The Ghostwriter Takes Back Her Voice

At my husband's sold-out arena concert, I sat in the very last row.

The giant LED screen was scrolling through the setlist, and every single song creditlyrics and musicread Cynthia.

Eighty-seven songs. Every single one of them.

Cynthia was his ex-girlfriend.

Three years ago, I gave up my own chance to debut, locking myself away in a cramped apartment to write songs for him.

Now, standing on stage with tears in his eyes, he choked out his gratitude:

"Without Cynthia, there would be no Gilbert today."

Cynthia, sitting in the center of the front row of the VIP section, stood up and bowed gracefully to the cheering crowd.

That seatGilbert had promised it to me just last week.

I pulled out my phone and texted him.

His reply came back almost instantly:

[Cynthia is the head of the label. You're behind the scenes anyway. Does it really matter whose name is on the credit?]

On stage, he started singing the fifth song, 101 Degrees.

Last year, when he was hospitalized with a dangerously high fever, I wrote that song sitting on the freezing floor of the hospital hallway, barely sleeping for two nights.

I shut off my phone, stood up, and walked out.

Before turning it off, I sent him one last text:

[The divorce papers are on the nightstand. Remember to sign them. As for the eighty-eighth songI don't think I'll be finishing it.]

"Maeve, what the hell is wrong with you?"

Gilberts voice exploded through the receiver.

In the background, I could hear the muffled chaos of the arena's backstage areachatter, doors slamming, the distant rumble of the crowd.

I stood in the biting wind outside the stadium, pulling my thin coat tighter around myself. "Nothing is wrong with me."

The sound of leather shoes pacing against a hard floor came through the line.

"Tonight is my three-year anniversary concert. Ten thousand people," he said, his tone dripping with heavy, familiar irritation. "Do you really have to ruin this night for me?"

My fingers gripping the phone were stiff and numb from the cold.

"The credits for all eighty-seven songs on the big screen went to Cynthia. Which of us is ruining whose night, Gilbert?"

Gilbert let out a long, heavy sigh.

"I explained this to you on text," he said, exasperated, as if I were a child failing to grasp a basic concept. "Cynthia owns the label. Its a corporate decision to list her name. Why is that so hard to understand?"

I let out a dry, humorless laugh.

"So because the label owns the rights, you get to completely erase my work? I wrote 101 Degrees sitting in a hospital hallway while you were sick. I stayed up for forty-eight hours straight. Is it really because she owns the label, Gilbert? Or is it because she's your ex?"

The line went cold. Gilberts voice dropped an octave, freezing over.

"Maeve, do you really have to be this petty?"

"Petty?" I asked, my voice trembling with a mix of shock and pure disbelief. "I wrote every single one of those songs, and someone else is taking the credit. And you think I'm being petty?"

"What else would you call it?" he countered, shifting his stance. "Youre a behind-the-scenes writer. Why do you care so much about some vanity credit? Its not like I don't pay you."

I closed my eyes, the cold air stinging my face.

"A five-thousand-dollar monthly retainer. That's what you paid to buy out three years of my life and soul. God, youre incredibly generous, Gilbert."

Before he could respond, a woman's voice drifted into the call.

"Gilbert, sweetie, who are you arguing with?"

It was Cynthia.

Her tone was light, airy, and laced with an effortless arrogance. "Is Maeve having another one of her episodes?"

Instantly, the tension drained from Gilberts voice, replaced by a soft, placating gentleness. "Its nothing. Shes just acting out."

Cynthia giggled, a sound that made my stomach turn. "Maeve, Gilbert is exhausted. Tonight was a massive show for him. You really shouldn't be stressing him out over such trivial things." She paused, letting her words hang in the air. "If you feel like your retainer is too low, I can have accounting add another two grand starting next month."

Listening to her condescending charity, my chest tightened. I felt physically sick.

"Cynthia, when you stood up and bowed to that crowd for my music, did you feel even a shred of guilt?"

Cynthia gave a soft, dismissive snort. "Maeve, its called resource integration. Without my label's money and PR, your songs would just be a pile of worthless scrap paper."

My fist clenched in my pocket. "They are my songs."

Gilbert snatched the phone back. "Maeve, that's enough. Cynthia is right. Without her, I wouldn't be standing on this stage. Look at yourself right now. Don't you think you're being incredibly pathetic?"

I opened my eyes and stared at the distant, flickering streetlights of the city.

"I'm pathetic?" I whispered. "That VIP seat in the front rowyou told me last week it was mine."

Gilbert hesitated for a fraction of a second.

"Cynthia is my lead investor," he said, his voice hardening again. "If she doesn't sit in the front row, who does? You? Look at what you wear, Maeve. You don't even own a decent dress. What do you think the media would say if they photographed you there?"

The words sliced through me with surgical precision.

For three years, I had locked myself away in a dim, drafty apartment, writing the soundtracks to his success. I hadn't bought a single piece of clothing that cost more than twenty dollars, pouring everything into his dream.

And now, he was embarrassed by my poverty.

I took a deep, steadying breath.

"So, youre ashamed of me. I'm not presentable enough for your world."

Gilbert seemed to realize he had gone too far. His tone softened slightly, though the condescension remained.

"Thats not what I meant. Im just saying we have to look at the bigger picture. You always do thisyou only think about your own feelings. Can you please just grow up?"

"I am grown up," I said quietly, cutting him off. "Which is why I'm stepping out of your picture. Don't forget to sign the divorce papers."

Gilbert completely lost his patience.

"Maeve, stop using divorce as a threat. Where are you even going to go if you leave me? Who else do you think is going to buy those half-baked songs of yours?"

I didn't answer.

"Im going to say this one last time," he said, delivering his ultimatum. "Get over to the hotel for the afterparty right now. Cynthia had too much to drink, and you need to drive her car home. If you aren't there in thirty minutes, don't expect me to call you back."

I looked down at the glowing screen.

"Gilbert."

"What?"

"There won't be an eighty-eighth song."

I pressed the red button and ended the call.

I unlocked the door to our rented apartment.

The apartment was pitch black.

I didn't bother turning on the lights, navigating by the pale moonlight spilling through the window. As I walked into the living room, my toe kicked against something heavy and metallic.

I looked down.

It was the custom tuning fork Id had made to help preserve his vocal cords.

It lay there, discarded like a piece of garbage next to the bin.

A year ago, when Gilberts vocal cords were severely strained, I had spent an entire month's salary and searched the whole city to find a craftsman who could make it. At the time, hed held me and cried, saying it was the most thoughtful gift hed ever received.

Now, it was coated in a layer of dust.

Meanwhile, right in the center of the coffee table, sat a polished velvet box.

Inside was a diamond-encrusted tie clip Cynthia had gifted him.

Suddenly, my phone vibrated in my hand. Gilberts name flashed across the screen again.

I picked up.

"Maeve, where the hell are you?" he demanded. "I told you to drive Cynthia home. Do my words mean absolutely nothing to you?"

I stared down at the dusty tuning fork on the floor. "Im at the apartment."

"You seriously went home?" Gilberts voice was sharp, grating. "Because you didn't show up, Cynthia had to hire a random driver. She threw up all over her back seat. Are you happy now?"

I let out a cold laugh. "Why would I care if she threw up?"

"Youre her assistant! Taking care of her is your job!"

"I am your wife, Gilbert. Not her assistant."

"Maeve, can you stop throwing the word 'wife' in my face?" Gilbert sounded utterly exhausted and annoyed. "Aside from that piece of paper, what have you actually done for me? Can you afford a diamond ring? Can you afford a real wedding? You cant even buy yourself a decent necklace!"

My eyes drifted back to the velvet box on the table.

"You're right. I can't," I said. "Is that why you keep the necklace Cynthia gave you sitting right in the middle of our coffee table?"

"Are you going through my things now?" he snapped, instantly defensive.

"Its in plain sight. Id have to be blind to miss it."

"Maeve, stop making a scene out of nothing. It was a professional thank-you gift. Cynthia isn't petty like you. She knows we're married, which is why she bought us a matching set. Think of it like siblings."

I froze.

"Matching?"

"Yeah. One for her, one for me," he said, as if it were the most logical thing in the world. "Its about team solidarity. Youve never worked in a real corporate environment, so you wouldn't understand."

Listening to his self-righteous justification, the sheer absurdity of it washed over me.

"Gilbert, you are wearing matching couple's necklaces with your ex-girlfriend, and youre calling it 'team solidarity'?"

"Why does your mind always have to go to such a dirty place?" he groaned. "We are strictly professional. There is absolutely nothing going on. If youre going to keep being this paranoid, we might as well not even live together."

I took a slow, deep breath.

"Fine."

"What?"

"I said fine. Let's not."

"Oh, here we go again," Gilbert sneered. "Every time we have a fight, you bring up divorce. Dont you get tired of the same old routine?"

"This time is real. The signed papers are on the nightstand. I've already signed my part. You can do whatever you want with them."

"Maeve! You think you're so smart, don't you? You think I won't sign them?"

"Go ahead. Sign them, and we'll go straight to the court."

In the background, Cynthias slurred, whiny voice drifted through the speaker. "Gilbert, my head hurts so bad..."

Gilberts tone shifted instantly to frantic worry. "Cynthia, sweetie, just lie down. Ill get you some warm water and honey." Then, turning back to the phone, his voice went cold and dismissive. "Maeve, I don't have time for your drama right now. Show up at the office tomorrow morning at eight and apologize to Cynthia. If you don't, don't expect another dime of your retainer."

I listened to him, but for the first time in three years, I didn't feel the familiar panic. I didn't feel the urge to beg or explain.

"Gilbert."

"What?"

"I hope you have the life you deserve."

I hung up and immediately blocked his number.

The next morning, I walked into Gilbert's record label office.

The receptionist, dressed in a sharp designer blazer, didn't even bother to look up as I entered. Her eyes, when they finally flicked over to me, were filled with unvarnished disdain.

I ignored her silent judgment and walked past the open-plan bullpen straight toward the conference room at the end of the hall.

I pushed the door open.

Gilbert and Cynthia were already inside. Cynthia was wearing a tailored charcoal blazer, and around her neck hung the very "solidarity" necklace she had bought for Gilbert.

"Oh, Maeve. You actually came," Cynthia said, a smug smile playing on her lips. "And here I thought you were going to stick to your little rebellion."

Gilbert sat in the leather executive chair, keeping his eyes on his tablet. "At least you realized you were wrong. Go grab Cynthia a coffee, and we'll call it even."

I walked up to the mahogany conference table.

"I'm not here to apologize," I said. "I'm here for my manuscript."

Gilbert finally looked up. "What manuscript?"

"My remaining thirty-two songs."

Cynthia let out a sharp, mocking laugh. "Maeve, are you out of your mind? Those songs were created while you were under contract with the label. They are work-for-hire. The copyrights belong to us."

I looked Cynthia dead in the eye. "I wrote those songs in my own apartment. I didn't use a single kilowatt of your electricity, nor did I use a single cent of your budget. How exactly is that work-for-hire?"

Gilbert frowned, slamming his tablet onto the desk. "Maeve, don't push your luck. The company pays you five grand a month. Do you think we pay you just to sit around?"

"That money was my salary for acting as your personal assistant and keeping your life from falling apart," I said, staring him down. "It wasn't payment for my music."

Gilbert slapped his hand against the desk. "You want to play bean-counter? Fine!" He pulled out a leather-bound checkbook, scribbled a figure, tore the check off, and threw it across the table.

"Ten thousand dollars," he sneered. "For the remaining thirty-two songs. Take the money and get out of my sight."

I looked down at the slip of paper.

Ten thousand dollars.

For thirty-two songs.

That was roughly three hundred dollars a song.

"Gilbert, is this really what my life's work is worth to you?"

"What else do you want? A million? Take a look in the mirror, Maeve. Who do you think made those songs hits in the first place? If it weren't for my voice, those tracks would be rotting in your hard drive."

Cynthia chimed in, tossing her hair. "Honestly, Gilbert, ten grand is too generous. We could hire any hungry ghostwriter off the street for a couple hundred bucks. Maeve is just trying to extort us."

I looked at the two of them, a wave of profound disgust washing over me.

I picked up the check.

Gilbert smirked. "What? Still think it's too little? If you don't want it, leave it."

I gripped the edges of the check with both hands and ripped it straight down the middle.

Rip.

Gilberts smirk vanished. "Maeve, what the hell are you doing?"

I stacked the two halves together and ripped them again, repeating the motion until the check was reduced to a handful of tiny white shreds.

"Are you insane?" he yelled, jumping to his feet. "That was ten thousand dollars!"

I raised my hand and threw the confetti straight into his face.

The white scraps rained down over his styled hair and expensive suit.

"Keep your money, Gilbert," I said softly. "Consider those songs a donation. It's the price I pay for feeding a stray."

I walked out of the building and went straight to the federal copyright office.

"Hi, I need to file an emergency freeze on all commercial licensing and performance rights registered under my name," I told the clerk, handing over a thick, meticulously organized folder.

Yes.

Every single one of those eighty-seven songs had been registered under my legal name the moment I finished writing them.

I used to think I would never need those registrations. I had trusted Gilbert implicitly.

Now, they were my only shield.

The clerk reviewed my documents, checking the digital timestamps against the copyright database.

"Everything looks in order, Ms. Miller," she said. "Your application has been processed. Effective immediately, any commercial performance, digital streaming, or profitable use of these eighty-seven titles is frozen pending legal review."

"If anyone violates this injunction, you have full grounds to sue for statutory damages."

"Thank you," I said.

When I stepped outside, the afternoon sun was blindingly bright.

I walked over to a trash can on the corner, pulled out my phone, and popped out the SIM card.

I had used this number for five years. Every call, every demanding text, and every hollow promise from Gilbert had filtered through this tiny piece of plastic.

I bent it between my fingers until it snapped with a clean, satisfying crack.

I tossed the pieces into the trash and slid in the new SIM card my friend Zack had bought for me the night before.

At eleven that night, Gilbert was sitting in the back of Cynthia's luxury SUV.

He had downed two glasses of champagne, and his cheeks were flushed with a warm glow. Cynthia handed him an open bottle of mineral water.

"The press reviews are spectacular," she said, scrolling through her phone. "The reception for the new singles is even better than we projected."

Gilbert took a sip of water. "It's all thanks to you. I couldn't have pulled off this arena show without your backing."

Cynthia smiled, reaching over to brush a stray lock of hair from his forehead. "What are you going to do about Maeve? Shes throwing a tantrum now, but who knows what kind of scene she'll make tomorrow."

Gilbert leaned back against the leather seat, rubbing his temples. "Don't worry about her. Shes stubborn, and shes terrified that I'll leave her behind now that I'm successful. Just give her a couple of days. Once she runs out of money, she'll come crawling back on her own."

The SUV pulled up to his suburban townhouse. Cynthia reached over to unlock his door.

"Want me to come in with you?"

"No, it's fine," Gilbert said, waving his hand. "She's probably brooding inside. I don't want her to see you and start screaming again."

He stepped out of the car, his leather dress shoes clicking against the pavement.

The townhouse was dark.

There was no warm entryway light left on for him, nor was there anyone waiting by the door with a mug of hot honey-ginger tea to soothe his throat.

Gilbert frowned.

"Maeve?" he called out.

Only a hollow echo answered him.

He kicked off his shoes and walked into the living room.

The velvet jewelry box sat untouched on the coffee table.

But the custom tuning fork I had bought himalong with its elegant leather casewas gone from the side table.

A sudden, inexplicable wave of anxiety washed over him.

"Maeve, stop playing games! Get out here!"

He marched over to the master bedroom, throwing the door open and flipping the light switch.

The bed was neatly made, and completely empty.

The closet door hung half-open. Half of the hangers were bare.

Gilbert froze.

His gaze fell onto the nightstand.

There lay a clean, white document with bold black lettering: PETITION FOR DISSOLUTION OF MARRIAGE.

At the bottom of the page, my signature was already written in sharp, clean ink.

Maeve Miller.

There was no hesitation in the stroke of the pen.

Next to the papers lay an acoustic guitar. It was the only gift he had ever given me during our three years together.

Now, all six strings had been cleanly snipped. The severed metal wires curled in the air, pointing upward like silent, mocking fingers.

Gilbert's hands began to shake.

He snatched up the papers, scanning the terms.

I was walking away with nothing. I hadn't asked for a single asset.

"Maeve... you think you can just walk out on me?"

Gritting his teeth, he grabbed his phone and dialed my number.

Only the cold, automated voice of the operator answered him:

"The number you have dialed is no longer in service."

The phone slipped from his trembling fingers, hitting the plush carpet with a dull thud.