Chapter 2

I woke to the smell of coffee and the suffocating silence of the penthouse. The morning light filtering through the blinds felt harsh, accusatory. On a chair in the corner of the bedroom, the sequined costume from last night lay in a heap, glittering like a pile of broken glass. It wasn't a bad dream.

I sat up, my head pounding. The morning sickness was a dull, constant ache in my stomach, a physical reminder of the secret I was keeping.

Liam walked in, a tray in his hands. He was smiling, his "perfect fiancé" mask back in place. He placed the tray, holding a cup of coffee and a croissant, on the bedside table.

"Morning, sleepyhead," he said, his voice smooth and warm. He leaned in to kiss my forehead. I flinched.

He pulled back slightly, his eyes narrowing for a fraction of a second before the charming smile returned. "You were incredible last night. A true star. The media is going crazy. Scarlett's comeback is the only thing anyone is talking about."

He was testing me. He wanted to know how much I remembered, how much I had pieced together.

"It's all a blur," I said, keeping my voice neutral, my eyes on the coffee cup. "The lights, the noise... it was a lot."

"You handled it like a pro," he said, sitting on the edge of the bed. "I knew you had it in you. That little glitch was nothing, the tech guys said it was just a power surge. No one even noticed."

He was lying. I had seen the confusion on the faces in the front row. I had heard the gasp.

I decided to push back, just a little. I looked at him, trying to keep my expression one of naive confusion. "It just felt... strange. Performing like that. Almost like I was someone else."

I watched his face carefully. The smile didn't vanish, but it tightened at the edges. A flicker of annoyance crossed his eyes before he masked it.

"That's the magic of it, Ava," he said, his tone condescendingly gentle. "It's performance art. You're channeling an energy, an icon. You should be proud."

His phone buzzed on the nightstand. He glanced at the caller ID, and a genuine smile, one of smug satisfaction, touched his lips. He stood up and walked towards the balcony, thinking I couldn't hear.

"Hey, Mark," he said, his voice low but sharp with excitement. "Yeah, it was flawless... she bought it completely. Thinks it's all some big 'artistic project'."

I froze, the coffee cup halfway to my lips. Mark was his manager.

"No, she's completely under control," Liam continued, his back to me. "A bit of an emotional moment last night, but I handled it. The Scarlett hologram is the real star here, we just need the body to make it work. A few more shows, we secure the reunion tour deal, and then... well, we'll see if we still need her."

The words hit me one by one, cold and precise. We'll see if we still need her. I wasn't his partner. I wasn't even an artist he was producing. I was a tool. A placeholder. A disposable component in his grand scheme to resurrect his past glory with Scarlett.

A memory, sharp and painful, flashed in my mind. It was from a year ago, when we had just started dating. We were in my small, cluttered apartment, surrounded by my guitars and handwritten lyric sheets. He' d held my face in his hands, his eyes full of what I thought was adoration.

"Your voice, Ava," he' d said. "It' s so pure, so real. But imagine what we could do with it. We could take that raw talent and polish it, make you the biggest thing in the world."

I had believed him. I had let him into my music, into my soul. He started with small suggestions. "Try singing this line a little higher, more breathy." "Let's use this vocal effect, it's what's popular now." "That song is too personal, too dark. Let's write something more universal."

Each suggestion was a small chip away at my identity. He isolated me from my old bandmates, telling me they were holding me back. He convinced me to move into his penthouse, away from the creative chaos of my own space. He slowly, methodically, groomed me.

The sound of his voice from the balcony snapped me back to the present. He was laughing with Mark now, celebrating their victory. My victory, he had called it last night.

I placed the coffee cup back on the tray, my hand perfectly steady. The nausea was gone, replaced by a cold, hard certainty. The love was a lie. The promises were traps. He wasn't building me up; he was hollowing me out to make room for someone else.

I looked down at my flat stomach. This baby. This tiny, secret life. It wasn't just a complication anymore. It was a reason. A reason to fight back. He thought I was a puppet he could control and discard. He was about to find out how wrong he was. My determination hardened into a silent, unshakeable vow. I would not be erased.