On the eve of the Grammys, I stared at the television broadcast as Julian proudly credited my most intimate love songs as the independent creation of pop diva Stella. He calmly justified the plagiarism to my face as a strategic marriage to secure her audience, demanding I continue to endure in silence. Realizing there was no "us," I yanked out the encrypted hard drive containing every original Logic Pro file and exact timestamp. Walking away meant incinerating five years of my youth and purest devotion, forcing me to publicly tear open my pathetic history as his willing ghost. In the freezing rain, I watched his keepsakes burn before dialing Arthur Vance, his fiercest rival. The global release countdown was ticking, but would this dangerous alliance save me, or bury me completely?