ARIA'S POV
"Get away from me!" I scramble backward, my hip hitting the desk.
The security man doesn't move closer. He just stands there, watching me with those cold, calculating eyes. His badge says "Marcus Hunt - Chief Security, Apex Entertainment."
"Miss Chen, I'm not here to hurt you. But Mr. Cross needs answers, and so do I." He pulls out his phone and shows me a screen. "This recording was uploaded to our demo portal at 11:47 PM tonight. From your IP address."
I stare at the file name: Shattered_Crown_AriaChen_Final.mp3
"That's impossible," I whisper. "I didn't record anything. I was DEAD an hour ago—" I cut myself off. He'll think I'm crazy.
But Marcus's expression doesn't change. "Dead?"
My mouth goes dry. Why did I say that?
He taps his phone. My voice pours out—singing "Shattered Crown" with perfect clarity, perfect emotion. The song I wrote in my first life but never got to perform.
Except I haven't written it in THIS life yet.
"How is this possible?" I breathe.
"That's what Mr. Cross wants to know." Marcus steps into my apartment, and I notice he's blocking the door. "The metadata on this file shows it was recorded three years from now. The equipment signature doesn't match any technology currently available. And your voice—" He pauses. "Your voice sounds older. More experienced. Like you've lived through things that haven't happened yet."
My legs give out. I sink onto my bed.
He knows. Somehow, this stranger KNOWS I'm not supposed to be here.
"I don't understand what's happening to me," I say honestly. Tears burn my eyes. "I died tonight. I fell through a stage and broke my back. I felt it. I DIED. Then I woke up here, ten years younger, and nothing makes sense."
Marcus watches me for a long moment. Then he does something surprising—he sits down on my desk chair, putting himself at my level instead of looming over me.
"Miss Chen, I'm going to tell you something that could get me fired." His voice is quieter now. "Apex Entertainment has a... special department. We monitor unusual events in the industry. Unexplained phenomena. Two weeks ago, we detected a temporal anomaly centered on you."
"A what?"
"A disturbance in time." He leans forward. "Someone or something gave you a second chance. But that chance is creating ripples. Songs appearing before they're written. Emails from timelines that don't exist. And now—" He shows me another screen.
It's a news article dated tomorrow: "Star Maker Contestant Aria Chen Stuns Judges with Never-Before-Heard Original"
But below it, another article flickers into view, dated the same day: "Star Maker Disaster: Contestant Bombs Audition on Live TV"
Both articles exist simultaneously. Both versions of tomorrow are real.
"The timeline is splitting," Marcus says. "Your presence is creating two possible futures. In one, you succeed. In the other, you fail. Right now, both are trying to happen at once."
My head spins. "So what do I do?"
"You make a choice. You pick which future becomes real." He stands. "But you need to decide fast. Mr. Cross heard your demo—the one from the successful timeline. He wants to sign you. But if the other timeline wins—"
"I fail the audition tomorrow, and he never hears the demo."
"Exactly." Marcus heads for the door, then stops. "One more thing. In the failed timeline, someone sabotaged you. Someone close to you gave you bad advice that ruined your audition."
Kyle. He means Kyle.
"How do you know all this?" I ask.
Marcus turns, and for the first time, I see something haunted in his eyes. "Because I've watched people get second chances before, Miss Chen. Most of them waste it. They try to keep everything the same—same friends, same choices, same mistakes. The timeline corrects itself, and they end up right back where they started."
"You're saying I need to change things."
"I'm saying you need to be brave enough to let go of what's familiar. Even if it hurts." He opens the door. "Mr. Cross will be at the Star Maker auditions tomorrow. He'll be watching. Which version of Aria Chen he meets depends entirely on what you do in the next twelve hours."
He leaves, and I'm alone in my tiny apartment with two phones, two timelines, and twelve hours to save my future.
I grab my old journal—the one I kept in my first life. My hands shake as I flip through pages of songs I wrote but never performed. "Shattered Crown." "Phoenix Rising." "Dreams Don't Die."
All here. All mine.
In my first life, I showed these to Kyle. He said they needed work. He said he'd help me improve them.
He lied.
I tear out the pages with Kyle's notes on them—all his "suggestions" that made my songs worse. I rip them into tiny pieces and watch them flutter to the floor like snow.
My phone buzzes. Kyle again: "Babe? You didn't answer about tonight. Studio at 7? I really need you to hear this arrangement before tomorrow. It's important."
My fingers hover over the keyboard. In my first life, I went. I trusted him. I failed.
I start typing: "Can't tonight. I'll see you at—"
Wait.
Something Marcus said echoes in my mind: "Someone close to you gave you bad advice."
Kyle sabotaged me in the first timeline. But what if he does it again? What if I avoid him tonight, but he finds another way to ruin me tomorrow?
I need to know what he's planning. I need to see this "arrangement" so I know exactly what trap he's setting.
I delete my message and type a new one: "See you at 7. Can't wait!"
He responds immediately: "Perfect! You're going to LOVE what I did with your song."
MY song. He already thinks it's his to change.
I have six hours until I meet Kyle. Six hours to prepare for whatever trap he's setting.
I pull out my laptop and do something I never did in my first life—I register every song in my journal with the copyright office. I take photos of every page, timestamp them, email them to myself.
Evidence. Protection. Proof that these songs are MINE.
My old phone buzzes—the one that shouldn't work. Another voicemail, but this time there's no caller ID.
I press play.
A woman's voice, distorted and strange: "Aria Chen. You don't know me, but I know you. I know what you're trying to do. Changing the past won't save you—it will destroy you. Stay away from Damien Cross. Don't record that demo. Don't go to that audition. If you do, you'll lose more than your career this time."
The call ends.
My hands are shaking so hard I drop the phone.
Who was that? How do they know about the demo? About Damien Cross?
And what did she mean—"lose more than your career"?
I stare at the two phones lying on my bed. One from this timeline. One from my first life. Both showing messages from people who shouldn't know what I know.
Marcus Hunt talking about temporal anomalies.
A mysterious woman warning me to stay away from Damien Cross.
Kyle setting a trap I'm walking into in six hours.
And somewhere in this city, the most powerful man in entertainment is listening to a song I haven't recorded yet, trying to find a girl who technically doesn't exist.
I look at my reflection in the dark laptop screen. Young face. Old eyes.
"Which future do I choose?" I whisper.
But maybe that's the wrong question.
Maybe the real question is: what if someone else is choosing FOR me?
My laptop screen flickers.
A new email appears in my inbox, dated three years from now:
Subject: I'm sorry I couldn't save you - Aria
I didn't send that email.
I haven't lived those three years yet.
But I click it open anyway, and the message that appears makes my blood run cold:
"If you're reading this, then it worked. You got sent back. But listen carefully—everything you think you remember is wrong. Kyle didn't betray you. Vivian didn't steal from you. The real enemy is the one you're about to trust. Don't sign with Apex Entertainment. Damien Cross isn't who he says he is. He's the reason you died. And if you make the same mistake again, this time he'll make sure you stay dead."
Attached to the email is a single image.
I click it.
It's a photo of me—older, maybe thirty—lying in a hospital bed, hooked up to machines. My eyes are closed. A man in a suit stands beside the bed, his back to the camera.
Written on the photo in red marker: "He pulled the plug."
Someone knocks on my door.
Three sharp raps.
"Miss Chen?" A deep voice. Not Marcus this time. "This is Damien Cross. I believe we need to talk."