The email sits in my inbox for three days before I open it. I know who it's from. The subject line—"Regarding Your Inquiry"—is professional enough, but the sender's name makes my stomach twist into knots I haven't felt in ten years. Riley Chen. My finger hovers over the delete button. I could pretend I never saw it. I could keep calling other producers, keep getting rejected, keep watching my Spotify numbers drop like I'm radioactive. Which, in the music industry, I basically am. "Sophia Martinez: Where Is She Now?" That was the headline last month. Not "Sophia Martinez's Triumphant Return" or "Sophia Martinez's Evolution." Just a polite way of asking if I'm still relevant. Spoiler alert: I'm not. I click the email. *Sophia,* *I'm willing to produce your album. Studio rate is $5k per week, non-negotiable. We start Monday at 9 AM sharp. My studio, Silver Lake. Don't be late.* *—R* That's it. No "Hey, long time no see." No "Sorry you torpedoed your career with that disastrous third album." No acknowledgment that the last time we spoke, I was walking away from our rehearsal space with a solo contract in my bag and her dreams crumbling behind me. I should feel grateful. Riley Chen is the most sought-after indie producer in the country. Three Grammys. A client list that reads like a Coachella lineup. Artists wait years for a slot in her schedule. Instead, I feel like I've just agreed to my own execution. --- Riley's studio is exactly what I expected: exposed brick, vintage equipment mixed with cutting-edge tech, gold records on the walls. None of them are mine. She's standing at the console when I walk in, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe. Ten years have been kind to her. She's cut her hair short, sharp angles that frame her face. She's wearing a faded band tee and ripped jeans, the same uniform she wore when we were twenty-two and convinced we'd conquer the world together. But there's something different in the way she carries herself now—a confidence that comes from actually conquering it. "You're late," she says without turning around. I check my phone. "It's 9:02." "Like I said. Late." She finally looks at me, and her expression is unreadable. "Coffee's in the kitchen. We have work to do." No hug. No handshake. Just business. I can work with that. Business, I understand. Business doesn't require me to acknowledge the guilt that's been eating me alive for a decade. "I brought some demos," I say, pulling out my phone. "I was thinking we could—" "No." I blink. "No?" "I listened to everything you've released in the past five years. It's garbage." Riley crosses her arms. "Overproduced, focus-grouped, soulless garbage. You're trying so hard to be what you think people want that you forgot how to be yourself." Heat floods my cheeks. "The label wanted—" "The label dropped you." Her voice is sharp. "So now you get to make real music again. If you remember how." The words hit like a slap. She's not wrong—that's what makes it worse. My last album was a desperate attempt to stay relevant, chasing trends instead of setting them. Critics called it "uninspired." Fans called it worse. "So what do you want from me?" I ask. Riley's smile doesn't reach her eyes. "The truth. For once." She hands me a lyric sheet. I scan the first verse, and my blood runs cold. *"I gave you everything, my trust, my time, my heart* *You took it all and left me in the dark* *Said you'd come back, but we both knew you lied* *Guess some bridges are meant to burn, not cross to the other side"* "This is about us," I whisper. "This whole album is about us." Riley leans against the console. "Every song. Every painful, honest moment you've been running from. That's the deal, Sophia. You want me to save your career? We're going to tear it down first. Starting with the lie you built it on." My hands are shaking. "Riley, I—" "Studio time starts now. Either get in the booth, or get out of my building." I look at the lyrics again. At Riley's unflinching stare. At the gold records on the wall that could have been ours. I walk into the booth. ---