutting off her voice mid-note.
Olivia turned, stunned for a second, then plastered on an exaggerated smile and rushed to hug him.
"Oh my god, Ken! What are you doing here? Missed me? Or… did you write me a new song?"
Ken dodged the hug. The act is flawless, huh? Like we're so close. Last life, when I first handed her the draft of Starry Night, she was just as warm. Then she turned around and told the world, 'Inspiration came from Mom's love,' tossing me out of the picture completely.
"No new song. I'm here to settle an old debt."
He pulled a folder from his briefcase and set it on the console. On the cover: "Starry Night — Copyright Ownership and Revenue Settlement."
Olivia's smile froze. She reached for the folder, but Ken pressed her hand down.
"Not so fast. Let me run the numbers first. Three years since release — 1.2 billion streams, 8 million dollars in download revenue, 30 million more from endorsements and gigs tied to this song. That's thirty-eight million in total."
Panic flickered in her eyes, though she forced her voice to stay calm.
"Why… why are you even counting this? We're siblings, what's mine is yours. And besides, the song only blew up because I sang it. Without me, who would know your song?"
"My song?" Ken laughed out loud. Now you admit it's mine? Funny, when you were winning awards, where was my name?
He pointed at the copy inside the file — the handwritten lyrics in pen, dated and signed.
"March 17, 2020. That's two months before you even recorded the demo. And whose signature is on the corner? 'Ken Howard,' not 'Olivia Howard.' So tell me — whose song is this?"
Olivia's face went pale. She lunged to snatch the sheet, but Ken slammed it down firmly.
Her voice trembled. "I… I didn't mean to. The agent said 'original artists sell better,' I had no choice… And didn't I buy you that luxury watch later?"
"That ten-thousand-dollar watch?" Ken arched a brow. Thirty-eight million earned, and you thought ten grand would buy me off?
He sneered. "You made enough off this song to buy a thousand of those watches. Don't talk to me about 'no choice.' Too late."
Right then, Olivia's agent Mia pushed the door open. Seeing the scene, she instantly stepped in front of Olivia, tone sharp.
"Mr. Ken, what is this? The copyright is registered under Olivia's name. Keep this up and we'll sue you for defamation."
"Defamation?"
Ken pulled out his phone and tapped a recording. Olivia's voice filled the room: his own words about adding piano chords to the chorus, her reply — "I'll trust you, your writing's always good."
I knew you'd try to play dirty. That's why I brought this insurance.
He handed the phone to Mia. "Listen. February 2020, a full month before the registration. If I send this to Billboard or the Grammys, how long do you think her 'original artist' image lasts?"
Mia's face drained of color. She knew too well: if an "original fraud" scandal broke, Olivia would lose endorsements overnight, maybe even her record deal.
"What do you want?" Mia ground out the words.
Ken leaned against the console, calm but unyielding. Time to name my price. Last life, you bled me dry. This time, I'm collecting piece by piece.
"Two conditions. One: wire two million dollars in royalties to my account within a week. Two: from now on, if you sing anything I write, the credits and promos must list 'Lyrics & Music by Ken Howard.' Plus, fifty grand advance per song. Miss either condition, and that recording goes public tomorrow."
Olivia shot to her feet, voice shrill.
"Two million?! Why don't you just rob me? And fifty grand advance? Who do you think you are?"
"I'm the guy who wrote the song that made you a star." Ken's gaze didn't waver. Last life you trampled me to rise. Now you call me a thief for asking my due?
He added: "And I've got three more songs at Starry Night's level. I was gonna give them to you. But maybe I'll sell them to Luna instead — she called last week, offered a hundred grand each."
Luna. The new Billboard darling, two weeks straight in the Top 10, Olivia's direct rival.
The moment her name dropped, Olivia staggered. She knew — if Luna got Ken's songs, she'd be finished.
"You can't sell to her!" Olivia shrieked, eyes wide with fear. "Those songs are mine! You have to give them to me!"
"I'll give them to you… on my terms."
Ken gathered the documents, turned toward the door.
"One week. Two million. A signed copyright agreement. Or I call Luna, and tomorrow the world hears her new single. Your choice."
Mia tugged Olivia's arm, whispering urgently: "Olivia, don't be stupid. Just agree. If this leaks, we lose way more."
Olivia bit her lip till her eyes welled, but finally nodded.
"Fine. I'll pay the two million. I'll sign."
Ken handed over the papers, watching her scrawl her name. Good. This is only the beginning. Every debt from last life, I'll collect in this one.
"And one more thing," he added. "Next week at the MTV Music Awards, if you dare accept that trophy without saying my name, I'll release both the recording and the manuscript."
Olivia froze mid-signature, glaring daggers at him. But she still forced the final stroke.
"…Got it."
Ken pocketed the signed deal and walked out of the studio.
Outside, the setting sun dipped behind the Hollywood sign, golden light washing over him. A rush of satisfaction surged through his chest.
That's it? That's Olivia's fightback? Pathetic. Even weaker than Sophia. Next up, Emma — that fence-sitter. Time she learns what it means when I stop covering for her.
He pulled out his phone and texted Lawyer White:
"Draft me a supplemental copyright filing. And dig up Emma's Yale publication record — especially her 2021 paper on 'Social Stratification.'"
The reply came quick: "On it, Young Master Ken. Results tomorrow."
Ken slid the phone away, started the car, and pointed it toward Yale.
The next counterattack was already set in motion. And this time, his so-called "family" would pay heavier and heavier prices.