Stella Monroe POV
The bathroom floor is cold through my jeans. Seventeen minutes until I walk onto the Bluebird Café stage. November 20th. The night that's supposed to change everything.
Two contracts sit on the tile in front of me. Through my synesthesia, they shouldn't just be paper and ink. They should sing with color. Every legal document I've ever seen has its own shade. Apartment leases glow soft blue. Record deals pulse gold. These contracts radiate sickly green fog that crawls up the bathroom walls and wraps around my throat like smoke.
Warning. Poison. Wrong.
I'm going to be sick.
My fingers trace the signature lines. Management with Vanessa Court, the woman who discovered me three years ago and promised to build my career. Publishing rights with Tyler Hayes, my fiancé, the man who's produced every song I've written for five years. Both contracts give them control. Creative decisions. Financial distribution. Tour scheduling. Everything runs through them.
For my protection, they said. The industry eats girls like me alive.
So why does burnt caramel coat my tongue?
Nothing's in my mouth. I haven't eaten since this morning. But the taste is there, sharp and bitter. My synesthesia doesn't lie. Burnt caramel means betrayal. I've tasted it before. When my father said he'd quit drinking. When my first manager stole my demo and sold it. When Tyler promised he'd credit me on his last album and didn't.
The green fog thickens. My chest tightens with it.
Someone bangs on the bathroom door. "Stella? Baby, you're on in twelve minutes."
Tyler's voice is warm. Concerned. I've heard that tone a thousand times. When I'm too anxious to leave the apartment. When the crowds feel too big. When I question whether my songs are good enough for anyone to hear.
"Just a minute," I call back.
"The room's packed. Everyone's waiting for you. This is your moment."
My moment. Except my name isn't on the promotional posters. Tyler Hayes Presents is splashed across the top in gold letters. My name is small underneath. Featured artist. Like I'm a guest at my own showcase.
Five years I've been writing songs Tyler performs. Five years of standing in green rooms while he accepts applause for melodies I hummed into his phone at three in the morning. Five years of hearing "Tyler's new single" when the lyrics came from my journals.
This showcase is supposed to fix that. Supposed to launch my solo career. But these contracts will make everything official. Legal. Permanent.
"Stella?" Tyler jiggles the door handle. Locked. "You're scaring me."
"I'm fine. Just nerves."
"Let me in. We'll breathe through it together."
Together. He always says together. We. Us. Like we're the same person.
The green fog pulses brighter. The burnt caramel taste makes me gag.
I grab both contracts and stand. My reflection in the mirror looks like a stranger. Hair pulled back the way Tyler likes. Makeup Vanessa's assistant applied. Dress that's not my style but photographs well. Even the song I'm about to perform has been arranged and produced and polished until I barely recognize it.
Nothing about this person is me anymore.
But I signed up for this. Asked for this. Begged Tyler to help me after my father said music was a waste of time and my mother said I should find something practical. Tyler saved me. Everyone says so.
So why can't I breathe?
I walk out. Tyler's waiting with a bottle of water and that perfect smile. The smile that made me fall for him five years ago. Before I understood what it cost to be loved by someone who sees you as potential instead of a person.
"There's my girl," he says. "Ready?"
I take the water. My hand shakes. "I need to tell you something."
"After the show. You're going to be incredible, Stella. This is everything we've worked for."
He takes my hand and leads me down the hallway. The Bluebird Café is packed. Industry people. Bloggers. Producers who could change my life with one phone call. Vanessa stands near the bar, watching me with sharp eyes. Calculating eyes. She nods once. Everything's in place.
The stage is small. One stool. One microphone. One spotlight that clicks on as I sit down.
Tyler stands in the back, arms crossed. Vanessa's beside him. They both wear the same expression. Expectation. Investment. Pride in what they've built.
Built using me.
I adjust the microphone. My fingers find the guitar strings by muscle memory. "Hi. I'm Stella Monroe. This is a song called 'Drowning in Gold.'"
The opening chords are perfect. I've practiced this song a hundred times. Tyler produced the demo that got me this showcase. Helped me arrange it. Told me which lyrics to change and which to keep. Smoothed out every rough edge until it gleamed.
I sing the first verse. My voice sounds exactly like Tyler coached it to sound. Breathy. Vulnerable. Marketable.
Halfway through the second verse, I taste burnt caramel so strong I choke on the words.
The contracts are in my jacket pocket. Unsigned. I can feel them pressing against my ribs. Two pieces of paper that will sign away the next five years. Maybe longer. Maybe forever.
My fingers stop moving. The guitar goes silent.
Everyone's watching. Waiting. The spotlight is too hot. Tyler's face is concerned but his jaw is tight. Vanessa's already reaching for her phone.
"I can't do this," I say.
The words come out clear. Steady. The first honest thing I've said in months.
I stand. Pull both contracts from my pocket. And tear them in half. Then into quarters. Then into confetti that flutters across the stage like snow.
The room goes silent. Shocked. Confused.
Tyler's concerned mask cracks. Just for a second, cold rage flashes across his face before the worry slides back into place. But I saw it. Everyone saw it.
"You're not well," he says, moving toward the stage. His voice is gentle but his eyes are ice. "Let's get you home."
I step back. "I'm completely well. I'm not signing these. I'm not doing this anymore."
"Stella." Vanessa's voice cuts through the room. "Let's talk about this privately."
"No." I set the guitar down carefully. "I'm done talking. I'm done performing. I'm done being grateful for a cage."
I walk off the stage. Through the silent crowd. Past their shocked faces. Out the front door into November cold.
Nashville air hits my lungs. Clean. Clear. The green fog is gone. The burnt caramel taste fades to nothing.
My phone starts buzzing before I reach the parking lot. Text after text. Vanessa. Tyler. Numbers I don't recognize.
Tyler's final message comes through as I unlock my car.
"You just made the biggest mistake of your life. I'm coming to get you."
My hands shake. The parking lot is empty except for my beat up Honda. The Bluebird Café door opens behind me. Footsteps. Fast.
I start the engine and drive.
I don't know where I'm going. Just away. Away from Tyler. Away from Vanessa. Away from five years of making myself smaller so someone else could shine.
The city lights blur past. My phone won't stop buzzing. I turn it face down on the passenger seat.
And I drive toward the only person in Nashville who might understand what it means to escape.