A beat of silence.
Then Grant leaned forward. "You've got two options. Re-record the label's version of the album. We'll market it, push it. Or you walk. And if you walk, we own your name, your likeness, and every song you've ever released through us."
It was a guillotine disguised as a contract.
Rhea stared at him, heart pounding. "I built this name. I am the music. You don't own that."
Grant smirked. "Legally, we do."
She stood slowly. The fear, the rage — it coiled inside her like a living thing, but she kept her voice level. "Then you can have the name. Keep the photos, the billboards, the fake image. I'll take the truth."
"You're making a mistake," Grant said, eyes cold.
Rhea picked up her guitar. "No. I'm finally correcting one."
She walked out, each step feeling heavier and lighter at the same time.
That evening, she posted a video from her apartment:
> "They can keep my name. I'm keeping my voice. From this point on, I'm recording under a new name: Ember Rye. Same fire. No chains."
The internet exploded.
Some called it a publicity stunt. Others hailed it as rebellion. But the ones who mattered — the ones who felt her music — stood by her, even louder than before.
Her follower count dipped. Then surged.
Streaming platforms reached out. Indie labels offered full control. A podcast wanted to document her comeback in real time. But Ember didn't answer right away.
She was too busy writing.
And this time, no one told her what to say.