Chapter 3: Why Did You Stop Making Music?

Lennon's POV

Sullivan's email arrives just after midnight. Short and direct: "Lennon, if things are as you described, you need evidence. Real evidence."

So I book a flight.

Callum told me three days ago he had an "important business meeting" in LA. Said he'd be back today. I pull up our joint credit card statement and find what I'm looking for. Beverly Wilshire Hotel. Luxury suite. Two nights.

I land at seven in the morning and take a cab straight to the hotel. Standing in the marble lobby, I almost laugh at myself. Five years of marriage and this is my first time doing something like this. Tracking my husband. Checking hotel records. Like some cliché from a bad TV movie. But I'm not being paranoid. I just want the truth.

A concierge walks by and I flag him down. "Excuse me, could you tell me what room Callum Sterling is in? I'm his wife and I wanted to surprise him." I show him my license. The young guy hesitates, then checks his computer. "Room 808. But Mr. Sterling booked a double suite with a companion registered under—"

"I know," I cut him off. "Thank you."

I find a seat in the lobby facing the elevators and order coffee. Then I wait. At eight-thirty, the elevator doors slide open. Callum and Celeste step out. Both wearing white hotel bathrobes. Hair damp. Like they just got out of the shower. They're laughing about something, her hand looped through his arm. Comfortable. Natural. Like they've done this a hundred times before.

I raise my phone and start taking photos. Every angle. Every intimate gesture. Then I stand up and walk toward them.

"Morning."

Callum's head whips around. His expression shifts from relaxed to shocked in less than a second. "Lennon? What are you doing here?"

"Business meeting?" I glance pointedly at his bathrobe. "Looks pretty casual."

Celeste drops his arm but keeps that smile plastered on. "Lennon, you're in LA too? You should've said something. We could've all—"

"Showered together?"

Her smile freezes. Callum jumps in, "You've got this all wrong. We were talking business until late last night, got tired, hit the hotel gym for a swim—"

"So you booked a double suite to make post-swim showers more convenient?"

"What's with the tone?" His voice gets that edge to it. "We're colleagues. Traveling together for work is completely normal."

"Wandering around the hotel lobby in bathrobes is normal too?"

People around us start to notice. Whispers. Phones coming out. Callum grabs my arm and pulls me toward a quiet corner. "Can you stop? In front of all these people—"

I yank my arm free. "What are you going to call me this time? Paranoid? Crazy? Unreasonable? Go ahead, Callum. Pick your favorite word."

"This really is just a business trip," he insists. "The necklace thing was a coincidence. Celeste gave me one years ago when we first met in college, it was—"

He stops. Realizes what he just said. Celeste's face changes too.

"A gift from college," I repeat slowly. "So that necklace was from her? Before we even got married?"

Silence.

"I misspoke," Callum stammers. "That's not—"

"Let's not pretend anymore." Celeste's voice loses its sweetness. "Lennon, since you're here, I'll just say it. Yes, Callum and I are close. Very close. But so what? We're work partners. Creative partners. You should understand that art requires real connection."

"Creative partners. So you slept together."

"Lennon!" Callum explodes. "Can you not be so vulgar?"

"Just answer the question."

"We haven't," he snaps. "We're just close. But we haven't crossed any lines."

"Then what were you doing in the same room last night?"

"Working!"

"In bathrobes."

"After we went swimming—"

"Stop." I turn to leave. Celeste calls after me. "Lennon, if you're so miserable, just get divorced. You're only with Callum because he needs your songs, right? Now that the company's stable, you can both move on."

I stop walking. Turn around. Look at her perfectly made-up face, smug with victory.

"Thanks for the suggestion," I say. "I'll think about it."

I press the elevator button. My hands won't stop shaking. The doors open. A woman in her thirties with a camera bag is inside. She looks at me and her eyes go wide.

"Oh my god. You're Lennon Wright, aren't you?"

I freeze.

"I'm such a fan! Five years ago I saw you perform in East Nashville. That song you sang, 'Satellite'—it saved my life. I mean it."

Tears sting my eyes. I force them back.

"Why did you stop making music?" She's still talking, excited and genuine. "I kept waiting for your next album but you just disappeared. Your Instagram went silent."

The elevator doors close. I lean against the wall, suddenly exhausted.

"I got married."

"Oh." She smiles. "Congratulations. But you're still making music, right? You're so talented—"

"I don't know."

The elevator reaches the lobby. She steps out, then turns back. "I hope I get to hear you sing again someday. Really. The world needs your voice."

The doors slide shut. I'm alone, staring at my blurred reflection in the steel. Five years. Five years since anyone recognized me. Since anyone asked why I stopped. I want to know the answer too. When did I go from Lennon Wright to "Callum's wife"? When did my name become the smallest print on copyright credits? When did I accept all of this?

The elevator opens on the eighth floor. I walk to my room—yes, I booked my own because I'm not going back with him—and pull out my laptop. Open my recording software. Put my fingers on the guitar strings. For the first time in five years, I start writing a song for myself. Not for Callum. Not for Sterling Records. Not for anyone else. Just me.

"You made me small, you took my name, called it love but it was shame..."

I write and cry at the same time. Three hours later, I have a finished song. "Ghost Writer." About the person hiding behind someone else. The one everyone forgot.

I save the demo and see eight missed calls from Callum. A dozen texts. "Where are you?" "We need to talk." "Don't do anything stupid." "I can explain." The last one came an hour ago: "I booked an 8pm flight back to Nashville. You coming?"

It's six o'clock now. I type back: "No. I'll get home on my own." Then I turn off my phone and lie on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

My phone rings again. Different number. "Hello?"

"Ms. Wright?" A nurse's voice. "This is Saint Thomas Hospital. Your test results are back from last week's checkup."

"What?"

"Your bloodwork shows you're pregnant. About six weeks. Congratulations."

I hear myself say, "Thank you," and hang up. I walk to the window and look out at the LA skyline.

The sun is setting, painting the whole sky blood red.