He Called Her His Muse on Our Fifth Anniversary

Lennon's POV

I've been in the kitchen for three hours straight. The steak is seared to a perfect medium-rare, the asparagus roasted just right, and the chocolate lava cake—Callum's favorite—sits cooling on the counter. I had to follow a YouTube tutorial twice before I got it right.

Five years. Five years ago today, we signed papers at city hall and celebrated with tacos at that little Mexican place downtown. We were both broke back then, but I remember Callum saying, "When I make it, I'll give you the world." Now he's made it. And all I want is dinner.

I slip into the navy dress—the one Callum said brings out my eyes. Light the candles. Arrange everything on the table like those magazine spreads. Phone on silent. Tonight is supposed to be just us.

Seven o'clock. Callum said he'd be home by six-thirty. I cover the steak with foil to keep it warm. Seven-fifteen. I text: "Where are you?" Seven-thirty. Read. No reply.

I pour myself a glass of wine and tell myself not to panic. He's been busy lately, the company's prepping a new album launch. I get it. I always get it. Then my phone screen lights up. Not Callum's response. A push notification: "Sterling Records Celebration Concert—LIVE NOW!" My finger hovers over the screen for three seconds. I tap it.

The stage is blazing with lights. Callum stands center, wearing that charcoal suit I helped him pick out. Microphone in hand, smiling at the camera.

"Tonight's a special night for Sterling Records," he says. "Our new album, Echoes, just got nominated for a Grammy." Applause erupts. I'm frozen on the couch. A celebration. He went to a celebration. Today is our anniversary.

"This album is the result of our entire team's dedication," Callum continues, "but there's one person who's the soul of it all." My heart lurches. Maybe he's about to thank me on camera. Maybe he's finally going to acknowledge that I wrote those songs.

"Let's welcome Sterling Records' Creative Director," he extends his hand, "Celeste Monroe." A blonde woman glides onto the stage. Red dress. Perfect smile. Callum hugs her. Not a professional hug. The kind where his arm wraps around her waist. The kind that lasts three full seconds.

"Celeste," Callum says into the mic, his eyes fixed on her face, "you're the real muse behind this album. Without you, there'd be no Echoes." She takes the microphone, beaming. "This is our shared achievement—"

I close the video. My hands are shaking. The wine spills from my glass onto the navy dress, spreading like a bloodstain.

Five years. How many songs have I written for him in five years? Twenty-three. Twenty-three songs that charted. Every original demo is on my laptop. Every handwritten draft in my notebook. But the copyright credits always read "Sterling Records." "Our," he said. "Shared achievement," she said.

I grab my car keys.

I'm driving too fast. Running yellow lights, nearly clipping a taxi. But I have to go. I have to ask him to his face how he could forget. How today, of all days, he could just forget.

The venue is downtown at Ryman Auditorium. Luxury cars line the block, photographers clustered around the red carpet. I find the backstage entrance. A security guard blocks my path.

"Sorry, ma'am. Private event tonight."

"I'm Callum Sterling's wife." He looks me up and down, his gaze lingering on the wine stain.

"You have an invitation?"

"I don't need an invitation. I'm his wife—"

"Everyone accessing backstage needs a pass," he says flatly. "No exceptions."

I take a breath. Pull out my phone and call Callum. No answer. I try again. Still nothing.

"Ma'am, if you don't have a pass, you need to leave." His hand moves to his radio.

That's when the backstage door swings open. Callum and Celeste step out. They're standing close. She's laughing, her hand resting on his arm.

"That song should've had my name on it," I hear her say, voice teasing. "After all, you were thinking of me when you wrote it, weren't you?"

Callum laughs. "Celeste—"

"I'm serious," she reaches up to touch his face, the gesture intimate enough to make my stomach turn. "Every time I see just Sterling Records in the credits, it feels unfair."

"You know how copyright works," Callum says, but he doesn't move her hand away. "All the company songs are credited that way."

"Even Lennon's songs?" My name from her mouth sounds like a joke.

"Lennon doesn't worry about that stuff anymore," Callum says, a hint of impatience creeping in. "She's focused on writing at home. She doesn't like these social things." Focused on writing. Doesn't like social things. That's his version. Not mine.

I open my mouth to call out to him. But my voice catches. Because Celeste rises on her toes and whispers something in his ear. Callum laughs, that relaxed, genuine laugh I haven't heard in months. Then they turn and walk back inside. The door shuts in my face.

The guard looks at me. "Ma'am. Please leave." I turn toward the parking lot. My legs feel like lead.

I sit in my car for I don't know how long. Until my phone lights up. Callum's text: "Sorry about tonight, had work. I'll make it up to you tomorrow." Work.

I drive home in a daze. The steak is cold. The candles have burned out. The lava cake has collapsed in on itself. I throw everything in the trash. Then I open my laptop and find that video from five years ago.

I'm on a tiny stage at a bar in East Nashville, guitar in my hands, singing a song I wrote. There are maybe twenty people in the crowd. But they're all listening. Really listening. The me in that video has bright eyes and a real smile. I barely recognize her.

At two in the morning, I hear the door unlock. Callum stumbles in, reeking of alcohol, his tie askew, suit jacket draped over his arm. He sees me on the couch and freezes.

"You're still up?"

"Today was our anniversary." My voice comes out calm.

Panic flashes across his face, then morphs into irritation. "Lennon, you know how important tonight was for the company. The Grammy nomination—this is what we've been working toward for five years."

"It was our anniversary."

"It's just a date," he tosses his jacket on the chair. "We can celebrate another day. Why do you always have to be so—" He stops.

"So what?"

"Nothing." He rubs his temples. "I'm drunk. Let's talk tomorrow."

"What were you about to say?" I stand up. "Say it."

"Forget it, Lennon—"

"Say it!"

"So unreasonable!" He whips around, finally exploding. "You know how much pressure I'm under? The company, the investors, the new album—I deal with a hundred things every day, and then I come home to your drama. Celeste never pulls this shit. She understands what it means to have a career, what it means to prioritize—" The air goes still. He realizes what he's said.

"Lennon—"

"Get out."

"I didn't mean it like that—"

"Get out!" I'm shouting now. "Get the fuck out!"

He stares at me for several seconds. Then slams the door behind him. I hear his car start, tires screeching on the driveway. Then silence.

I sink to the floor. My laptop screen is still glowing. Five-years-ago me is still singing. That girl who believed in love, in music, in Callum Sterling. I reach over and close the video. But in that split second before the screen goes dark, I catch my reflection. Exhausted face. Hollow eyes. A stranger. When did she disappear? That girl singing in the bar? I can't remember anymore.