My husband cut my name from our song and asked me to smile.
The launch was due at ten; his name would get all the praise.
I took my hand off his knee and stopped the track.
He said I could lose the house if I made a scene.
I had wed him for a room in which to write.
He had wed me to look like a man who could stay.
Now his old love stood at the mic with my score.
She turned the last page and asked who wrote the end.
At thirty-three, I knew the difference between a marriage license and a record deal.
I had signed both eighteen months earlier, across the same kitchen table.
Julian, forty-one and twice divorced, needed a quiet season after abandoning his tour to pursue its married singer.
I needed his studio, an orchestra, and time away from teaching scales to people who never practiced.
Our bargain promised separate careers and a shared address until the album launched.
The publicity dates were written down; love was not required.
Then I had asked him to stay one night after we finished recording.
He had stayed, and I had begun leaving my bedroom door open.
Now Cora waited behind the studio glass, her pencil poised over my last page.
I had agreed to her singing because her low notes made my work better.
The screen beside the mixing desk listed Julian as sole composer and me as his inspiration.
I opened the release portal and withdrew my final approval.
The engineer took his finger off the upload key.
He had reminded us yesterday that the label needed both named writers to approve delivery.
Julian shut the control room door, leaving Cora visible through the glass.
I watched him turn the same lock we used when we wanted to be alone.
"That credit is what the buyers recognize," he said.
I pointed to the printed campaign: my face on his shoulder, his name above the title.
He offered to correct the booklet after the first pressing sold.
I asked why he had already ordered a second pressing with the same artwork.
He reached across me for the keyboard, then stopped when I held his gaze.
"Your name will come when it can sell," he said.
I had heard him tell students they were ready before they believed it themselves.
Apparently readiness cost more when it competed with his own name.
I unlocked the door and asked Cora to join us.
She brought the score, keeping one finger between its final pages.
"I won't record a false credit," she said, then laid the ending on the desk.
Eight bars were written in Julian's tight, slanted hand.
I remembered him writing them at three in the morning while I lay on the studio sofa.
My mother had died that winter, and I could not finish the piece without making it sound like a funeral.
He had found a way to let the melody rise without pretending it was happy.
I had kissed his wrist before he put the pencil down.
"Those are mine," he said.
For once, he was asking for something I could not honestly deny.
I offered joint credit, the order we had agreed before the photographs began.
He said he would approve nothing while my refusal held his launch hostage.
The engineer quietly explained what stopping meant.
The orchestra recording belonged to Julian's label; I could not take it to another distributor.
My advance was repayable if I withdrew the work, and the studio residence ended with the project.
These were terms I had negotiated, not pages someone had slipped beneath my hand.
Julian moved his chair closer to mine.
"Come home tonight, and we can fix this between us," he said.
I wanted his arm around me while we listened in the dark, wanted the eight bars that had once felt like being understood.
Then he asked the engineer to put the release screen back up.
I told the engineer to leave delivery blocked and send the withdrawal figures to my own email.
Julian rose so sharply that his chair struck the wall.
Cora asked whether I had another ending, and I shook my head.
She closed the score without promising to rescue me.
By evening I had transferred the unspent advance and arranged installments for the rest.
I carried my manuscript downstairs while Julian waited beside the piano he had bought for our house.
He offered the stool with one open hand.
I took my coat from it and left the house key on the seat.
My rented room had an upright with a dull top octave and a pedal that squeaked.
I set my phone against a mug and tried ending the piece where Julian's eight bars began.
The silence sounded unfinished because it was.
I played again, bringing the opening phrase back with the final note changed.
On the fourth attempt, I heard a return instead of a promise.
I recorded it before I could smooth away the anger that made it mine.
Then I sent Cora the solo draft, plainly credited, with a message saying I could not afford her fee yet.
She replied asking for the new score, without mentioning my husband.
At midnight, Julian sent a photograph of the empty piano stool.
My thumb hovered over his name while the recording played through my cheap speaker.
The pedal squeaked, my left hand stumbled, and the new ending held.
I put the phone down, pressed the pedal, and played it again.