Inside the Starlight Recording Studio on Sunset Boulevard, the reverb equipment still hummed, but Olivia's face (30, eldest sister, Hollywood's top pop star) was paler than the cold studio lights.
Her fingers strangled the mic cable until her knuckles turned white. On the console sat Ken's recorder. Just minutes ago, he'd played back her own voice:
"Tweak the melody for Starry Night, and make sure no one finds out you wrote it."
Each word was a slap, shredding the mask of her "original genius" persona.
Ken leaned casually against the console, twirling the recorder in his hand. Last time in her studio, she managed to bluff with 'memory's fuzzy.' But now I've got this recording—let's see her squirm.
He looked up at her, voice flat but pressing.
"Still want to say you 'don't remember'? Or should I send this to the Grammys and ask if 'Song of the Year' should be revoked?"
Olivia's head snapped up, panic flashing in her eyes, though she tried to fight back.
"Ken! Don't push it! Starry Night blew up because of my vocals and the label's promotion. You only wrote a melody. Why should you get royalties? We're siblings, can't you just—"
"Siblings?" Ken cut her off, pulling a thick stack of documents from his backpack. I came fully armed today. She's paying everything she owes, down to the last dime.
He slapped them onto the console.
"Here. Original sheet music, timestamped 2022 at Boston University Library. Streaming revenue reports—Starry Night pulled in eight million dollars in royalties in just two years. And this—" he pointed to one contract, "your so-called 'original authorization agreement' with the label. Every copyright credited to Olivia Howard. Not one word about me."
The studio assistants all kept their heads down, pretending to fiddle with equipment. But their side glances gave them away—they knew if "top star steals sibling's work" blew up, it'd rock Hollywood.
Olivia's agent Linda rushed forward, plastering on a conciliatory smile.
"Mr. Ken, let's not get heated. Royalties can be negotiated. No need to make a spectacle…"
"Negotiate?" Ken barked a laugh. Last life I 'negotiated.' She gave me nothing, then smeared me as some clout-chasing nobody. Not this time.
He leveled a hard stare at Linda.
"Here's how we 'negotiate.' Of the eight million in royalties, I want fifty percent. And your upcoming album? Three tracks are mine. Their copyrights revert to me, and you pay half a million each for usage rights. Miss one cent, and I call a reporter from The Hollywood Reporter."
Olivia swayed on her feet. She knew Ken wasn't bluffing. If THR ran with "Top Star Stole Brother's Work," her sponsors would bolt, and her label would cut her loose.
Her teeth ground together as her voice shook.
"Fifty percent's too much! I'll give you thirty. And no way the new album copyrights go to you…"
"No deal." Ken calmly gathered the papers, pocketed the recorder. I hold all the cards now. She doesn't get to bargain.
He turned for the door.
"Twenty-four hours. Sign the transfer agreement, or watch it hit trending. Oh—and Attorney White already drafted the legal notice. If you stall, you'll get it tomorrow."
Olivia's composure cracked. She burst into tears, shoulders shaking. From a nobody to a superstar, she'd climbed on the back of Ken's songs. Without those "original works," she was hollow—just a singer with no spine.
Linda patted her shoulder but stayed silent. The evidence was ironclad. They had no winning move.
Ken stepped out of the studio. Sunset spilled across the Walk of Fame, stars etched in the pavement. To him, they looked like nothing but dead stone.
He pulled out his phone and texted White:
"Copyright transfer agreement ready. Waiting on Olivia's answer tomorrow."
The reply came fast: "Understood."
Before he could pocket the phone, it buzzed again. Richard (Dad) was calling. Ken smirked. Here we go. Olivia must've run crying, hoping Dad plays peacemaker.
"Ken! Did you go after your sister in L.A.?" Richard's voice was harsh. "She's crying to me, saying you're suing her for royalties. What's wrong with you? We're family—why take it this far?"
"I am taking it this far." Ken's tone was calm. Last life, you all leeched off me like I was free labor. Now that I'm collecting what's mine, suddenly it's 'family'?
He said flatly: "Dad, Starry Night is my song. Royalties belong to me. She stole my work, smeared me, and I'm suing her. If 'family' means getting robbed, then maybe I don't need family."
Richard choked into silence, then backpedaled after a few beats.
"Fine, fine. I won't meddle. Just… don't blow this up too much. If it hurts the family's reputation—"
"Reputation?" Ken's laugh was sharp as glass. "When you stole my work, framed me for theft, did you worry about 'reputation'? Only scared now? Too late."
He hung up, shoved Richard's number into "Do Not Disturb."
That night, when Ken walked back into the Beverly Hills mansion, the whole place was suffocatingly quiet.
Elaine (Mom) sat weeping on the sofa. Liam (adopted son, 17) hid in his room. Emma (third sister, 26) clutched her teaching notes, pretending to read—she didn't even notice the book was upside down.
Ken ignored them all, heading straight upstairs. Olivia will cave by tomorrow. Once I get the royalties, I'll launch my own studio. No one will ever bury my name again.
He paused by Emma, eyeing the upside-down book. She's terrified I'll come for her next. And she should be—her tenure review still needs a paper. Without me ghostwriting, she's dead in the water.
Emma stiffened under his gaze, stammered softly:
"Bro… I—I won't cover for Liam anymore. I won't be a fence-sitter again…"
Ken gave no reply. He just kept walking. Her 'promise' means nothing. It's fear talking, not repentance. This life, I don't melt for anyone's promises. I only focus on my own path.
Back in the master bedroom, Ken opened his laptop and sketched his next moves:
Step one — collect Olivia's royalties, then register Ken Music Studio in L.A.
Step two — sign a few promising new artists.
Step three — pull part of Grandpa's trust fund to invest in that clean energy startup in Boston. Last life, I helped Sophia analyze this company. Two years later, it IPO'd and multiplied fifteenfold. This time, the profit's mine.
Looking at the checklist glowing on his screen, Ken's lips curled into a rare smile. This life, I'm no one's tool. I'm the captain of my own ship.
Next morning, just after dawn, Olivia's message pinged in.
"I'll sign the copyright transfer. Thirty percent royalties wired tomorrow. The three new tracks' copyrights are yours. But—you can't tell anyone Starry Night was yours."
Ken typed back:
"Fine. But the album's liner notes must say 'Lyrics & Music by Ken Howard.' No credit, no deal."
After a long pause, Olivia replied: "…Okay."
Ken set the phone down, stepped to the window. Beverly Hills glowed gold in sunrise.
First copyright battle: done. Next target—Sophia's five percent shares in Richard Group. Time she paid up too.
Warm light wrapped around him like Grandpa's embrace.
Ken knew: the road of vengeance was long, but he wasn't that bullied kid anymore.
Now, he had evidence. He had leverage. He had a plan.
And above all, he had the iron will never to compromise again.
Soon, everyone would learn: the Howard family's true son wasn't a pushover. He was the one who could stand tall—both in Hollywood and on Wall Street.