Stolen Melodies

The day of the concert arrived. The massive stadium was packed to the rafters with eighty thousand screaming fans, and millions more were tuned into the live stream.

She stood at the dead center of the stage. The moment she raised the microphone to her lips, the backing track abruptly cut out. A suffocating silence swallowed the arena.

The root of this spectacular disaster started a few days ago.

My wife, the untouchable pop queen of the current music scene, built her entire empire on songs I wrote. But just days prior, she demanded I sign away the rights to every single one of those tracks. She wanted to gift them to her college sweetheart, the one that got away.

When she slid that piece of paper across the kitchen island, I looked at the stranger wearing my wife's face. A hollow laugh escaped my throat, and I gave her a two-word answer.

"Sure thing."

1 I was actually cooking for Phoebe when she pushed that Copyright Transfer Agreement into my line of sight.

A rich, garlic herb chicken was slow-roasting in the oven. The warm, savory aroma filled every corner of our penthouse. It was her favorite pre-concert meal. I made it for her every single time she prepared for a big tour.

"Ted, turn the oven off for a second and come sign this."

Her voice was as melodic as ever, but underneath that sweet tone lay a cold, undeniable command.

I wiped my hands on a towel, walked over, and took a seat across from her.

"What is this?"

"A copyright transfer," Phoebe said. Her tone was terrifyingly casual, like she was asking me to pass the salt. "I need you to transfer the publishing rights of my older tracks to Oliver."

A deafening ring echoed in my ears. All the blood rushed to my head before turning to absolute ice, leaving my fingertips numb.

Oliver.

That name felt like a rusted blade twisting into my ribs. He was her senior in college, the golden boy she kept buried deep in her heart and never mentioned to the press. According to her, he was the most brilliant musical mind of their generation.

Three years ago, when Phoebe and I tied the knot, she was a nobody singing to empty rooms in dive bars. I loved her. I poured every ounce of my soul into writing for her, becoming her exclusive ghost producer.

Echoes, Midsummer, Lone Wolf.

Track after track, I dragged her out of obscurity and crowned her the reigning queen of pop.

My producer alias was Cipher. I never showed my face. Everyone in the industry knew there was a mythical, gold-tier songwriter backing Phoebe, but nobody knew Cipher was actually me. To the media, I was just the freeloader husband who stayed home and lived off his superstar wife.

I cooked for her. I managed the tedious background noise of her life. I made sure she had absolutely nothing to worry about so she could shine flawlessly under the spotlights.

I thought that was what marriage meant.

But now, she wanted me to take the children I had bled over and hand them to another man.

"Why?" My throat felt like sandpaper.

Phoebe looked up. Those beautiful eyes that used to pull me under were now completely devoid of warmth.

"Oliver just moved back stateside. He needs a solid catalog to break into the market, and the style of your songs fits his aesthetic perfectly."

She paused, clearly sensing my silence, and tried to justify it further.

"Besides, when I first met Oliver, you weren't even in the picture. A lot of my musical inspiration came from him anyway. Technically, he deserves a piece of these tracks."

I was so furious I actually smiled.

Technically deserves a piece.

I stared at her perfectly contoured, ice-cold face. The last fragile thread of affection I held for this woman snapped, crumbling into dust.

"So what you're saying is, I'm just your ghostwriter?"

Phoebe frowned. My reaction was clearly annoying her.

"Ted, don't twist my words. We're married. What's yours is mine, right? I'm just returning these songs to their rightful owner."

"Plus, giving the rights to Oliver is a win for everyone. Once his career takes off, we can all collaborate. We'll dominate the industry together."

She dressed her betrayal up in corporate buzzwords. Every single syllable was a slap in the face, mocking the three years I spent worshipping the ground she walked on.

I saw it. I saw the undeniable, glowing spark in her eyes when she said his name. It was a look she had never, ever given me.

I was just a tool. A stepping stone to get her to the top. And now that her golden boy was back, the tool and everything it produced were being wrapped up with a bow and handed over as a welcome-home gift.

It was hilarious. It was sickening.

I stared at the paperwork. My chest tightened so hard I couldn't pull air into my lungs. I dug my fingernails into my palms until the sharp sting forced my spiraling mind to focus.

Don't lose it. If I blow up now, she'll just call me petty and insecure.

I took a deep, jagged breath, swallowing down the bitter taste in my mouth. When I finally looked up at her, I forced a smile that felt completely alien on my face.

"Sure thing," I said.

Phoebe clearly didn't expect me to cave so easily.

She blinked, a flash of pure shock crossing her face before it was entirely swallowed by a raw, unfiltered greed. It was a genuine thrill she couldn't even bother to hide.

"You... you're really signing it?"

"Yeah." I nodded, picking up the pen resting on the marble counter. "We're a team, right? What matters to you matters to me. If this helps your career, I'm on board."

I flipped the document open as I spoke. The legal jargon was crystal clear.

Party A: Ted (Cipher). Party B: Oliver.

I, Ted, willingly and permanently transfer all copyrights of my published musical works to Oliver, completely free of charge.

Free of charge. Permanent.

She really wanted to sever my lifeline without leaving a single loophole.

My heart was actively bleeding out, but I kept the gentle smile glued to my face.

"Where do I sign?" I asked.

A radiant, dazzling smile broke out on Phoebe's face, one I hadn't seen directed at me in months. She practically vibrated with excitement as she pointed to the dotted lines at the bottom.

"Here, here, and initial right here."

Her voice trembled with a greedy kind of hunger.

I hovered the ballpoint over the thick paper. Phoebe's eyes were locked onto my hand. She was literally holding her breath.

A freezing calm washed over my mind.

Of course I wasn't going to sign it. But I was absolutely going to let her believe I did.

I faked a moment of hesitation, letting out a heavy sigh. "Phoebe, I built these tracks from the ground up. They're like my kids. Giving them all away just feels..."

She cut me off instantly. Her tone shifted, dripping with that sickly sweet, manipulative affection she only ever used when she wanted me to pull an all-nighter in the studio for her.

"Babe, I know it's hard. But think about it. Oliver is different. He's such an important piece of my journey. Helping him is basically helping me."

She reached out, resting her manicured hand over mine, patting it softly.

"Don't worry. You can just write new hits for me, okay? We'll go right back to how things were."

Go right back?

I sneered internally. I was blind before, treating you like a goddess. That ends today.

I flipped my hand over and squeezed her fingers, locking eyes with her. "You know I'd do anything for you, Phoebe."

I looked down and aggressively scribbled a signature onto the paper. It was a messy, stylized autograph that belonged to an imaginary person. It had absolutely zero legal connection to my actual name.

I pushed the papers back across the island.

"All done."

Phoebe snatched the documents up like they were made of solid gold. She stared at the ink, her face flushed with absolute ecstasy. She was so high on the thrill of delivering this prize to her lover that she didn't even notice the signature was complete gibberish.

"You're the best, Ted!"

She jumped up and leaned over the counter, pressing a cold, obligatory kiss to my cheek. It felt like a transaction.

She grabbed her purse and the fake contract, already turning her back to me.

"Eat the dinner yourself! I'm meeting up with Oliver, he's waiting for me!"

The front door slammed shut.

The penthouse was dead silent again. The only sound was the oven humming, baking a meal for a ghost.

The fake smile peeled off my face.

I walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows and looked down at the street. I watched Phoebe peel out of the driveway in the Porsche 911 I bought for her birthday.

I pulled out my phone and dialed a number.

"Ford? It's Ted."

"I need you to draft a cease and desist. I also need a complete audit of every single copyright registered under the name Cipher. Yes, the entire catalog."

"And Ford? Draw up divorce papers."

"Yeah. I want her taken to the cleaners. Leave her with nothing."

I ended the call and stared at the smoggy city skyline, letting out a long, heavy exhale.

So, Phoebe. You want to throw a massive third-anniversary concert? You want to use that stage to announce Oliver as the genius behind your success?

I built that glittering stage for you. I hope you enjoy the spectacular gift I'm about to drop on it.

Over the next few days, Phoebe played the role of the perfect, doting wife.

She texted me constantly, asking what I was doing or if I had eaten. When she got home, she'd rub my shoulders for exactly ten seconds and coo about how hard I worked.

She honestly believed I was entirely wrapped around her finger. She thought I was still the same pathetic Ted who lived to serve her. She had no idea that every time I looked at her fake, plastic smile, I wanted to throw up.

I played along flawlessly while moving my chess pieces in the dark.

Ford was a shark. He moved fast and got the paperwork finalized in record time.

Under the alias Cipher, I legally owned thirty-seven tracks. Those thirty-seven tracks were the sole foundation of Phoebe's entire net worth, brand deals, and A-list status. And ninety percent of the setlist for her upcoming stadium show consisted of my music.

According to our original licensing agreement, as the sole copyright holder, I retained the absolute right to revoke her performance privileges at any time, especially if the licensee engaged in fraudulent behavior regarding my intellectual property.

The trap was set. I just needed the right moment to spring it.

And that moment was her grand anniversary concert.

The hype was unreal. Her label and PR team were burning cash to keep her trending.

"Pop Queen Phoebe's 3rd Anniversary! A Night of Legends at the Grand Arena!"

"Will the mythical producer Cipher finally show his face? Massive surprises await at Phoebe's live show!"

The internet was flooded with sponsored articles. Her team even leaked a rumor that a completely unexpected, legendary guest would step onto the stage.

Naturally, the world assumed it was Cipher.

Her fanbase was losing their minds. They were dying to know what kind of musical god could drop back-to-back platinum records without ever stepping into the light.

Phoebe's social media feeds were overflowing with fans begging for a reveal.

[OMG Phoebe! Please bring Cipher out! I would literally die for him!] [Who is he?! The mystery is killing me. You have to put a face to the name this time!] [Manifesting a Cipher face reveal! I will trade my firstborn just to see what this man looks like!]

I scrolled through the comments, feeling a twisted sense of irony.

Phoebe saw them too. She brought her phone over to the couch, laughing brightly as she shoved the screen in my face.

"Look at this, babe. Your fans are crazier than mine."

She leaned against my shoulder, her tone dripping with fake sweetness.

"Are you absolutely sure you don't want to go up there? It's a once-in-a-lifetime moment."

I set my book down and gave her a flat look. "Didn't you already arrange for Cipher to make an appearance?"

Phoebe's smile froze.

She recovered a second later, letting out a nervous, breathy laugh. "Oh, stop. I didn't mean Oliver, I meant you. He's just... he's just going to stand in for you."

"Since you hate the spotlight so much, right?"

I nodded slowly. "Right. I hate the spotlight. Let him stand in for me."

Stand in for me. Soak up the deafening cheers of my fans. Steal the legacy I bled for.

You're playing a dangerous game, Phoebe.

Seeing that I wasn't going to put up a fight, she completely dropped her guard. She started parading Oliver around town without a shred of shame.

Under the guise of "coordinating concert details," the two of them were practically glued together. Paparazzi caught them having intimate dinners, shopping in luxury boutiques, and eventually, walking into the same boutique hotel.

The rumors exploded. I was officially the biggest cuckold in the city, wearing a neon green hat for the world to see.

My boys were blowing up my phone, furious on my behalf.

"Ted, are you legally blind, man? Your girl is practically moving her side dude in, and you're just sitting there?"

"Serve her the papers! Why are you still with this toxic trash?"

I just gave them the same calm answer. "Relax. The show is about to start."

The day before the concert, Phoebe and Oliver sat down for an exclusive media interview. On camera, they looked like the perfect, glamorous power couple.

The interviewer leaned in. "Oliver, the streets are saying you are the mastermind behind the Cipher alias. Can you confirm the rumors?"

Oliver pushed his gold-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose, offering the camera a smug, pretentious smile.

"Phoebe and I have been close for years. We understand each other's artistic souls. You could definitely say my fingerprints are all over her discography."

He didn't outright say he was Cipher, but the implication was heavy and deliberate.

The interviewer turned to Phoebe. "And will Oliver be taking the stage tomorrow night as Cipher?"

Phoebe looked at Oliver with absolute adoration.

"I guess everyone will just have to buy a ticket and find out. All I can say is, tomorrow night belongs to the fans, to me, and to... Cipher."

She put a heavy, dramatic emphasis on the name.

The moment the interview dropped, the internet broke.

The hashtag #OliverIsCipher rocketed to the number one trending spot. Oliver's socials gained millions of followers in a matter of hours. Thirsty fans flooded his comments, calling him a genius and a god.

Phoebe's fanbase began aggressively shipping them.

[OMFG I KNEW IT! Anyone who writes songs with that much passion has to be madly in love with her!] [They look so good together. Pure soulmates!] [See? I told you that freeloader husband of hers was a bum! No way a stay-at-home loser wrote those hits. The truth is finally out!] [Wait, isn't Phoebe still legally married to Ted?] [Who cares about a piece of paper? A loveless marriage is a prison! Go get your true love, queen!]

I stared at the toxic wasteland of comments, my face completely blank. I locked my phone and tossed it onto the coffee table.

Phoebe. Oliver.

Enjoy your final night on top of the world. Because tomorrow, I'm dragging you both straight down to hell.

Concert night.

The Grand Arena was packed with eighty thousand screaming bodies. A massive ocean of blue glow sticks lit up the dark venue. Fans were holding up LED signs, chanting Phoebe's name until their throats gave out.

The energy was electric.

I wasn't in the crowd. I was sitting on my leather couch at home, watching the flawless 4K live stream on my TV.

The broadcast cut to a backstage cam. Phoebe was doing last-minute touch-ups. She wore a custom, diamond-encrusted bodysuit. With her flawless makeup, she looked like absolute royalty.

Oliver hovered right behind her, playing the attentive partner, adjusting the sheer train of her outfit.

"Deep breaths, Phoebe. You own this city tonight."

"I know." She nodded, a blissfully arrogant smile on her lips.

Brenda, her aggressive talent manager, tapped her watch. "Alright, team! Time to move. Let's get to the lift."

She turned to Oliver. "Oliver, get to your mark. You're up right after track three."

Oliver flashed a cocky grin. "Got it, Brenda."

He looked back at Phoebe, his eyes dark with possessiveness. "After tonight, the whole damn world is gonna know you belong to me."

Phoebe looked down, blushing like a schoolgirl.

The backstage camera caught the entire exchange and beamed it live to millions of viewers.

The live chat scrolling across my screen went absolutely nuclear.

[HOLY SHIT! THEY JUST CONFIRMED IT!] [I'm screaming!! My ship is sailing!] [Someone get them a ring right now!!] [Can Ted just file for divorce already? He's embarrassing himself at this point.]

I watched the perfect couple on my screen, picked up my mug of hot tea, and took a slow sip.

It was a great brew. Shame it was about to get cold.

At exactly eight o'clock, the show began.

The arena went pitch black. A single, blinding white spotlight snapped on, hitting the mechanical lift in the center of the stage.

The heavy, dramatic synth intro kicked in.

It was her breakout hit. Echoes.

The very first track I ever produced for her.

The lift slowly ascended, bringing Phoebe into the glaring light. The stadium literally shook with the deafening roar of eighty thousand fans.

"Phoebe! Phoebe! Phoebe!"

She gripped her custom microphone, a perfect, triumphant smile painted on her face.

She took a deep breath, parting her lips to sing the opening verse.

But a split second before she made a sound.

With a harsh screech of static, the heavy backing track cut out completely.

The entire stadium crashed into a suffocating, deeply uncomfortable silence.

Everyone froze.

On stage, Phoebe stood paralyzed, her microphone hovering awkwardly near her mouth, her eyes wide with panic.

Backstage, the live director and audio engineers were losing their minds.

"What the hell is going on?! Why did the feed cut?" "I don't know! The rig is fine!" "Switch to the backup tracks! Move, move, move!"

A few agonizing seconds later, the beat dropped again.

But it only lasted two seconds before violently cutting out a second time.

And this time, it wasn't just the audio.

The massive, sixty-foot LED screen wrapping the back of the stage completely blacked out.

The crowd erupted into confused murmurs.

"What's happening? Did the power blow?" "No way. A show this big doesn't just crash like this." "Yo, look! The screen is back!"

Eighty thousand pairs of eyes snapped back to the colossal digital display.

The screen was stark black. Slowly, line by line, bold white text began to type itself across the monitors.

[CEASE AND DESIST / NOTICE OF REVOCATION]

[To: Event Organizers and Ms. Phoebe]

[I, Ted (Operating professionally under the alias 'Cipher'), acting as the sole and exclusive copyright holder of 'Echoes', 'Midsummer', 'Lone Wolf', and 34 other registered musical compositions, hereby issue formal notice:]

[Due to severe contractual violations and blatant commercial fraud committed by Ms. Phoebe, I am officially revoking all licenses, performance rights, and distribution permissions previously granted to her, effective immediately.]

[Any unauthorized public performance of my intellectual property from this second forward constitutes gross copyright infringement. I will aggressively pursue all available legal action against any offending parties.]

[Signed: Ted (Cipher)]

Right beneath the ruthless legal text, high-resolution scans of the official copyright certificates populated the screen.

On every single document, under the 'Legal Owner' section, the same name was printed in bold black ink:

Ted.

And right next to it, under 'Registered Alias':

Cipher.