Chapter 1

The Bluebird Cafe was packed, noise buzzing like a loose guitar string.

I leaned against the dark wood paneling, trying to look casual, like I belonged.

But my stomach twisted.

Every songwriter showcase felt like a test I was taking for Jax.

He should have been here.

His songs, his connections.

But Jax was home, a prisoner in our quiet house on the outskirts of Nashville.

"His anxiety," he always said. "You know I can't, Sally-Lynn."

So I went. I smiled. I handed out his demo CDs.

For seven years, I' d been his legs, his voice, his shield.

Sarah-Lynn Walker, wife of the brilliant, broken Jackson Pierce.

I used to be a guitarist. A damn good one.

My band was getting noticed right when Jax... right when the flood happened.

I chose him. His talent was a wildfire, too bright to let die.

Mine could wait. That' s what I told myself.

A familiar face, a record producer Jax wanted to impress, nodded at me from across the room.

I forced a bigger smile, raised a hand.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. Probably Jax, wondering if I' d cornered the guy yet.

I pulled it out, a knot tightening in my chest.

He was supposed to be having his video therapy session with Dr. Croft.

Melody Croft. His "life coach."

The one who "understood his creative soul" in ways I apparently didn't anymore.

I told myself checking the home security feed was just to make sure he was okay, that the session wasn't making him too agitated.

A small, stupid comfort.

The app connected, pixels sharpening into our living room.

Jax was there.

And so was Dr. Croft.

Not on a video call.

She was there. In our house.

My breath hitched.

Jax wasn't anxious. He was animated, alive, leaning over a guitar with her.

Not just any guitar.

My mother' s vintage Martin. The one he always called "old junk."

He was strumming, head tilted towards Dr. Croft, a soft smile on his face I hadn' t seen directed at me in years.

She laughed, a throaty sound the phone' s mic picked up too clearly.

Her hand rested on his arm.

Then, she leaned in.

He met her halfway.

A kiss. Long, slow, sickeningly intimate.

The audio crackled. Snippets of a song.

A beautiful, aching melody.

His voice, raw with emotion.

"...found my muse in the darkest night..."

Lyrics I' d never heard. A passion he' d never shared with me.

The phone nearly slipped from my numb fingers.

The room, the music, the producer – it all faded to a dull roar.

My face burned.

Someone beside me, a fellow musician, glanced over.

"Sally? You alright? You look like you've seen a ghost."

Whispers started. Heads turned.

The Bluebird suddenly felt like a fishbowl, and I was the dying fish.

I had to get out.

I pushed through the crowd, mumbling apologies, not seeing where I was going.

The cool night air hit my face, but I couldn't breathe.

Betrayal.

It wasn't a ghost I'd seen.

It was the death of a dream I' d poured my life into.