Stella Monroe POV
One in the morning. November 21st. I've been talking for two hours straight.
My throat is raw. My third cup of coffee sits cold between my hands. Daemon hasn't moved from his chair across the piano. He's been taking notes. Pages of them. His handwriting is sharp. Angry slashes across paper.
"Walk me through the financial setup again," he says. No sympathy in his voice. Just surgical precision.
I'm exhausted. Every word feels like pulling glass from a wound. But I keep going because stopping means leaving. Leaving means going back to Tyler.
"Vanessa handles everything. My bookings. My payments. My accounts. She says it's easier if I focus on writing instead of business stress."
"Translation: you don't see the money."
"Right. Tyler covers rent, groceries, bills. Says I shouldn't worry about it."
"How much do you think you've earned in five years?"
I don't know. That's the humiliating part. "Maybe fifty thousand? From session work and co-writes?"
Daemon's pen stops moving. "Twenty-three songs on Tyler's albums. Even low-range royalties on hit singles would net you closer to half a million. Conservatively."
The number punches the air from my lungs. Half a million dollars. Money I've never seen. Money Vanessa and Tyler have been hiding.
Through my synesthesia, the realization tastes like copper. Blood in my mouth. Rage metallic and sharp.
"They stole everything," I whisper.
"Not stole. Diverted. There's a difference legally." Daemon leans back. Studies me. "Did you sign anything giving Vanessa power of attorney?"
"I don't... maybe? Tyler had me sign things early on. Said it was standard paperwork."
"Then she's been moving your money legally. Which means we need to prove intent to defraud, not just poor accounting."
The way he says "we" makes something in my chest loosen. Not alone anymore. Maybe.
"Tell me about Amber," I say. Need to understand what drives him. Need to know if his rage matches mine or if I'm just another tool for his revenge.
Daemon's jaw tightens. "What about her?"
"Tyler said you drove her to suicide. Said you were obsessed with perfection. Pushed her too hard."
"And you believe that?"
"No. But I need to hear your version."
Silence. The studio feels smaller. Colder. Daemon's right hand finds the piano keys. Plays one note. Then another. Building something slow and mournful.
"Amber was twenty-four. Brilliant voice. Terrible instincts about people." His playing continues. Minor key melody that tastes like ash. "She signed with me two years before she died. We were recording her debut. She was anxious but functional. Then Tyler started coming around. Said he was a friend. Supportive. Within months, she was paranoid. Erratic. Missing sessions. I thought it was the pressure of the album."
"But it wasn't."
"No. Tyler was feeding her pills. Anxiety medication he said. Made her dependent on him. When she threatened to leave his 'friendship,' he showed up here one night. I didn't know he was in the building. Security footage was mysteriously corrupted." Daemon's playing stops. "She overdosed in this room. Tyler found her. Called 911. Played the devastated friend. Then told the press I'd been working her to death."
The burnt caramel taste floods my mouth. Betrayal. Same pattern. Different victim.
"I'm sorry," I say.
"Don't be sorry. Help me prove it."
"I will. But I need to know what you want from this. Justice? Or just revenge?"
Daemon turns to face me fully. His dark eyes are cold. Empty. "What's the difference?"
Fair point.
"So we destroy Tyler," I say. "How?"
"Carefully. Strategically. He's connected. His father knows judges. Vanessa knows everyone in the industry. We can't just go to police with accusations. We need irrefutable evidence."
"Like what?"
"Financial records proving theft. Proof of drugging. Testimony from Amber's friends about Tyler's involvement. Documentation of his pattern across multiple victims." Daemon stands. Paces. "It'll take months. Maybe longer. Can you handle that?"
"Yes."
"Can you handle seeing him? Smiling for him? Letting him touch you while you're planning his destruction?"
My stomach turns. The thought of Tyler's hands on me now makes my skin crawl. But running won't work. He'll find me. Control the narrative. Make me disappear.
"I can handle it," I say.
"You'll break. The psychological cost is massive."
"Then I'll break. But he'll go down first."
Daemon studies me. I see the moment he decides I'm serious. Decides I'm useful.
"All right. Here are my terms." He sits on the piano bench. Faces me directly. "You sign exclusively with my label. I produce your album. I control career decisions, public image, strategic moves. Everything goes through me."
Ice floods my chest. "So I trade Tyler's cage for yours."
"Yes." No apology. No softening. "Difference is I'm honest. I won't steal from you. Won't gaslight you. Won't drug you. But I will control the strategy. I will make decisions you might hate. And you will follow them because that's how this works."
I should run. This is exactly what I escaped. Another man dictating my life. Another person owning my choices.
But Daemon's not pretending. He's not wrapping control in concern. He's offering a transaction. My obedience for Tyler's destruction.
"What happens after?" I ask. "When Tyler's gone?"
"You still owe me an album. My terms. My timeline. After that, you're free to leave if you want."
"And if I say no now?"
"Then leave. I'll investigate Tyler on my own time. You'll go back to him or disappear or do whatever people do when they run from their problems. Either way, you're on your own."
The fluorescent lights overhead hum. Cold. Clinical. Through my synesthesia, Daemon's ultimatum glows pale blue. Ice and clarity. No warmth but no deception.
Tyler's promises always tasted like honey. Sweet and suffocating. Daemon's taste like steel. Sharp and clean.
"One condition," I say. "I keep seeing Tyler publicly. Play the loving fiancée. Convince him I'm coming back."
Daemon's eyebrows rise. "You want to voluntarily stay close to an abuser?"
"I want him to think he's winning while we gather evidence. If I disappear completely, he'll know I've turned against him."
"That'll destroy you. Pretending to love someone you hate."
"I've been doing it for a year already." The admission tastes like battery acid. "What's a few more months?"
Something shifts in Daemon's expression. Not quite respect. More like recognition. Like he's seeing someone as damaged and determined as himself.
"All right." He extends his hand. "We have a deal."
I shake it. His grip is firm. Callused. The handshake feels like signing away my soul. Maybe I am.
"So what now?" I ask.
"Now you go home. Back to Tyler. Apologize. Blame anxiety. Beg forgiveness."
My stomach revolts. "Tonight?"
"The longer you wait, the harder it gets. And the less believable your breakdown story becomes."
He's right. I hate that he's right.
"He'll want me to sign the contracts."
"Stall. Tell him you need therapy first. Need to be stable. He'll love that. Proves his narrative."
I stand. My legs feel unsteady. "What will you do?"
"Start digging. Financial records. Amber's autopsy. Security footage from that night. I'll find the connections Tyler thought he buried."
"And if he finds out I came here?"
"He won't. I'll call him in the morning. Concerned colleague checking in. He'll think I'm on his side." Daemon walks me to the door. "One more thing. You break, you crack, you tell him anything about this partnership, I'm out. I won't go down protecting you."
"Understood."
"And Stella?" He stops at the door. "What you're about to do requires lying to someone who knows you intimately. He'll look for cracks. For signs. You have to be perfect."
"I know."
"Then good luck."
I walk out into November cold. My car waits in the dark parking lot. Tyler's probably called twenty more times by now. Built his narrative. Convinced everyone I've lost my mind.
Time to prove him right.
I get in my car. Check my phone. Sixty-eight missed calls. Ninety-two texts.
Tyler's last message glows on the screen: "Baby, please. I'm so worried. Just tell me you're safe. I love you. Come home."
I type back with shaking hands: "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Can I come home?"
His response is instant: "Thank God. Yes. I'm here. I love you. We'll fix this together."
I start the engine and drive toward the apartment that stopped being home months ago. Toward the man I'm going to smile for while planning his destruction.
My hands grip the steering wheel so hard my knuckles go white.
This is going to break me. Daemon's right about that.
But Tyler's going down first.