Stella Monroe POV
2:11 AM. November 23rd. Studio B at Sound Emporium.
I've been back with Tyler for two days. Forty-eight hours of playing the grateful, apologetic fiancée. Smiling while he explains how my "episode" was a cry for help. Nodding while he schedules therapy appointments. Letting him hold me while my skin crawls.
Tonight he fell asleep early. I waited an hour to make sure. Then I drove here.
Daemon's already set up when I arrive. Microphones. Headphones. Mixing board glowing in the dark.
"You're late," he says.
"Tyler didn't fall asleep until one. I had to wait."
"Risky. If he wakes up and you're gone..."
"He took sleeping pills. He'll be out until seven." I set down my bag. Inside is sheet music. The ballad I'm most proud of. The one Tyler always calls my masterpiece. "I brought something to record."
Daemon takes the pages. Reads while I set up in the vocal booth. His expression doesn't change but I see his jaw tighten.
"This is what you want to record?" His voice is flat.
"Yes. It's my best work. Tyler says..."
"I don't care what Tyler says." Daemon drops the pages on the mixing board. "This is garbage."
Heat floods my face. "Excuse me?"
"Passive. Spineless. Self-pitying garbage." He leans back in his chair. "You're singing about loving someone who destroys you and making it sound romantic. Where's your rage?"
"It's not about rage. It's about forgiveness. About seeing past someone's flaws."
"It's about being a doormat and calling it virtue." Daemon's voice cuts like glass. "You're apologizing for existing in every single line."
My hands shake. Tyler never criticized my work. Never said anything was wrong. He smoothed edges, yes. Suggested changes. But always gently. Always supportive.
This feels like being flayed alive.
"I've been writing this way for five years. People love these songs."
"People love Tyler's production. They tolerate your lyrics because the music is good enough to carry weak writing."
The words hit like physical blows. I step out of the booth. "If my writing is so terrible, why am I here?"
"Because somewhere under five years of Tyler's conditioning is a real writer. But I can't work with this." He gestures at the sheet music. "This is a trained dog performing tricks. I need the wolf you're hiding."
"I'm not hiding anything."
"You're hiding everything." Daemon stands. Faces me. "Every soft metaphor, every gentle image, every pretty lie. You're writing what Tyler wanted you to write. What made you easy to control. Safe. Marketable. Forgettable."
Rage finally breaks through. "You don't know anything about me."
"I know you're terrified of conflict. I know you've spent five years making yourself smaller so Tyler could shine. I know that song is exactly what he wanted and nothing you actually feel."
"You're wrong."
"Then prove it. Write something real. Something that scares you. Something Tyler would hate."
We're standing close now. Too close. I can see the scar on his left hand. The tension in his jaw. The challenge in his dark eyes.
"I don't know how," I admit.
"Yes you do. You're just too afraid to try." Daemon turns away. "Take thirty minutes. Come back with something honest or don't come back at all."
He walks out. Leaves me alone with my sheet music and my anger.
I hate him. Hate his arrogance. Hate his cruelty. Hate that he might be right.
This song is safe. Painless. Everything Tyler taught me to be.
I grab a pencil. Start crossing out lines. The love metaphors. The gentle imagery. The forgiveness.
What's left is sharp. Angry. True.
Golden threads cut by silver scissors. Cages dressed up as safety. Promises that taste like burnt sugar and lies.
Through my synesthesia, the new words glow red-orange. Fire and blood. The rage I've been swallowing for years.
I rewrite everything. Fast. Vicious. Not thinking, just feeling.
When Daemon comes back, I'm shaking.
"Here." I shove the papers at him.
He reads. His expression doesn't change but I see him pause on certain lines. Read them twice.
"Get in the booth."
The instrumental he's programmed is nothing like my original. Heavy bass. Distorted guitar. Drums that sound like breaking glass.
"That's not the arrangement," I say.
"I know. Sing anyway."
I do. But my voice comes out wrong. Still soft. Still breathy. Still Tyler's version of me.
Daemon stops the track. "Again."
I sing it again. Same problem.
"Stop." His voice through the headphones is sharp. "You're still performing. Stop trying to sound pretty. Sound angry."
"I am angry."
"Then show me. Sing like you want to burn his house down."
Third take. I push harder. Louder. But it's still not right.
Daemon's hands slam down on the mixing board. The sound echoes through my headphones. "You're holding back. Every single take, you're apologizing for taking up space. Stop. Singing. Like. A. Victim."
"I don't know how!" I rip off the headphones. Storm out of the booth. "Tyler never let me be loud. Never let me be angry. I don't know how to not apologize for existing because that's all I've done for five years!"
Silence.
Daemon stares at me. I'm breathing hard. Chest heaving. On the edge of tears or screaming or both.
"There she is," he says quietly. "Get back in the booth. Do that."
"Do what?"
"Stop thinking. Stop performing. Just break."
I put the headphones back on. Hands shaking. The track starts.
This time I don't try to sound good. Don't try to hit perfect notes or control my breathing. I just open my mouth and let five years of swallowed rage pour out.
The scissors are silver and sharp. They taste like copper, like blood in my mouth. They cut through golden threads that smell like burnt caramel and broken promises.
I'm screaming by the end. Not singing. Screaming.
When it's over, I can barely breathe. My throat is raw. My hands won't stop shaking.
Daemon doesn't speak. Just plays it back.
My voice sounds unrecognizable. Feral. Real.
"Again," he says.
We record for two hours. He pushes every take. Makes me go harder, louder, meaner. By four in the morning, my voice is shredded.
The studio door opens. An older Black man walks in carrying coffee and a paper bag.
"Daemon, you're being cruel." His voice is warm. Gravelly. "Again."
"King." Daemon stands. "This isn't a good time."
"It's four in the morning. It's never a good time." The man turns to me. Smiles. "You must be Stella. I'm Marcus Kingston. People call me King."
I recognize him. Blues legend. Recorded with everyone. Taught half of Nashville how to write soul.
"Play me what you've got," King says, settling into Daemon's chair.
Daemon hesitates. "It's rough."
"Everything's rough at four AM. Play it."
Daemon plays the last take. King listens. Nods. Doesn't speak until it's over.
"You've got rage. That's good." King looks at me. "But you're still timid."
"She's singing as loud as she can," Daemon says.
"Loud isn't honest." King stands. Crosses to me. "You've got synesthesia, don't you? See music in colors?"
I nod. Surprised he knows.
"That's not a disorder. That's a gift. Stop hiding it. Write what you see." He taps the sheet music. "What color are those scissors? What do they taste like? Make me see what you see."
Something clicks in my head. "Silver. They taste like copper. Like blood. They sound like breaking glass when they cut."
"Write that down. Exactly like that."
I add the details. Specific. Visceral. The way my synesthesia actually works instead of hiding it.
"Now sing it," King says.
I do. With every sensory detail. Making people taste the copper. Hear the breaking glass. See the silver cutting through gold.
When I finish, King nods. "There she is."
Daemon's watching me. His breathing has changed. Slower. Steadier. I've noticed he does this. Uses breath to read people. Mine catches every third inhale when I'm nervous. His levels out when something surprises him.
We record until dawn. My voice is destroyed but the song is finally alive.
"We're done," Daemon says at six. "Go home before Tyler wakes up."
I check my phone while gathering my things.
Fifteen missed calls. Three voicemails.
My stomach drops.
The last voicemail is from three AM. I play it on speaker.
Tyler's voice is cold. Sharp. Nothing like the concerned fiancé from yesterday.
"I know where you were tonight, Stella. We need to talk. Now."
The studio goes silent. King and Daemon both heard it.
"How does he know?" I whisper.
Daemon holds out his hand. "Give me your phone."
I hand it over. He examines it. Opens settings. Finds an app I didn't install.
Location sharing. Active. Sending my GPS to Tyler's phone every five minutes.
"He's been tracking you," Daemon says. His voice is dangerous. "The whole time."