The Unseen Empress of Sound

My belly swollen, nine months in, I clutched the counter as a brutal contraction stole my breath.

"Ethan," I gasped, "I think it's the baby. It's too early."

He didn't even glance up from his phone, scrolling through pictures of Sabrina Chavez, the singer who' d stolen my song.

"Not now, Jocelyn," he drawled, "I'm dealing with a crisis." He meant Sabrina's stylist sent the wrong shoes.

Not impending premature birth.

Another wave of pain hit, sharper.

I saw red on my legs.

But he took my phone and keys. "You're going to sit down, drink some water, and stop trying to sabotage the biggest night of my career." He left, the door clicking like a coffin lid.

An hour later, I was bleeding on the floor, the storm had knocked out the landlines, and the front door was locked.

When help finally came, it was Ethan' s mother, who called my pain "theatrics," then shoved me into the dark, damp storm cellar, filled with corrosive cleaner.

My baby died there, in the acid, in the dark.

I should have died. I did die, to the world.

But my father, the reclusive music legend Jackson Fuller, saved me. Now, the old Jocelyn is gone, burned away.

And from the ashes, a new one has risen. And she wants revenge.

The first contraction hit me like a sledgehammer, a brutal clench deep in my belly that stole my breath.

I stumbled against the cold marble of the kitchen island, my hand flying to the swell of my stomach. Nine months. Almost to the day.

"Ethan," I gasped, the word barely a whisper.

He didn't look up from his phone. He was scrolling through pictures from the pre-CMA party, his thumb moving with a slick, practiced speed. On the screen, Sabrina Chavez glittered in a dress made of what looked like diamonds and moonlight.

"Not now, Jocelyn," he said, his voice flat. "I'm dealing with a crisis."

Another wave of pain seized me, sharper this time. I felt a dampness between my legs.

"Ethan, I think... I think it's the baby. It's too early."

He finally looked at me, but his eyes were cold, annoyed. "A crisis, Jocelyn, means Sabrina's stylist sent the wrong shoes. Not whatever little drama you're cooking up to ruin my night."

My night. Not our night. His night.

Sabrina was nominated for "Song of the Year." The song was "Whiskey-Stained Lies." I wrote it. Every word, every chord, bled from a late night with a cheap guitar and a broken heart. He'd promised me credit, a future. Instead, he gave the song, and apparently himself, to her.

"I'm not faking," I said, my voice trembling. "I fell. Earlier, on the porch steps. Something's wrong."

He sighed, a long, theatrical sound of pure exasperation. He stood up, walked over, and took my phone from the counter. Then he picked up my car keys from the hook by the door.

"You're not going anywhere," he said calmly. "You're going to sit down, drink some water, and stop trying to sabotage the biggest night of my career. Of Sabrina's career."

He gestured around the sterile, white-on-white farmhouse he was so proud of. Isolated. Miles down a private road. No neighbors for a long, long way.

"You always do this," he continued, his voice dropping to that low, reasonable tone he used when he was about to break me. "You get jealous, you get insecure, and you create a problem. You can't stand to see me succeed with someone else."

Tears welled in my eyes. "She stole my song, Ethan."

"She made your song a hit," he corrected. "You should be grateful. Now, I'm going to the awards. I'll be back late. Don't call me unless the house is on fire. And even then, think twice."

He turned and walked out, the door clicking shut behind him, a sound as final as a coffin lid closing. I was alone, trapped, and the pain was getting worse.

An hour later, I was on the floor, curled in a ball on a ridiculously expensive white rug. The pain was constant now, a grinding, relentless agony. I was bleeding more. I knew, with a terrifying certainty, that this was not normal.

I crawled to the front door, my hands shaking as I tried the knob. Locked. Of course.

I dragged myself to the landline on the wall, the one he insisted we keep for "emergencies." I dialed 911. A busy signal. Again. And again. The storm that had rolled through earlier must have knocked out the lines.

Panic, cold and sharp, set in.

"Ethan!" I screamed, my voice raw. "Ethan, please!"

I knew he couldn't hear me. He was probably on the red carpet by now, his arm possessively around Sabrina's tiny waist, smiling for the cameras.

I tried his cell again from the landline, my fingers fumbling with the numbers. It went straight to voicemail. His voice, smooth and professional, filled the silence. "You've reached Ethan Scott. I'm currently unavailable. Leave a message."

I left a message. A desperate, sobbing plea. Then another. And another.

The front door opened.

For a second, a wave of pure relief washed over me. He came back. He heard me.

But it wasn't Ethan. It was his mother, Mrs. Scott, dressed in a silk pantsuit, her face a mask of contempt.

"What is all this screaming about?" she demanded, her eyes scanning me on the floor with disgust. "You'll have the whole of Nashville thinking we murder people out here."

"The baby," I choked out. "It's coming. Something's wrong. You have to take me to a hospital."

She laughed. A short, ugly sound. "Oh, please. The theatrics. You just can't stand it, can you? That Ethan is finally with someone of his own class. Someone who can advance his career, not drag it down into the dirt you came from."

"I'm not lying!" I cried, a fresh wave of pain making me arch my back. "Look!"

I pointed to the blood staining the white rug.

Her eyes flickered to the stain, and for a moment, I thought I saw a flicker of something else. Fear? Concern? But it was gone in an instant, replaced by that same icy disdain.

"You're trying to trap him," she said, her voice low and vicious. "Just like you trapped him with this... this mistake."

She pulled out her phone. "I'm calling Ethan. He needs to know the lengths you'll go to for attention."

I listened, helpless, as she got him on the phone. Her voice was syrupy sweet. "Ethan, darling, don't worry. I'm here. Jocelyn is just having one of her episodes. A little tantrum because she's not the center of attention."

She paused, listening. "No, no, she's fine. Just making a mess. You focus on Sabrina. Win that award. I'll handle this."

She hung up and looked down at me, a cruel smile playing on her lips.

"He said to make sure you learn your lesson."

She grabbed my arm, her nails digging into my skin, and started dragging me toward the back of the house. Toward the storm cellar.

"You want to be dramatic?" she hissed, her face close to mine. "Let's see how you like some real drama."

She wrenched open the heavy cellar door, revealing a set of steep, concrete steps leading down into the darkness. The air that rose up was cold and smelled of damp earth and mold.

"He told me to put you in here to reflect on your jealousy," she said, shoving me toward the opening.

I lost my footing. I tumbled down the steps, my body hitting the hard concrete with a series of sickening thuds. I landed in a heap on the floor below, in an inch of frigid, dirty water that had seeped in from the storm.

The heavy door slammed shut above me, plunging me into absolute darkness. The lock scraped into place.

I was alone, in the dark, in the cold water, and my baby was dying.