The next morning, Ken drove his grandfather's vintage Mustang down to 19 Sunset Boulevard, right up to the entrance of Starlight Studio — the private recording space of his eldest sister Olivia (30, a top-tier Hollywood pop star).
On the glass door hung a giant poster of Olivia in a diamond-studded gown, Grammy trophy in hand, captioned: "Creator of 'Starry Night.'" Ken's fingers unconsciously tightened around the steering wheel.
Last life, I walked into this very building like an idiot, personally handing Olivia the demo of "Starry Night." I even said, "Sis, tell me what's wrong with it and I'll tweak it." Then she erased my name, claimed it as her 'signature work,' racked up awards, and not once did she thank me. Today, I'm taking back everything that's mine — piece by piece.
He pushed open the car door and strode into the lobby.
The receptionist eyed him suspiciously, quickly stepping forward to block his way.
"Sir, do you have an appointment? Miss Olivia's recording today. No walk-ins allowed."
"Tell her Ken Howard is here. It's about 'Starry Night.'" His tone was calm, but inside, he sneered. She probably thinks I'm another fan begging to collaborate. Last time around, I was stopped here too, until Olivia felt like seeing me.
Sure enough, the receptionist hesitated, then dialed Olivia's assistant. Within minutes, the assistant came rushing down, wearing a stiff smile.
"Mr. Ken, please, come in! Olivia's waiting for you in the studio."
The studio was on the second floor. Along the corridor, photos of Olivia's awards lined the walls. One showed her holding the Grammy for "Song of the Year," the backdrop emblazoned with "Starry Night."
Ken's steps faltered for a moment. That photo's been hanging for three years. Every time she looks at it, does she really feel nothing? Or did she long ago convince herself stealing my song was just… natural?
Inside the studio, Olivia was pretending to consult with the producer, headphones on, a cold brew coffee at her side. On the console lay a lyric notebook — Ken recognized the handwriting instantly. It was his. His original Starry Night draft, stolen God-knows-when.
"Well, well, little brother! What brings you here?" Olivia pulled off her headphones, a flicker of panic flashing in her eyes before she pasted on a warm smile. She reached out to pat his shoulder. "Come bearing a new demo? The last few songs you wrote weren't half bad. I even told the producer I'd like to work with you again."
Ken didn't dodge. He let her touch his shoulder — but the moment her hand landed, he gently pushed it away. Still trying to fish for new songs? Not until we settle the old debt.
He picked up the notebook, running his fingers over the familiar handwriting.
"I'm not here to deliver a demo. I'm here to take back what's mine — like this notebook. And the copyright to Starry Night."
Olivia's face blanched. She lunged to snatch it back.
"What are you talking about? That notebook? You lent it to me! Starry Night was my song. You just helped tweak a few words. How does that make it yours?"
"Tweaked a few words?" Ken laughed out loud. She can't even lie straight. From verse to chorus, melody to lyrics, I wrote it all in my dorm at Boston University. She changed a punctuation mark, and now she dares to call it hers?
He unlocked his phone, opened an encrypted folder, and hit play. It was his original raw recording — a rough vocal demo at age nineteen, background punctuated by the dorm's clock chimes.
"Listen." He held the phone out, voice like ice. "October 2020. My demo, three months before you ever stepped into a studio with this song. Every melody, every lyric, matches exactly. Even the line you later changed — my version says 'that night sky,' not your 'that starry sky.' So tell me again: who wrote this?"
Olivia's hand trembled as Ken's younger voice filled her ears. The dorm clock chimed like slaps to her face. She forced composure, shoved the phone back.
"So what if you recorded a demo first? It only blew up because I sang it. Without me, it would've stayed a nobody's song. And now you come demanding copyright? Don't you think you're being greedy?"
"Greedy?" Ken pocketed his phone, sneering inside. You stole my work, made tens of millions, swept up awards — and I'm the greedy one?
He stared her down. "Three years on the charts, at least five million in streaming revenue. Seven major awards — Grammys, AMAs — all thanks to this track. Your endorsement fees tripled. And what did I get? Not even a 'thank you.' To the world, you said 'inspired by Mom's love.' Never once did you mention me."
The producer's hand froze mid-adjustment on the console. His eyes widened — he'd always thought Starry Night was Olivia's original.
Seeing his reaction, Olivia lowered her voice, trying to cut a private deal.
"Ken, let's not air this out here. I'll give you a hundred thousand. Call it a 'thank-you fee.' Just don't bring up copyright again, okay?"
"A hundred grand?" Ken almost laughed. Out of five million in royalties, you toss me a bone worth one-twentieth and expect me to roll over? Maybe last life. Not this time.
He shook his head. "No 'thank-you fee.' I want joint copyright on Starry Night. Forty percent of future royalties. Backpay for the past three years. And every track I've written for you must be credited 'Co-written by Ken Howard' on lyric sheets and streaming platforms. Miss one term, and I'll file a complaint with ASCAP. Once they investigate, they'll pull every song in question. And when the media runs 'Top Star Stole Her Brother's Song'? Let's see how many endorsements you keep."
At the mention of ASCAP and media exposure, Olivia staggered. She knew all too well — ASCAP's copyright enforcements were brutal. If they confirmed infringement, she'd face takedowns and penalties. If the press caught wind, her carefully built image would collapse overnight, with sponsors fleeing in droves.
"You can't do this to me! We're siblings!" she wailed, tears pooling as she tried the guilt card. "If Mom and Dad find out, they'll be furious! And if Grandpa knew in heaven, he'd never approve—"
"Siblings?" Ken sneered. Last life, when you used me as your free ghostwriter, did you remember the word 'siblings'? Only now, cornered, you trot it out?
He pulled up White the lawyer's contact on his phone and shoved it in her face.
"I already spoke to Attorney White. He's ready to file with ASCAP the moment I give the word. As for Mom and Dad, they've got their own messes. And Grandpa? If he knew you stole from me, he'd be more furious than I am."
Seeing White's name on the screen, Olivia finally cracked. She crumpled to the floor, face buried in her hands, sobbing.
"Fine! I'll do it! Joint copyright, back royalties, your name credited. Just please—don't file, don't leak to the press!"
Ken watched her cry, utterly unmoved. Only a deep, cutting satisfaction coursed through him. When she basked in the Grammys under my song, did she feel bad then?
He slipped the phone away. "Three days. Transfer the back royalties into my trust fund account. Attorney White will coordinate the copyright paperwork with your team. Miss the deadline, and I file."
He picked up his notebook, turned, and walked out.
As he passed the hallway lined with her award photos, he thought: Soon those plaques will all read 'Co-written by Ken Howard.' The world will finally see how much of her 'success' was built on my blood and sweat. And I'll never again be her shadow creator.
Stepping into the sunlight, Ken tilted his face toward Hollywood's sky. Olivia's copyright debt is settled. Next up: Richard Group. Sophia still owes me five percent in preferred shares — I'll be collecting soon. And Liam… if he dares try another stunt, I won't hesitate to throw him out for good.
Sliding into the Mustang, Ken fired up the engine. The stereo clicked on, playing his raw demo of Starry Night.
This time, he wasn't the nameless hand behind the curtain.
This time, he was the rightful owner of his own creation.
The road of revenge stretched long ahead. But with every step, Ken felt closer to becoming his truest self — the Ken Howard who lived not as anyone's pawn, not as anyone's shadow, but as his own man.