Chapter 2: Stop Being So Emotional

Lennon's POV

The doorbell jolts me awake. My eyes feel like sandpaper. I've been curled up on the couch all night, still wearing yesterday's wine-stained dress.

A delivery guy stands at the door holding an enormous bouquet. At least fifty roses, so red they almost hurt to look at.

"Mrs. Sterling?"

I sign for them. There's a card in Callum's handwriting: "I'm sorry. I'm an asshole. Let's talk tonight when I get home."

I set the flowers on the dining table. They look expensive. But when I lean in, they don't smell like anything at all.

Around noon, another delivery arrives. The signature blue box. I open it to find a platinum necklace with a diamond music note pendant. Delicate. Beautiful. Exactly the kind of "universal apology gift" Callum would pick.

I'm about to toss it aside when I notice the receipt tucked under the tissue paper. The header reads: Tiffany & Co. Nashville. Date: three days ago. Quantity: 2.

My hand freezes. Two. He bought two identical necklaces.

I grab my phone and pull up Instagram, searching for Celeste Monroe. Her account is public because she says she needs to maintain "industry connections." Her latest post is from last night. She's backstage at the concert in that red dress, smiling at the camera. And around her neck hangs a platinum chain. A diamond music note pendant. Identical to the one in my hand.

I screenshot it. Then I drop the necklace into the trash.

By three o'clock, I'm pulling into the Sterling Records parking garage. It's the first time in five years I've come to Callum's office uninvited. The lobby is sleek and modern, with gold records and Grammy nomination certificates lining the walls. I recognize every album. I wrote the lead single for each one.

The receptionist starts to greet me, but I walk straight past her to the elevator. Callum's office is on the top floor. The door is half open, and I hear voices inside.

"Lennon's talent is undeniable," Callum is saying. "But honestly, Rick, she's too emotional. Not cut out for the business side of things."

I stop, my hand on the doorframe. Another man responds, "So what's your plan? The new album still needs a lead single, and without her work..."

"Celeste is handling it," Callum cuts in. "She gets the commercial angle better. I'm gradually shifting core projects to her. Lennon can keep writing, but for decision-making, I need someone more reliable."

"You sure about this? Monroe's got business sense, but her creative ability..."

"Creativity can be developed," Callum says. "Business instinct is innate. Celeste has the drive I need."

I push the door open. Both men turn. Callum's face flashes with surprise. "Lennon? How did you..."

"I'm here to discuss the new album's lead single," I say, my voice steadier than I expected. "Since my creative talent is apparently 'undeniable.'"

The investor stands awkwardly. "I should go."

"No need," I tell him. "I just have one question. Callum, what are you planning to do about the copyright credits for 'Fading Light'?"

'Fading Light' is the song I finished last month. The one Callum called his top choice for the next album.

"We've discussed this," Callum says carefully. "Company songs are all credited to Sterling Records."

"What about 'Echoes'? Last night you said that was Celeste's achievement."

"I meant her business contributions."

"She's wearing the same necklace as me."

Silence fills the room. The investor glances between us, then quietly slips out. After the door clicks shut, Callum sighs. "That was a team benefit."

"A team benefit. So you bought Tiffany necklaces for the entire team?"

"Key team members."

"Stop lying, Callum."

His expression hardens. "What exactly are you accusing me of?"

"I just want to know what I am to you. A creative tool? Or have I been downgraded below that?"

"Your paranoia is going to destroy my career," he snaps, impatience bleeding through. "Celeste is my business partner. Being good to her is part of the job. Can you please stop being so emotional?"

There it is again. That word. Emotional.

"There's a dinner tonight," Callum says, checking his watch. "Important clients. You're coming with me, and we're going to act normal in front of everyone."

"I don't want to go."

"I'm not asking." His voice goes cold. "You're my wife. You need to be there."

The restaurant is downtown, all dark wood and leather booths. Our private room seats about fifteen people from Sterling Records plus several major clients. Celeste sits on Callum's right. I'm on his left, like some kind of metaphor.

"Everyone, you know my wife, Lennon," Callum says, raising his glass. Polite smiles. Brief nods. Then all attention shifts back to Celeste.

"Celeste, walk us through next quarter's marketing strategy," a client says. She stands, opens her tablet, and launches into a presentation. Smooth. Professional. Confident.

"We're planning three social media campaigns," she explains. "First is a behind-the-scenes series showing the creative process."

That was my idea. I wrote it in my notebook at home last month and showed it to Callum.

"Second is an artist spotlight, featuring a new musician each week."

Also mine.

"And third, an interactive songwriting challenge where fans can participate."

Still mine. All three strategies came from that pitch document I gave Callum three weeks ago. Now they're flowing from Celeste's mouth as "her vision."

I set down my fork. "Those strategies," I say, not bothering to lower my voice, "are from the proposal I gave you three weeks ago."

Conversation stops. Celeste turns, her face a perfect mask of confusion. "Oh Lennon, I didn't realize you were doing marketing too. Callum put me in charge of this area, so I assumed..."

"Assumed what?"

"That you were focused on songwriting," she says gently. "That's your strength, right? The business stuff is so tedious. I didn't want you distracted."

A few people nod. One client chimes in, "Yeah, creators should stick to creating. Leave the commercial packaging to the pros." Another adds, "Celeste really does have a gift for this side of things."

I look at Callum. He's scrolling through his phone. Won't even meet my eyes.

"Excuse me," I stand. "Restroom."

The moment I leave, I hear laughter behind me. Relaxed. Relieved. Like my absence just improved the atmosphere.

In the bathroom, I text Sullivan. Sullivan Grant, my father's old friend and one of the best entertainment lawyers in the business. "I need to see you. Soon." He replies instantly: "When?" "Tomorrow." "Done."

I splash water on my face and take three deep breaths before heading back. When I return, Celeste is telling some story and Callum is laughing. That real, unguarded laugh. I slide back into my seat and pull out my phone, opening our joint credit card account. Six months of statements. Hotels in LA, New York, Miami. Every "business trip" date.

Then I switch to Celeste's Instagram and cross-reference her location tags. LA, same day. New York, same day. Miami, same day. Every single time.

"You okay?" Callum murmurs. I look up and smile at him. "Fine." He pats my hand. "Good. Don't overthink things."

Don't overthink. But I'm seeing everything clearly now.

On the drive home, Callum says, "You acted really strange tonight."

"Did I?"

"Questioning Celeste in front of clients. Very unprofessional."

I stay quiet. He continues in that patient, talking-to-a-child voice, "I know you might feel overlooked, but you have to understand the company is expanding. I need more help. That doesn't mean you're not important."

"I understand," I tell him.

"Really?"

"Really. I understand perfectly."

He exhales in relief. "I knew you'd come around."

When we get home, he heads for the shower. I open my laptop and start doing what I should have done months ago. Backing everything up. Every creative file. Every demo. Every photo of handwritten lyrics. Every timestamp. I copy it all to cloud storage, then compose a detailed email to Sullivan listing every legal question I have. Copyright. Divorce. Asset division.

I hit send just as Callum emerges from the bathroom. "Get some sleep," he says. "I have meetings tomorrow."

"Okay."

He turns off the light. In the darkness, I lie awake with my eyes open. Five years of marriage. Maybe it should have ended a long time ago. I just didn't want to admit it.