Unsharing His Voice

Nobody knew that Noah’s voice—his pitch-perfect resonance, his effortless vocal agility, his stage presence—had been tethered to mine through a talent-share bond. On the very night I finally propelled him to the zenith of pop stardom, he looked at me with cold defiance. "I’m going to propose to Cynthia on stage tonight. In front of twenty thousand people." My heart broke, but worse was my dread: an unsanctioned stunt like that would destroy the tour and breach his multi-million-dollar contract. In my past life, terrified of seeing his career implode, I went straight to the arena promoters and had the grand gesture stripped from the run-of-show. Cynthia, humiliated, fled the country on a red-eye. Three weeks later, she died in a fiery highway collision in southern France. Noah went live on every platform, weeping, pointing his finger at the camera, and telling the world I had murdered her. Soon after, a pack of rabid online fanatics tracked down my apartment. A kitchen knife plunged deep into my lower abdomen, twisting until the world went dark. When I opened my eyes again, the phantom cold of steel was still lingering in my gut. I was back in the greenroom on the afternoon he announced his grand plan. 1. "I’m selling out arenas, Avery. Is it really that hard to let Cynthia share one damn song?" Noah tapped his knuckles impatiently against the glass boardroom table. "She went through hell in Europe. I’m giving her a platform—what is your problem? Must you turn every single thing into a fight?" Before I could breathe, our band leader, Damon, slammed the rehearsal itinerary onto the table in front of me. "Noah carries this entire outfit on his back every single day," Damon snapped, leaning in so close I could smell the stale vape juice on his breath. "What have you ever done besides hum a few backing harmonies? Just because you have the title of girlfriend doesn't mean every good thing belongs to you." "Seriously," chimed Trent, the rhythm guitarist. "The minute Cynthia touched down at JFK, the press went crazy. Do you have that kind of pull? Didn’t think so." The rest of the guys crowded around Noah, clamoring over the newly minted commemorative tour posters. Cynthia’s name was embossed in oversized gold foil across the top, smothering everything else. I looked down at my sweater. The wool was clean and dry. No holes. No slick, warm crimson pooling through my fingers. Yet the bone-chilling memory of that blade being wrenched from my flesh lingered like frost in my marrow. In my past life, I sat in this exact conference room, begging him not to treat his life’s work like disposable tissue. The arena date was signed as his premier solo showcase, yet he had secretly restructured the entire second half into a welcome-home coronation for Cynthia. To force the promoter’s hand, he had even leveraged his backend royalties as collateral. I stepped in. I salvaged his career. And in return, he spent the rest of his life hating me for it. "I asked you a question, Avery." Noah leaned forward, using the silver tip of his pen to tilt my chin upward. "Are you going to stand in my way or not?" I pulled my head back, letting his pen fall into empty air. "No. I won't." Damon’s mouth was already open to launch into another tirade, but the words choked in his throat. Noah froze, visibly caught off guard. "You really won't?" "Whoever you want to serenade to your heart's content is entirely your business." I quietly gathered the sheet music scattered across the table, zipped my binder, and turned toward my violin case sitting on the credenza. Behind me, an office chair skidded back, screeching sharply against the hardwood. Noah caught my wrist in a vice-like grip, pulling me into a corner. His voice dropped to a frantic whisper. "Look, the song is hers. But the share—I need you to open the temporary conduit for her tonight." I stopped. "You gave me the master privilege once before to grant a guest link," he urged, his eyes dark with entitlement. "Tonight, I’m designating Cynthia. Just one night." The heat of his palm against my skin was suffocating, churning an overwhelming wave of nausea in my throat. I peeled his fingers off my wrist, one by deliberate one. "You really don't know where the line is anymore, do you?" His expression curdled. "It’s a single performance, Avery. I’m not asking for your kidney. Drop the martyr act. People out there already think I treat you like dirt because of that miserable face you pull." I stared into his eyes, and a quiet, bitter smile curved my lips. When he took my life in that previous timeline, he hadn't hesitated for a second either. "And another thing," he continued casually, already looking past my shoulder. "Lay down a safety vocal track before soundcheck. It's Cynthia's first time commanding a crowd this massive. If her nerves spike, I want your live backing stems ready to track underneath. The whole tour relies on this show making a splash." "I’m not recording a single bar." "Avery!" Damon stepped in front of the double doors, cutting off my exit, while Trent and our drummer, Keith, rose from their chairs like bouncers. "You really think you're above everyone, don't you?" Damon scoffed. "You practice until midnight every day like some saint, but the moment the band actually needs you, you throw a tantrum?" Quietly slipping my right hand into my coat, I pressed the side button on my phone, initiating an audio recording, then slid it screen-inward into my breast pocket. "Move," I said. Instead of moving, Damon lunged forward and snatched my worn leather gig bag off my shoulder. "Let’s see what precious gems our little virtuoso is hoarding that are too sacred to share with the team." He ripped the exterior zipper open. A sheaf of handwritten scores fluttered out, landing across the floor. And with them, an old, glossy four-by-six photograph slipped loose. Damon scooped it up, his laughter loud and mocking. "Oh, man, Noah! Look at this! You guys used to be pretty cozy, huh?" 2. The photograph showed me at nineteen, cradling my violin, while Noah leaned over from behind, holding his broad palm up against the glare of the noon sun so the harsh light wouldn’t hit my eyes. We had taken it backstage right after our very first acoustic showcase. Damon dangled the print between two greasy fingers, holding it directly beside Cynthia’s face. "Noah, your taste used to be down in the gutter, man. Look at those dark circles. She doesn't even belong in the same hemisphere as Cynthia." "That’s what happens when all you do is drill scales twelve hours a day," Trent snickered from the couch. "Nothing going on upstairs except sheet music. Completely unsellable." Cynthia covered her mouth, her laugh sweet and patronizing. "Don't be mean, boys. Avery just doesn't know how to style herself, that’s all." I reached out my hand. "Give it back, Damon." Damon raised his arm high above his head, grinning like an oversized toddler. "What’s the rush? Let everyone have a look. Weren't you the one begging Noah to go public with your relationship for two years?" "Give. It. Back." "Aw, can't reach? Sucks to be short, doesn't it?" I didn't hesitate. I drove the hard heel of my boot straight into his shin. Damon gasped, doubling over in sudden agony. In that split second, I ripped the gig bag from his hands, snatched the photograph from his fingers, and tucked it into my coat. Noah finally looked at me, his eyes flickering with an uncomfortable mix of guilt and irritation as his gaze lingered on the creased print. "Avery, come on. They’re just messing around. You don't need to—" "Then let them make jokes about your mother." The conference room dropped into absolute, stunned silence. I didn't wait for his rage to boil over. Slinging my strap over my shoulder, I pushed past Damon and walked out into the corridor. The photograph was crushed in my palm, its sharp paper corners digging into my skin until it stung. Five years ago, we had nothing. We were performing on a rickety wooden stage at an outdoor street fair when an unexpected torrential downpour struck. Everyone ran for the tents, abandoning the gear, but Noah had bolted back through the mud, stripping off his heavy denim jacket to wrap my violin case three times over, shielding it with his body. He had stood there, drenched to the skin, shivering with water dripping from his eyelashes, smiling down at me: "If you keep loving this wooden box more than me, Avery, how am I ever going to compete?" Back then, I was naive enough to believe that a boy who protected what was precious to me would surely protect me, too. So I let him into my heart. And I activated the talent-share. Classical vocal phrasing, dynamic diaphragm control, piano technique, the discipline of a thousand lonely hours of violin—everything I had bled for since the age of four surged into his veins overnight. When his breakthrough album went platinum, he had spun me around in our tiny rented living room, swearing that once he hit the big time, he would build me a conservatory made entirely of glass. He eventually built that glass room. And then he used it as the backdrop for a viral, candlelit acoustic duet announcing Cynthia’s triumphant return. I stopped by the steel recycling bin near the elevator, folded the photograph into fourths, and dropped it inside. It struck the bottom with a tiny, hollow flutter. When I reached my personal rehearsal studio at the end of the hall, the heavy soundproof door was already propped open with a fire extinguisher. The same entourage from the boardroom had circled around through the service corridor and staked their claim. Cynthia was perched casually on my piano bench. Damon was crouching before her, steadying an iPhone mounted on a ring light. "—and that’s right, you guys!" Cynthia was cooing toward the lens, her voice rich with curated sweetness. "To celebrate my first arena date back in the States, we’re picking three lucky VIPs for a backstage pass! Smash that heart icon!" One of the roadies was lazily flipping through my score stands. An open bag of barbecue potato chips was balanced precariously across my hand-annotated manuscripts. "Who told you that you could come in here?" I asked, my voice dangerously low. Damon flashed Noah’s all-access laminate from his belt loop. "Noah said the whole floor is fair game today. You're just a backing musician, Avery. Why hog fifty square feet of prime real estate? Isn't that a little selfish?" I walked past him toward my workstation, intending only to take my external hard drives. Those drives held years of master stems, custom-layered arrangements, and the original audition archives from the week the boys were first scouted. I had zero desire to leave a single byte of my work behind. Before I could reach the desk, Cynthia extended an arm, blocking my path, and unlatched the brass clasp of the instrument case sitting on the stand. "Oh, it’s gorgeous," she purred, running her manicured French tip along the aged spruce belly. "Noah mentioned this antique cost over three hundred thousand dollars. Is that real, or just an indie sob story?" I held out my hand. "Take your hands off it." The smile on Cynthia’s lips thinned, turning sharp. "I’m just admiring it, Avery. Don't be so dramatic." "It’s not a prop." Cynthia glanced sideways at the live stream counter, saw the viewer count ticking past fifty thousand, and smiled wickedly. With a swift, theatrical motion, she lifted the delicate eighteenth-century instrument high above her head. "Damon, go long! Let’s see if our little museum piece knows how to fly!" 3. I lunged forward, but the violin was already airborne. Damon caught it easily against his chest, tucking it behind his back like a stolen football. "Careful, our maestro looks like she’s about to burst into tears," Damon taunted, winking at the camera. "Come on, Avery, give the chat a real sob story! Viewership will double!" "Give it to me!" Someone grabbed the back of my trench coat, wrenching me backward mid-stride. Cynthia was still giggling. "Honestly, this must be how she kept Noah wrapped around her finger for so long. Sawing away on some dead wood, acting like she’s too cultured for the rest of us." Damon swung the violin forward, holding it like a battered electric bass and slapping the hand-wound gut strings aggressively. "Your turn, Cyn! Let's get soundcheck started early!" Cynthia took the neck, dragged the coarse horsehair of the bow across the bridge with violent, amateurish force, producing a hideous, grating screech. "Ugh, what garbage," she sneered, tossing the bow aside. "My nephew's toy keyboard sounds better than this piece of junk." "Let go!" I tore my coat from the grip behind me, stepping forward and clamping both hands around the scroll. Cynthia violently wrenched it toward her chest, shrieking, "Avery, stop attacking me!" She let go abruptly. Damon swung his boot out in a vicious, sweeping motion, kicking the base of the instrument toward the concrete baseboard. The sound of the impact was sickeningly distinct—a loud, dry crack. The neck sheared clean off the shoulder. The spruce top splintered along the grain, leaving two high strings shivering in a distorted, dying drone against the ruined fingerboard. The air drained completely from my lungs. That violin had been my mother’s parting gift on my eighteenth birthday, months before the cancer took her. I grabbed Cynthia by the collar of her silk blouse. "Who gave you the right to break that?" Cynthia let out a piercing shriek, her manicured nails instantly sinking into my scalp, yanking my hair down. Before I could wrench myself free, the doorway darkened. Noah burst in, grabbed my right forearm, and twisted it viciously behind my back. "Have you completely lost your goddamn mind?!" He shoved me backward with all his weight. My shoulder slammed hard against the cast-iron rim of the grand piano. A blinding flash of white-hot pain exploded across my collarbone, turning the room dark for a second. Cynthia instantly folded herself into Noah’s chest, the tears spilling down her cheeks on cue. "I was just trying to hand it back to her, Noah, I swear! She lunged at me—I didn't mean to drop it..." I dropped to my knees on the hardwood, my trembling fingers reaching out to touch the fractured neck of the instrument. The wood felt cold and splintered beneath my skin; my hand was shaking so violently I couldn't lift it. Noah looked down at the broken pieces, his brow furrowing with mild annoyance. "Are you serious? It’s just wood, Avery. You take it to a luthier and get it glued. Look what you did to Cynthia—she's shaking. Apologize to her right now." "Get out of my way," I whispered, my voice hoarse. "I’m calling the police." I reached into my pocket, pulling out my phone. The red recording indicator was still pulsing steadily. Damon’s smirking face dropped into an ugly sneer, and he lunged to snatch it. Behind him, Keith quickly stepped backward, slamming the heavy soundproof door shut and leaning his full weight against it. "Calling the cops on your own team?" Keith growled. "You trying to sabotage the entire arena run before we even hit the stage?" I ignored them, walked toward the interior window facing the main administrative hall, dialed emergency services, and stated the studio’s exact address. "I need an officer dispatched immediately. I have been physically assaulted, an instrument valued at three hundred thousand dollars has been destroyed, and four individuals are currently barricading the exit." Within ninety seconds, frantic pounding rattled the corridor outside. The studio's chief recording engineer and two administrative coordinators burst through with master keys. The moment the door swung wide, I scooped the shattered remnants into my arms, cradled the case against my chest, and headed for the threshold. Noah reached out, stepping in front of me. "Avery, listen to me. If this leaks to the press, nobody wins. Be rational for once." I looked at his outstretched hand, then slowly raised my eyes to his face. "Touch me one more time," I said, each word steady and ice-cold, "and see what happens." His hand hovered, then slowly dropped to his side. That evening, I sat in an urgent care examination room, waiting while an orthopedic physician assessed the deep contusions across my shoulder and upper spine. Every time the doctor's thumb grazed the swollen joint near my neck, my breath hitched in my throat. Noah never called. He didn't show up. He sent a single text message three hours later: "You're being absurdly dramatic. Cynthia already said she'll treat the broken fiddle as a rental. Stop throwing tantrums and come to soundcheck." I didn't reply. Instead, I forwarded the unedited audio file, the hospital discharge papers, the original insurance appraisal, and the instrument’s provenance certificates directly to my family attorney. I instructed him to file an immediate subpoena for the rehearsal room's security footage and the archived high-resolution stream from Damon's account. Sitting in the back of a town car, clutching the broken violin case against my lap, I finally dialed a number I hadn't called in three years. "Dad," I whispered, the silence in the car pressing down on me. "I want to come home." The line was quiet for a long moment, filled only with the faint sound of turning paper on the other end. "The driver is already twenty minutes out, sweetheart," my father replied gently. My phone screen flared again in the dark. A celebrity gossip outlet had just pushed a breaking notification: Noah had posted a photo embracing Cynthia beneath the stadium scaffolding, their names trending side by side at the top of the charts. 4. In the live backstage tour Noah was hosting, the camera tracked through their dressing quarters. A floor-to-ceiling rack of bespoke designer stage outfits lined the north wall, flanked by overflowing floral arrangements sent by corporate sponsors. Noah plucked a diamond-encrusted vintage brooch from a velvet tray and casually pinned it to Cynthia’s satin collar. "Pick whatever you like, Cyn. Tonight, this entire venue was built for you." Damon hollered from behind the camera, "What about us, boss?" "Everyone eats," Noah laughed easily. "Once the brand endorsements clear escrow next week, the whole crew is flying down south on my dime." Cynthia paused by a music stand, holding up a bound, leather-trimmed manuscript, angling the title page squarely toward the high-definition lens. "Noah... is this song really for me?" In the bottom right corner of the sheet, drawn in faded blue fountain-pen ink, was a tiny, hand-drawn crescent moon. It was the ballad I had written two winters ago, slumping over the upright piano until the gray dawn broke, scoring every harmonic shift by hand while he slept on the sofa behind me. Noah’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second. "That was... Avery’s piece. She hasn't premiered it yet. Maybe pick something from the second record instead?" Cynthia’s eyelashes fluttered downward, her lower lip trembling with masterfully rehearsed fragility. "Right. Of course. I’m just an unexpected guest dropping in, and she’s your girlfriend. I shouldn't have asked. I’ll just put it away." She made a motion to return the score, but her knuckles remained white, clutching the paper so tightly the edges crinkled. Noah let out a heavy, indulgent sigh, reached over, and gently folded her fingers back over the cover. "Sing it," he said softly. "You're the person this melody was always meant to wait for." I quietly hit screen-record, saved the clip to the secure cloud folder, and instructed my attorney to serve Noah with the formal civil demand letter for the property damage. Less than sixty seconds later, my private line began buzzing. "Three hundred thousand dollars?!" Noah’s voice exploded through the speaker, raw and furious. "Have you completely lost your mind, Avery? It's a second-hand piece of timber! You're trying to shake me down for full retail like a common grifter?" "The certified appraisal will determine the exact restitution amount," I answered calmly. "Whoever broke it will pay for it. And this call is being recorded for the record." "Fine! Keep acting like you're pure and untouchable!" A sharp clatter echoed on the other end—he had just kicked over a metal road case. "Once tonight’s gate clears, I’ll be pulling seven figures a weekend. I’ll throw the cash in your face myself, and after that, don't you ever dare crawl back to me like an alley cat looking for scraps!" I glanced at the shattered violin resting on the table beside me, and my mind drifted back to the night he received his first professional gig fee. It was eighty dollars in crumpled bills. He was starving, too broke to afford dinner, yet he had dragged me to the front window of a legendary boutique luthier in Manhattan, pressing his forehead against the cold glass, swearing that one day, he would buy me the finest instrument in that vault. He had no idea that the weathered violin I carried that day could have purchased that entire store twice over. I had never needed him to buy me anything. I had only ever wanted him to care. "Noah," I said quietly, cutting through his breathless rant. "What?!" "We’re done. Don't call me again." He barked out a harsh, incredulous laugh. "The show starts in seventy-two hours, Avery. You’d better hold onto that pride of yours, because I won't let you crawl back into the arena when you realize what you threw away." Three days later, I walked into the stadium. As I passed the primary greenroom, Cynthia stepped into the narrow hallway, blocking my path while balancing a paper cup of herbal tea. "Drink some," she said, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. "Soothe your nerves. Noah was just saying yesterday that your temper is far too rigid for this industry. A woman like that ends up lonely, you know." I took the warm paper cup, took two steps, and placed it down untouched on an unattended audio rolling cart. "If you like it so much, drink it yourself." Her practiced smile stiffened into stone. Before she could speak, I turned the corner and followed the production crew down the tunnel. Our tour supervisor, Claire, handed my legal counsel the master multitrack hard drives, then guided me into the side-stage monitoring booth. Through the heavy double-paned soundproof glass, Noah was seated at the white grand piano, wrapping up an acoustic prelude. A deafening roar erupted from the twenty-thousand-seat arena. Before my eyes, within the quiet sanctuary of my own mind, the interface of our talent-share link glowed softly. The primary channel was Noah. Branching off him was a newly activated, unauthorized tether reaching toward Cynthia. In the past, I lived in constant terror of his failure. No matter how viciously we argued, no matter how cruelly he belittled me, I could never bring myself to sever that connection while he stood under the unforgiving heat of the spotlights. The stadium lights dimmed to an intimate, dramatic violet. Noah rose, taking Cynthia’s hand, leading her center stage where two vintage chrome microphones stood waiting. "For this next piece," Noah spoke into the mic, his amplified voice washing over the breathless crowd with smooth, buttery warmth, "there are no pre-recorded tracks. No pitch correction. Full live acoustic vocals. I want to offer my most honest, unfiltered voice to the most important person in my life." Across the vast sea of darkness, his eyes found the glass window of my monitoring booth. He smiled—arrogant, triumphant, untouchable. I lifted my hand, rested my finger on the glowing mental sigil, and closed the link. "Talent sharing terminated. All subordinate nodes disconnected." The final piano chord of the acoustic intro faded into the cavernous silence. Noah opened his mouth.