Chapter 1

The fluorescent lights of the hospital hallway hummed, a stark contrast to the roaring silence in my head.

Just hours ago, I was... elsewhere. Watching. A disembodied spectator to my own funeral, then my parents' grief, then the sickening triumph of Jake and Brittany.

Jake Myers, my once-boyfriend, the music producer I'd trusted with my songs, my heart.

Brittany Sloane, his "college sweetheart," the one he'd called a "true genius" while secretly feeding her my melodies.

They built their careers on my stolen song, on the ashes of my reputation. "Plagiarist," the internet had screamed. "Fraud." The shame had been a living thing, coiling around me until I couldn't breathe.

Then, darkness.

And now, this. Back. Back before the "Tomorrow's Country Star" finale. Back before the public crucifixion.

A chilling memory surfaced from the previous, doomed timeline: a doctor's concerned face, words like "early stages," "larynx," "treatment options." I'd brushed it off then, blinded by the upcoming competition. My final masterpiece before...

This time, the diagnosis wasn't a looming threat; it was a twisted opportunity.

I walked to the admissions desk, my steps heavy but sure.

"I'm here for a consultation," I said, my voice steady, betraying none of the storm inside. "With Dr. Albright. It's about a... preventative vocal cord procedure."

The nurse looked up, a flicker of surprise. "Preventative?"

"Yes," I said. "A family history. I want to be proactive."

The lie felt smooth, necessary.

Later, sitting across from Dr. Albright, I listened again to the risks, the potential for permanent voice alteration. In the last life, those words terrified me. Now, they were a lifeline.

"I understand the risks, Doctor," I said, my voice a little too calm. "I've made my decision. I want the surgery that ensures... minimal strain. Even if it means I can't sing professionally again."

He looked at me, searching. "Are you sure, Emily? For a singer, this is..."

"I'm sure," I cut him off, a cold resolve hardening my gaze.

Signing the consent forms felt like sealing a pact with a devil I knew, to escape one I couldn't fight fairly.

The scalpel would take my voice.

Let them try to say I stole a song I couldn't physically sing.

Let's see how Brittany, the "genius," explained that.

This time, the narrative would be mine.