Wife of the Rock God

I gave up my music journalism career, piece by piece, to build Nathaniel Roberts' country music empire.

He was my college sweetheart, my golden boy, the man I poured my soul into making a star.

Then, his new pop-country princess co-star, Gabrielle, called me, her voice sickeningly sweet, telling me Nathaniel' s credit card was maxed out.

She was in our bed, and I heard the rustle of our expensive sheets, the ones I picked out.

I didn' t scream, I didn' t cry.

I simply packed everything he ever bought me into garbage bags and told him to get out.

He laughed, calling me dramatic, but agreed to a divorce, assuming I was after a final payday.

He gave me a massive settlement and an iron-clad NDA, smugly believing he' d bought my silence and dignity.

Months later, his manager called, oozing fake sympathy, inviting me to a reality show, "Second Takes," for "closure."

I knew their true plan: to make me look pathetic, clinging to him so he could gently reject me, cleaning up his image after the cheating scandal.

They wanted me to be his public doormat, boosting his new duet with Gabrielle.

I sobbed into the phone, playing my part perfectly, swearing I missed him, begging to get him back.

But their elaborate scheme was about to backfire spectacularly.

They thought I wanted his heart, but I was about to go for his wallet, his freedom, and his entire career.

The moment went viral in six minutes.

On the live feed of "Second Takes," the nation's most controversial reality show, rock legend Ethan Lester, a man who hadn't been seen in public for five years, leaned in close to me.

He was supposed to be helping with my microphone, a simple, technical adjustment.

But then his lips brushed against my hair, a feather-light touch that lasted only a second.

He froze. I froze.

The cameras, the crew, the millions of people watching at home-everyone saw it.

An impossibly intimate gesture between two people who were supposed to be strangers, two people from different divorced celebrity couples, forced to live together and "swap" partners for television.

The internet exploded.

My reflection in the polished surface of the limousine window showed a woman I barely recognized. Jocelyn Clark, the washed-up ex-wife of country music' s golden boy, Nathaniel Roberts.

That' s who they thought I was. A nobody from a blue-collar background who got lucky, married a star, and couldn't let go after he dumped her.

They didn' t know Song Dongyi, the girl who clawed her way into a top-tier music journalism program, the one who could dissect a B-side with surgical precision.

They didn' t know I had sacrificed that career, piece by piece, to build Nathaniel' s. I wrote his early press releases, coached him for interviews, and used my connections to get his demos into the right hands.

Our divorce was brutal and public. It started the day his new co-star, Gabrielle Fuller, a saccharine pop-country princess, called me. She was also his high school sweetheart, a convenient fact his PR team loved.

"Jocelyn, honey," her voice was sickly sweet over the phone. "I just wanted to let you know, Nathaniel' s credit card is maxed out. I tried to buy this gorgeous little bracelet, but it got declined. Could you maybe call the bank for him?"

She was in his bed. I could hear the specific rustle of the expensive sheets he insisted on buying for our master bedroom.

I didn' t scream. I didn' t cry.

I walked into the closet, pulled out a garbage bag, and started filling it with every single thing he had ever bought me. The designer clothes, the jewelry, the shoes. All of it.

When he came home that night, I pointed to the bags.

"Get your things, and get out."

He was shocked. "What is this? Are you crazy?"

"I want a divorce, Nathaniel."

He laughed, a cruel, ugly sound. "A divorce? Over a credit card? Don' t be so dramatic."

But he saw the look in my eyes. The cold, dead finality of it. He wanted to be with Gabrielle, and this was his easy way out. He assumed I was just after his money, a final payday.

He gave me a massive settlement and an iron-clad NDA, his smug face telling me he thought he' d bought my silence and my dignity.

He was wrong.

Months later, his manager, a weasel named Rick, called me. His voice oozed false sympathy.

"Jocelyn, we have an opportunity. 'Second Takes.' It' s a chance for you and Nathaniel to get some closure, publicly."

I knew the real plan. I had a friend who worked for the network. I' d overheard the pitch call on speakerphone. Nathaniel' s team wanted me on the show to look desperate and pathetic. They would stage a reconciliation attempt, I would cling to him, and he would gently reject me, looking like a long-suffering saint. It would clean up his image after the cheating scandal and give a huge boost to the duet he was releasing with Gabrielle.

"He' s worried about you, Jocelyn," Rick continued. "He wants to make sure you' re okay."

I played my part perfectly. I cried. I told him how much I missed Nathaniel, how I' d do anything to get him back.

"I' ll do it," I sobbed into the phone.

Rick' s relief was palpable.

I hung up and immediately called my best friend, Maria. She was my former editor at Rolling Stone and was now one of the most powerful agents in the industry.

"The rat took the bait," I said, my voice steady now.

"Are you sure about this, Jo? This is a huge risk."

"I' m sure," I replied, looking at the stack of documents on my desk. Years of his financial records, receipts he' d carelessly left around, conversations I' d recorded. "He thinks I want his heart. But I' m coming for his wallet. And his freedom."

My true motive for being on this godforsaken show wasn' t reconciliation. It was to gather the last pieces of evidence I needed to prove Nathaniel Roberts was a world-class tax evader.

The show began in a flurry of camera flashes and fake smiles. The producers gathered the four of us on a soundstage designed to look like a cozy living room.

Nathaniel and Gabrielle sat on one sofa, holding hands and looking deeply into each other' s eyes for the cameras. It was a nauseating performance. The live comments scrolling on a nearby monitor were already fawning over them.

[OMG they are SO in love! #TeamNabrielle]

[He looks so much happier with her.]

[Jocelyn looks like she' s about to cry. So pathetic.]

Then the host announced the show' s big twist.

"You won' t be living with your exes," he boomed. "You' ll be swapping partners! Nathaniel, you' ll be paired with Gabrielle! And Jocelyn... you' ll be paired with Gabrielle' s ex-husband, the one and only Ethan Lester!"

The studio audience gasped. Nathaniel' s smile faltered. He had no idea Ethan was part of this. Neither did I.

Ethan Lester.

The name hit me like a physical blow. The reclusive rock god. The legend who swept the Grammys with his debut album a decade ago and then vanished. He was a ghost, a myth. And he was Gabrielle' s ex-husband from a marriage of convenience I knew nothing about.

He walked onto the stage from the shadows. He was taller than I remembered, his presence filling the entire room. He was dressed in simple black jeans and a worn t-shirt, his dark hair falling over his eyes. He looked tired, but the intensity was still there, burning just beneath the surface.

Our eyes met for a fraction of a second. There was no recognition in his. Just a cool, detached assessment.

We were all shipped off to a luxury lodge in the Rocky Mountains, a collection of rustic-chic cabins set against a backdrop of snow-capped peaks.

The first challenge was announced as soon as we settled into our separate cabins: the "heart rate challenge." We were all fitted with monitors, and the goal was to see which couple could generate the most "chemistry."

The show cut first to Nathaniel and Gabrielle. They went through the motions-a stilted conversation, a forced, awkward kiss. Their heart rates barely moved. Their off-screen affair had killed any on-screen spark. The live comments turned critical.

[This is so fake. I' m bored.]

[They have zero chemistry. What a joke.]

Then, the camera feed switched to my cabin. The door opened, and Ethan Lester walked in.

He was even more imposing up close. The air crackled with a tension that had nothing to do with the cameras. He walked toward me, his eyes dark and unreadable.

He extended his hand. "Ethan."

"Jocelyn," I said, my voice barely a whisper.

The moment my fingers touched his, the heart rate monitor on his wrist went haywire. It beeped erratically, the screen flashing an impossibly high number before flatlining completely.

A producer rushed in. "What happened? Is it broken?"

Ethan coolly pulled his hand away, his expression unchanged.

"Technical error," he said, his voice a low rumble. "It happens."

The viewers went wild. Nathaniel, watching from his own cabin, looked like he was about to have an aneurysm.

Our team, Jocelyn and Ethan, had "failed" the challenge because of his suspiciously low heart rate after the malfunction. The producers, loving the drama, announced our "punishment."

We weren't staying in the luxury lodge.

We were being sent to a run-down motel on the outskirts of Nashville. A place that looked hauntingly familiar.

The peeling paint, the buzzing neon sign, the smell of stale cigarettes and regret. It was a place from a past I had buried long ago. A past I had shared with him.

The motel room was a perfect replica of hell. The wallpaper was a sickly yellow, peeling in damp strips near a window that wouldn't quite close. The single bed sagged in the middle, its floral bedspread stained with a history I didn't want to contemplate. It was a world away from the luxury lodge, and a painful echo of a life I' d fought to escape.

This was our punishment. This was supposed to humiliate me, to reinforce the narrative that I was nothing without Nathaniel' s money.

But for me and Ethan, it was something else entirely.

It was a ghost.

The setting triggered a flood of memories from a summer ten years ago. I was Song Dongyi then, a college student working a dead-end waitressing job, renting a tiny, bug-infested room to save money. He was Cheng Ji, a scruffy, 18-year-old runaway with a guitar case and nothing else.

I found him sleeping on a park bench near my apartment, looking half-starved and defiant. Against my better judgment, I took him in. He crashed on my floor, and for one sweltering, secret summer, we shared that tiny room. We shared instant ramen, cheap beer, and dreams that felt impossibly big. We fell into a passionate, desperate kind of love, hidden away from the world in a room numbered 207.

Back in the present, the flickering fluorescent light of the motel room cast long, dancing shadows on the walls. It was the same unsteady, rhythmic flicker as the light in room 207.

My phone buzzed. It was a voice message from Nathaniel. I didn' t want to listen, but the cameras were on me, waiting for a reaction. I pressed play.

"Jocelyn," his voice was a slick, manipulative purr. "I saw the motel. I' m so sorry they' re doing this to you. You don' t belong in a place like that. You belong in a palace, with me. Just say the word, and I' ll get you out of there. I miss you."

It was a performance for the cameras, a way to make himself look like the caring, heartbroken ex. It was disgusting.

Ethan, who had been silently unpacking a small bag in the corner, heard the whole thing. He looked over at me, his expression unreadable.

He held up two plastic-wrapped packages. "He' s offering you a palace. I' m offering you instant ramen. Your choice."

A small, genuine smile touched my lips for the first time in what felt like years.

"Ramen," I said, without hesitation. "Definitely ramen."

The charged atmosphere in the room was thick enough to cut with a knife. The flickering light, the shared meal, the unspoken memories hanging between us. It was too much.

"Why don' t you fix that light?" I asked, my voice tight. "It' s driving me crazy."

Ethan looked up from his noodles, his dark eyes meeting mine. The silence stretched on for a long moment.

"I didn' t fix it on purpose," he finally said, his voice low and soft. "It reminds me of a promise I made a long time ago."

My breath caught in my throat. I remembered. A hot summer night in room 207, the light flickering just like this one. I' d been complaining about it, and he had laughed.

He had taken my face in his hands and said, "Don' t fix it. From now on, every time a light flickers, it means I' m thinking of you."

I stared at him, my heart pounding in my chest. He remembered. After all these years, after everything, he remembered.

The unspoken tension between us was no longer just tension. It was a live wire, sparking in the dim, flickering light of that cheap motel room.