tal hallway hummed, a stark contras

bodied spectator to my own funeral, then my parents'

d, the music producer I'd tr

t," the one he'd called a "true genius"

tation. "Plagiarist," the internet had screamed. "Fraud." The shame

dark

e "Tomorrow's Country Star" finale.

ned face, words like "early stages," "larynx," "treatment options." I'd brushed

asn't a looming threat; it

issions desk, my st

, betraying none of the storm inside. "With Dr. Albrig

, a flicker of surp

amily history. I wa

lt smooth,

he risks, the potential for permanent voice alteration. In the

alm. "I've made my decision. I want the surgery that ensures... m

g. "Are you sure, Emily?

m off, a cold resolv

sealing a pact with a devil I knew,

l would ta

I stole a song I cou

ttany, the "geniu

e narrative w