The Shadow Behind His Spotlight

Number nine. This was the ninth girl Julian Vance had brought to me to "ghost-sing" an entire album for. The girl strutted around the recording studio with pure disdain: "You've been signed to him for ten years, and he hasn't released a single track for you?" "We only met today, and he already asked me if I wanted to be a superstar." "I was wondering how I was supposed to pull it off since I'm totally tone-deaf. Turns out he's got you, his little 'shadow.'" Yeah. Julian was one of the biggest music producers in the country. There was no one he couldn't turn into a star—only people he didn't care to. Before Mia, eight other girls had caught his eye. He gave them songs, launched their careers, and turned them into overnight sensations. All built on my back, of course. The ghost behind the glass. I used to break down, screaming and sobbing at him until my lungs burned: "If all you love is this voice, what if I destroy it?! Would you care then?!" All I ever got back was a calm, dismissive brush-off: "Stop acting crazy. You're my greatest masterpiece. How could I not love you?" That, and a credit card with an ever-increasing limit. So this time, I said nothing. I checked the mic, calibrated the pitch, and recorded the tracks, acting completely unfazed by Mia's taunts. Seeing how docile I was, Julian smiled, pleased, and affectionately ruffled my hair. He seemed to have forgotten, though. Our ten-year contract was set to expire in exactly ten days. "Stop, stop, stop!" Mia marched over to the soundboard and wrapped herself around Julian's arm. "Julian, babe, I hate this track. It's way too slow and emotional. Can we change the style?" Sitting behind the console, Julian asked softly, "What kind of vibe do you want, Mia?" "Something explosive! A club banger!" she whined, pouting. I looked down and adjusted the mic stand. Last year, I had tried adding a subtle improvised vocal run into a chorus. His face had instantly turned to stone: "Clara, remember your place. Follow the sheet music. Don't take liberties." Now, he just ruffled Mia's hair. "Alright. If you want it changed, we change it. Our Mia deserves something special." I put my headphones back on. During a break in soundcheck, Mia spotted an acoustic guitar resting against the wall. "Whoa, this guitar is gorgeous!" She reached out to grab it. My chest tightened. That was Julian's prized possession, custom-crafted by an Italian luthier. Three years ago, I had accidentally brushed against it while cleaning, and he had completely lost his temper: "Don't touch it! That guitar is worth more than your life!" Mia strummed the strings randomly, producing a harsh, discordant screech. Julian walked up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. "You like it?" "It's pretty! But it's kind of heavy." She shoved the instrument into his chest. "It hurt my fingers." He took it, tossed it carelessly onto a nearby couch, and rubbed her fingers. "I'll find you a lighter one next time." Standing nearby, I felt a heavy, sickening knot form in my stomach. A slow, stinging ache. The studio AC hummed loudly. Wearing a short-sleeved shirt, my arms broke out in goosebumps. "It's boiling in here! Julian, turn the AC down," Mia complained, tugging at her collar and fanning herself. Julian cranked it down to sixty-four degrees. The freezing air blew directly onto the back of my neck. "Thirsty?" he asked, looking down at Mia. "What do you want to drink? I'll go grab it." "An iced boba milk tea! Extra sweet!" she chirped. "And a slice of tiramisu!" He snatched his car keys and walked straight out. I watched his retreating back. For ten years, I had sung until my throat felt like sandpaper, and he had never once asked if I needed a sip of water. Julian returned quickly, carrying the drinks along with several delicate pastries. "Here, Mia. Take a break and eat something first." He poked the straw in and held it right to her lips. Sipping her drink, Mia barked orders at me: "Hey, shadow? Let's redo that last take. The vibe was totally off." Taking a deep breath, I stepped back into the booth. Because she kept demanding style changes, it was ten at night and we still didn't have a good cut. Outside, a heavy storm began to pour. As I packed my things, Julian suddenly spoke up. "Clara, I'll drive you." I froze and looked up at him. In ten years, this was the very first time he had ever offered to take me home. In the dead ashes of my heart, a faint wisp of smoke inexplicably flickered. "Just in case you catch a cold and mess up your voice for tomorrow's session," he added smoothly. The rain outside instantly doused that tiny spark. I understood. He was just terrified I'd get sick and derail Mia's debut. The heater in the car blasted warm air. "Aside from her vocals, Mia has the perfect look and star presence," he murmured, almost to himself. "Her debut has to be flawless." I stared out the window at the rain streaking across the glass, staying silent. The car pulled up to the curb outside my run-down apartment complex, stopping short of the gate. "You can walk from here, right?" Julian stared straight ahead. "It's just a few steps. Mia's exhausted, and I need to take her back to rest." In the rearview mirror, Mia was fast asleep, wrapped in Julian's jacket. A sudden realization hit me like a slap. He was taking her to the family estate? The ancestral property he always claimed was sacred ground, where he never brought outsiders? I didn't say a word. I pushed the door open, the downpour instantly soaking my shoulders. The taillights sped away into the night, leaving me standing in the pouring rain, watching them fade into the dark. She really was different to him.My phone vibrated violently inside my soaked pocket. "Liam," I croaked, my voice terribly raw. "I want to come home." On the other end, my brother's voice sounded overjoyed. "Clara? Really? You're finally... I'm coming to pick you up right now!" "Give me ten more days," I said softly, wiping the rain from my face. "Just ten days." Sitting in that freezing studio for hours had taken its toll, and a fever hit me hard. I choked down a few pills and collapsed into bed. My mind involuntarily drifted back eight years. "Why can't it be me?" I had clutched Julian's sleeve back then, tears choking my voice. "I can be the frontwoman. I can learn choreography. I'll learn whatever it takes." "Can't you just stop finding other girls? Can't it just be me?" He had pulled his hand away, looking me up and down with cool detachment. "You're too plain, Clara. The camera wouldn't love you." Back then, I was five-foot-four and barely weighed ninety-five pounds. After that, I starved myself for three days straight. On the fourth day, I blacked out in the middle of a recording session. When I woke up, I was at his family estate. It was the only time I had ever stepped foot inside that house. He had gently fed me soup. "Stop torturing yourself. I'm going to make a lot of stars, and I'll have plenty of flings, but you will always be my greatest partner. In the end, the only woman standing by my side will be you." Back then, I was stupid enough to mistake that cruelty for a promise. The vibration of my phone dragged me back to reality. A text from Julian: [Tomorrow morning, 9:00 AM sharp.] The next morning, Mia arrived at the studio before me, happily munching on greasy takeout dumplings. "You can't eat in here." That was Julian's sacred rule. His obsession with music bordered on pathological; he believed food grease and crumbs contaminated the sanctuary of his sound gear. Once, I had brought in a sandwich, and he smashed his mug on the floor: "Do that again, and I'll throw you and your trash out on the street!" Mia rolled her eyes. "Who asked you?" The door clicked open, and Julian walked in holding a bakery bag. "Julian!" Mia immediately whined, running up to him. "She yelled at me!" I braced myself for his explosion. Instead, he gently set the bag on the soundboard. "I bought you some warm pastries. Eat them while they're fresh." I froze in disbelief. "No way," Mia pouted. "I'll get fat." "A little weight looks good on you." He pinched her cheek affectionately. "I like you soft." My stomach churned. You're too plain, Clara. The camera wouldn't love you. Mia weighed at least fifteen pounds more than I did. "Let's get to work," Julian said, clapping his hands. During the bridge, Mia suddenly waved her hands to cut the take. "Can we add a male harmony here?" "Whatever you want." "I want you to sing it with me!" She shook his arm playfully. "Just a tiny part, please?" Because of his status and the constant swarm of paparazzi, Julian was obsessively private. He almost never showed his face in public, let alone recorded his own vocals, just to keep the press from digging into his personal life. Last year, when my appendix nearly burst and I needed emergency surgery, the hospital required a family member's authorization. The nurse called him from my phone. He refused to say a single word on the line to confirm who he was. In the end, Liam had to race across states to sign the release forms. The doctor said that if he'd arrived thirty minutes later, sepsis would have killed me. And now, Julian simply nodded. "Alright. I'll sing it with you." I stared down at the lyrics, my grip crumpling the edges of the paper. I never imagined that this was how I would finally share my very first duet with Julian. By three in the afternoon, the session was finally wrapped. "Sounds amazing," Julian said, saving the master project files. "Mia, your charisma on screen is going to make this a viral sensation." Mia shot me a smug, triumphant smirk. "I think so too! It's like I actually sang it myself!" I quietly packed my bag and slipped out. Whatever. My only job was to ghost the vocals. The PR and release rollout were Julian's problems. When I got home, rain started drumming against the windowpane again. In the dead of night, halfway between sleep and consciousness, my phone violently rang. It was Julian's assistant. "Clara, get to the studio right now! Instantly! Mr. Vance is furious. You'd better be here in ten minutes!"When I burst into the studio, Julian was standing by the console with his back to the door. Mia sat in the swivel chair, her eyes red and puffy from crying. "You're finally here," Mia shrieked, leaping to her feet. "Did you do this?!" Still trying to catch my breath, I gasped, "Do what?" "Someone leaked a track and is claiming my debut single is stolen!" She slammed a tablet onto the table in front of me. "Did you leak this demo?!" On the screen was an old indie music hosting site. Playing through the speakers was an acoustic track I had written in high school, titled Gentle Breeze. It had been uploaded a week ago. Several lines of lyrics matched Mia's new single word-for-word—the exact lines Julian had tweaked based on my suggestions. Julian turned around, his expression ice-cold. "Explain." "I wrote that song back in high school," I said, my voice trembling. "I never published it anywhere, and I've never even heard of that website!" "Cut the innocent act!" Mia screamed. "You're just jealous! You're trying to ruin me! Who else could have posted your song?!" Julian glared at me, his eyes dark. "So this was your plan all along? Ruining her as payback?" I was stunned. "What?" "First, you casually suggest 'tweaks' to the melody, and then the moment Mia's single is scheduled to drop, you hire internet trolls to cry plagiarism," he sneered. "Methodical, aren't you?" "You're not just trying to take Mia down. You're trying to destroy me." My heart felt like it had been struck by a sledgehammer. "No, that's not... that song was..." "Was what? What lie are you going to spin now?" That song was written for you. It was the unspoken, buried secret of my teenage heart. During our high school talent show, he had sat at a grand piano under the spotlight, shining like a beacon in my dull world. I had become completely captivated. Every day after class, I would stand outside the practice rooms just to listen to him play. His favorite piece was Mariage d'Amour. I saved every video of his performances. I even spent an extra year grinding to get into the same music conservatory he attended. After graduating, just because he offhandedly mentioned he loved girls with stunning voices, I trained my vocal cords ruthlessly, day in and day out, just to earn the right to stand beside him. What was the point of saying any of that now? He wouldn't care. Julian picked up his phone. "PR department. Put out a statement." "Say Clara copied Mia's unreleased work and maliciously leaked it online to defame her." I stared at him in horror. "How can you twist the truth like that?!" "It's not like you're a public figure anyway," he said, casually adjusting his cufflinks. "Nobody is going to remember your name. Mia is different. She's meant to be a superstar." His assistant hesitated. "Mr. Vance, Miss Clara's reputation..." "I don't care about her reputation," Julian cut him off with a flick of his hand. "Do as I said." "This is what happens when you try to play smart." A smug, vicious grin spread across Mia's face. Within two hours, orchestrated by professional PR bots, my face, real name, and personal details were plastered across every social media platform. My phone blew up with calls from burner numbers: [Go die, you thieving fraud!] [How dare you sabotage Mia!] [Doxx her! Make sure she never works again!] I curled up on the sofa, watching the vile comments flood my notifications. The screen lit up with a text from Julian: [Keep your head down and stop causing trouble, and you'll still be Mrs. Vance one day.] [Push me again, and all bets are off.] The next day was supposed to be the live showcase for Mia's single. My vocal cords were so swollen and raw that I couldn't even whisper, making it impossible to ghost-sing behind the curtain. Julian was forced to downgrade the event to a simple fan-signing, cutting the live performance entirely. Around noon, as I was choking down some soup, my apartment door was violently kicked open. Two of Julian's assistants barged in. One grabbed me roughly by the arm. "You're coming to the studio." Dizzy with fever and physically weak, I was dragged out the door. A dreadful chill settled over my chest.The recording studio was as cold as a morgue; the AC was blasted to its lowest setting. The assistant immediately initiated a video call, and Julian's face appeared on the tablet screen—haggard, dark, and simmering with rage. He was in a private hospital room. Mia lay on the bed behind him, seemingly unconscious. "You really are ruthless, Clara," Julian said, his voice dripping with venom. "I don't know what you're talking about." "You don't?" He let out a cold, humorless laugh. "At Mia's signing today, a 'fan' handed her a bottle of water. She took one sip, and her vocal cords went into acute spasms. She completely lost her voice! She's in the ER right now!" Shocked, I gasped, "What does that have to do with me?! I've been in bed with a fever all day!" "Nothing to do with you?!" "Security tackled the guy on the spot! He named you directly! Said you paid him to 'protect your original work'!" Julian's gaze cut through the screen like a blade. "Who else holds a grudge against Mia? Who else would do this?" Behind him, Mia began to stir. Julian immediately picked up a cup of water. "Shh, take it easy. Drink a little." He gently dabbed her lips with a moistened cotton swab, his touch agonizingly tender. Once she drifted back to sleep, he turned back to the camera, his expression instantly freezing over. "Since you love playing these dirty games, you can taste your own medicine." At his command, the assistant produced a small glass vial filled with a clear, odorless liquid. "What is that...?" "Something to keep you quiet." Julian's voice was utterly devoid of warmth. "Haven't you always been so arrogant because of that voice? You think I can't survive in this industry without you? Let's see what leverage you have left once it's gone." My knees buckled, and I collapsed onto the floor. "Julian! That voice is all I have! Please, I'm begging you—" He let out a derisive scoff. "Which is exactly why you don't deserve to keep it." "I'll disappear! I'll leave the city forever! I won't ever show my face in front of you again! Please, don't touch my throat! I'm begging you!" I was on my knees, weeping, humiliating myself just to save the one thing that made me whole. "Do it." The two men pinned me down, one prying my jaw open while the other poured the caustic fluid down my throat. Liquid fire tore through my esophagus. I thrashed violently, the chemicals mixing with my tears and spilling down my chest. "Lock her in," Julian commanded coldly before hanging up. The heavy soundproof door slammed shut, and the deadbolt clicked from the outside. I dragged myself to the door, pounding against the glass with all my strength, but only a wet, ragged rasp escaped my ruined throat. I couldn't even scream for help. On the morning of the third day, Julian was peeling an apple in Mia's hospital suite. His assistant barged in, pale and trembling. "Mr. Vance! She's gone!" "Who's gone?" He didn't even look up, his knife steadily spiraling through the apple peel. "Clara! The studio is completely empty! We only found this!" The assistant held out a crumpled document and an empty glass vial. It was our ten-year exclusive contract. The expiration date had been yesterday. "Where is she?!" Julian kicked his chair back, sending it crashing to the floor. "She was sick! Her throat was severely damaged! How the hell did you let her walk out?!" The assistant shrank back. "With the dose she was given... medical logic says she shouldn't have been able to make it down the street..." "Medical logic?!" Julian grabbed him by the collar, shaking him violently. "If anything happens to her, you're dead! All of you are finished!" "So what if she ran away?" Mia chimed in from the bed, her voice already half-recovered as she rolled her eyes. "She's just being dramatic." "Shut your mouth!" Julian roared, rounding on her. "If Clara doesn't make it, I will personally ruin your life!" He snatched the contract from the assistant, his fingers trembling so hard the paper crumpled in his fist. He whipped out his phone and dialed my number. The number you have dialed is currently powered off. He called again. Still off. He called every mutual contact, every acquaintance, every studio tech. Call failed. Line busy. Blocked. "Find her! Check every camera in the district! Find out who took her!"