Chapter 4

"I understand, Elara. The original composition always held a stronger resonance. Ten days. The countdown begins now." The system's voice was devoid of judgment, a calm, neutral presence. Then, silence again.

The apartment, once filled with music and laughter, felt like a tomb. I wiped my eyes and started to pack. Not to take things with me, but to erase myself.

This world, Liam's world, held nothing for me anymore.

I pulled my clothes from the closet, a mix of thrift-store finds and a few nicer pieces I'd bought for performances. They all reeked of compromise and stale memories. I stuffed them into garbage bags.

The walls were covered with framed photos of us, of the band. Smiling, happy strangers. I took them down, one by one. Our wedding photo, taken on a shoestring budget in a small New Orleans courtyard, went first. Liam's eyes in that photo, so full of adoration. It felt like a lifetime ago.

My wedding ring. A simple silver band we'd bought from a street vendor in the French Market. It had felt more precious than any diamond. I hadn't worn it in over a year, not since I saw Kendra sporting a delicate gold band on her left hand, a gift from Liam, "just a token of appreciation for her hard work."

I held my simple silver ring, then threw it into the trash bag with the clothes.

The shared instruments, the recording equipment... most of it was technically in my name. When we started, Liam was a financial mess. I'd handled the contracts, the bank accounts. The band's assets, our small recording studio, even the publishing rights to our early songs – a lot of it was legally mine. Dreamweaver had assured me these would be "converted" into a form of compensation upon my return.

I found the master tapes of our first, unreleased EP, the one we'd poured our hearts into before the fame, before Kendra. I almost threw them away. But I couldn't. I tucked them into a small, unassuming box. Maybe some part of that early music was still pure.

The next morning, Liam found me in the kitchen, drinking coffee. The walls were bare.

"What the hell happened in here?" he asked, his voice rough with sleep and suspicion. "Where are the photos?"

I sipped my coffee. "Redecorating."

He stared at me, his eyes narrowed. "You're acting weird, Chloe. Weirder than usual."

I shrugged. "Maybe I'm just tired of the old look."

He came closer, peering at my face. "Are you okay?" There was a flicker of something in his eyes – concern? Or just annoyance at my disruption of his carefully constructed double life?

"Never better," I said, my voice flat.

He didn't believe me. He knew me too well. Or at least, he used to.

Later that day, he tried to be affectionate. He brought me flowers – cheap gas station carnations, Kendra's favorite color. He tried to initiate a conversation about a new song idea, something about forgiveness and second chances.

I just looked at him, at the faint lipstick smudge on his collar that wasn't my shade, at the way his hand, reaching for mine, still smelled faintly of that jasmine perfume.

"Liam," I said, my voice devoid of any emotion. "Don't."

He recoiled as if I'd slapped him.

The remaining nine days passed in a blur of forced politeness and simmering tension. I was a ghost in my own home, counting down the hours.