Page 39

I wish I had the luxury of time to unpack just what happened, but I never have that kind of time. And today, I absolutely do not have it. Not when I have a plagiarism accusation to deal with.
The story broke yesterday, but I didn’t see it. I rarely check social media, and I spent most of yesterday in a daze over everything that’s happened with Gage.
I woke up this morning to a handful of missed calls from my agent, three frantic texts, and an email marked URGENT. I read the email a few times as the shock sunk in. He advised me the story is blowing up and that the timing couldn’t be worse with theVelocity Reigncontract not fully signed yet. He also advised that he has PR on standby and has looped my lawyer in.
An hour after that email, he called to let me know the studio behind the film is reviewing their position. Apparently, social media is escalating the story into a full-blown scandal because Sofia Reye is the reigning queen of sad girl music, and I just became the villain in her origin story.
I should have known she’d come back to bite me on the ass.
Four years ago, we spent three brutal months working together on a film score. It started promisingly enough. Mutual respect and cautious collaboration. But it didn’t take long for the cracks to show.
We clashed over everything. Style. Tone. Tempo. She wanted control of every note, every measure, and when I pushed back, things got ugly fast.
What made it worse was the pressure. It was a big film. A high-profile director. Sofia was still up-and-coming then, desperate to prove herself. I was just trying to get the job done. But instead of working with me, she treated me like competition.
By the time we delivered the final mix, we weren’t speaking. I walked away with relief. She walked away with a grudge.
And now, she’s repackaged that grudge into a career-ruining narrative.
She’s accused me of lifting a theme we supposedly worked on together. That I passed it off as mine, reshaped it, and used it in the score for my last movie, the one that changed everything for me.
It’s a lie.
She didn’t even like the piece she’s claiming I stole. She shut it down the second I played it. But she has just enough evidence to seed doubt. An old scratch file, a few shared credits, maybe a timestamp that can be twisted.
And that’s the thing about doubt. It doesn’t have to be true. It just has to be loud enough.
Loud enough to scare a studio.
Loud enough to put my contract at risk.
My phone buzzes with another text.
It’s from my lawyer who is liaising with the studio and has advised me to stay silent while she reviews everything.
Lianne:
The studio is flying someone in tomorrow for a meeting. They want to go over everything in person.
My hands shake as I tap out a reply.
Me:
Okay. Where?
Lianne:
The Langham at 10:00 a.m. I need you calm, composed, and saying nothing until the meeting.
I stare at the screen for a long moment. Calm, composed, and silent are the exact opposite of how I feel. My hands are still unsteady, my heart’s racing, and my brain won’t stop cycling through every note I’ve ever written, searching for some piece of music that might have started with both of us and ended up in my work without me realizing.
But I know I didn’t steal anything because I’m meticulous. To a fault. I document everything. Every note. Every take. Every second of sound I create.
I also know that doesn’t matter right now.
What matters is that the studio’s sending someone across the country to meet with me. What matters is that my name is being dragged through headlines I didn’t ask for. And if I’m not careful, I could lose everything I’ve built.
My phone lights up with another text.