“Uh, let’s try it again. From the top.”

I watch from the soundproof booth as Daphni lets out a rush of air and props her hands on her hips. Her shoulders slump forward and I can see her lips moving quickly and silently, as if she’s trying to talk herself off an invisible ledge. Finally, after a long moment, she takes in a deep breath, nods, and looks up again to the producer on the other side of the glass. “Hit it.”

As the track starts up again, I can almost catch the exact moment when Daphni completely checks out. It’s as if she just leaves her body and some hollow shell remains, still hitting every mark and belting out every lyric, but without any sort of depth or emotion.

I look around the booth to see the producers bobbing their heads along, wide smiles on their faces. I stare at them incredulously: how do they not see that Daphni is totally phoning it in? This song is idiotic, about seeing a guy at a yogurt shop and wanting to take him home. Seriously, there’s even a line about licking the toppings off his abs. I have no idea why she ever agreed to sing this crap. She had shown me her songs a few times, when we were together. She would write about the disappointment in her parents, the hope she had, her faith in love. This—this was idiotic drivel meant to appeal to the mass market. It was infuriating to watch, especially knowing that the woman singing this bullshit has more talent than all these idiots playing on their laptops combined.

“Great. Let’s just take a quick second to play back that last one. I might want to try something new. Why don’t you take five?” one of the producers says into the mic as his thick, pudgy fingers type furiously into the keyboard.

Daphni nods and takes off the headset. The door behind me slides open and Melissa walks in, her nose buried in her cellphone. When she sees me, she smiles and slips her phone into her back pocket.

“How is she doing?” she asks.

I shrug. “Not sure. She’s singing this ridiculous song and she looks just so… checked out.”

Melissa’s face darkens as she bites down on her lower lip. “It’s tough for her,” she says. “I know she doesn’t want to record these songs, but she just has a lot of pressure on her right now to get her next single out.”

“It’s bullshit that she’s forced to do this,” I spit out, surprised by how sharp my tone is. I don’t know why it’s bothering me so much, but I can tell she’s miserable and it feels like such a waste of her talent.

Melissa places her hand on my forearm. “It’s what she has to do,” she says.

And while I know she’s trying to reassure me, her answer annoys me. I turn back and continue to watch Daphni behind the thick glass. She’s perched on a small stool in front of the mic, her hands clenched uncomfortably at her side.

I still feel so protective over her. I tell myself it’s because she’s hired me to watch over her, but I know that’s bullshit. My only job requirement is to keep her safe and alive. Worrying about her feelings is pushing that boundary. But I don’t care. Not when I can see how miserable she looks.

I want to talk with her, tell her that she doesn’t have to do this. I feel this inexplicable need to ask her what she really wants. I shoot a quick glance at her team of producers, still preoccupied with finishing the edits on the last go. Taking advantage of them distracted, I follow her into the booth.

“How are you doing?” I ask when I reach her.

She looks up at me, seemingly surprised at my question. “I’m okay,” she answers quietly, with a small shrug as she continues to play with the near-empty bottle in her hands.

“Daphni,” I start, and she looks up at me. Her normally sparkling green eyes look dull and faded, catching me off guard. She looks exhausted and worn out. “Why are you recording this song when you so clearly hate it?” I ask her.

“How do you know I hate it?”

“Daphni, the minute they started the track you cringed. And when you sing it, you look like a robot. And really, why wouldn’t you? I mean, how else can you sing ‘I want to lick your yoyo like my strawberry fro yo’? I mean, what does that even mean?”

Daphni chuckles, but it’s a hollow laugh. “It means I want to suck his—”

“Okay, yeah I know that,” I say, holding up my hands to cut her off. “But come on, what happened to all the songs you wrote? The ones you shared with me? Those were poetry, not this crap.”

Daphni shrugs. “That’s not what the label wants from me.”

“They want this shit?”

“This ‘shit’ sells,” she says, dejected.

“Can you honestly look me in the eye and tell me that you want to sing this song?”

Daphni looks up at me again and lets out a defeated sigh. “No. No I don’t.”

I look at her, unable to hide my confusion. “Daphni, you have no problem telling me exactly what you want. In fact, you do it constantly. According to you, everything I do at every minute is wrong. Why is it so hard for you to do that to them?”

“I don’t know,” she responds. “I don’t want to disappoint them.” She looks up at me, her eyes assessing as she lifts her shoulder. “But I don’t mind disappointing you.”

I hesitate a moment, taken aback by her honesty. “Daphni, just tell them you want to record one of your songs. Tell them to give this 'song' to someone else.”

“That isn’t how this works, Roman,” she says with a shake of her head.

“Bullshit. You are the face of the brand. I’ve seen you wreak havoc when you know something isn’t done right. How is this any different?”

“It just is,” she responds, her voice wilted.

“When did you become so…apathetic, Daphni?”

Laughing bitterly, Daphni shakes her head. “I was always this way, Roman. You were just too naive to see that.”

I shake my head. “No, I wasn’t, Daphni. You used to love life. You used to have so much passion. But now?” I let the question linger in the air and before I say something cruel that I would regret, I turn and walk away, closing the door of the booth behind me.

Back behind the soundproof barrier, I look through the glass and watch Daphni continue to fiddle with the bottle in her lap before opening it and swallowing the rest of it. She looks so dejected, and half of me is screaming to go back, apologize for my words, make her feel better. The other half wants for my words to hurt, for her to get back some of her edge and fight back. But had she been right? Had I just chosen to see the version of Daphni I had wanted?

Before I can decide, I hear the door of the recording booth swing open and Daphni step through. Marching straight to the lead producer, she pulls up a seat and places her hand over his, pausing him from his typing.

“Okay, we need to talk,” she says.

“What’s up, Daphni?”

“I’m not recording this song.”

“Eh. What?” he asks, looking behind him at the two other men watching with equal confusion. Melissa perks up as well and watches Daphni with a mix of curiosity and concern.

“This song is not me. No offense, Leon, but it’s shit. I’m not recording this.”

“We already bought this song, Daphni. And you sound killer on it.”

Daphni remains firm, crossing her arms over her chest. “This song is ridiculous. It doesn’t mean anything, and I’ve decided I’m not recording it.”

Leon glares at me, pointing his pudgy finger at me. “Is this what pretty boy told you to do?”

“No, absolutely not,” Daphni says, shaking her head. “This is my decision. I don’t want to record this.”

Leon slams his hands on the table. “This is the next single. MacArthur told us to have this ready by the end of the week.”

At the mention of MacArthur, I catch Daphni’s body tense. She takes a deep breath. “Well, you can tell MacArthur I’m not recording it.”

Leon pulls out his phone and shoots off a quick text before dropping his phone on the table, causing a loud bang. “No, honey, you can tell him. He’s coming over right now.”

In an instant, I see the color drain from Daphni’s face. She keeps her arms crossed, but I can see her arms begin to turn red as she digs her long nails into her skin. She looks to me, and my breath hitches at the look in her eyes. She looks so anxious, and my guard instantly goes up. I fight the urge to peel her fingers off her arm, hold them in mine and take her away from here.

Melissa rushes to Daphni’s side and when she tries to talk to her, Daphni holds up her hand, silencing her. I can read the confusion on Melissa and she shoots me a questioning look. I shrug in return, keeping my face expressionless. I’m unsure of exactly what’s going on, or what Daphni’s next step will be, but I can feel the palpable tension in the room.

A tense minute later, the door to the booth opens and the man I assume to be MacArthur enters. Although I admittedly don’t know much about the music industry, even I know who MacArthur—“the hitmaker and the undertaker”—is. He earned his moniker by being one of the most powerful producers and label heads in the business: he could make your career, but he could just as easily end it. One of his most shining examples was Daphni Monroe. Before MacArthur signed her, the industry had written her off as a rich girl looking for a hobby. They underestimated her—and her talent. MacArthur hadn’t, though, and he had signed her at nineteen years old. Ironically, just a few months before she had broken up with me, choosing fame and celebrity. But how could I blame her? The guy had made her a household name: everyone knew who Daphni Monroe was.

“Well, well, if it isn’t my little Daphni Monroe,” MacArthur says as he saunters toward Daphni, his long arms open wide. She looks petrified, frozen in place as he wraps his arms around her stiff frame. He lingers a moment longer than I like and slings his arm over her shoulder. Her whole body tenses and my skin prickles. Something doesn’t feel right.

“So, what seems to be the problem here, gentleman?” he asks the three producers in the room.

“Ask her,” Leon spits as he juts his chin in Daphni’s direction.

“Daphni, my dear,” he says, as his dark charcoal eyes look down at her. “What is wrong?”

“I don’t want to record this song,” she answers, her voice soft, and missing the same strong determination she had when speaking to Leon just a few short minutes ago.

“And why is that, my dear?”

Her eyes dart to mine and I nod encouragingly. “It’s a stupid song. I don’t like it.”

“Daphni,” his voice hardens. “We bought this song for you to record. We are going to release it as your next single. We need you to record this single today.”

“But—”

“But nothing. Isn’t that right, Daphni?” He pauses and gives her a forced, tight-lipped smile. “Of course, if you feel more comfortable we could have you come record it in my private studio on the ranch. You remember that studio, right? Where we recorded your first album?”

Daphni’s face somehow manages to turn even whiter and I catch a shiver run through her thin frame. I push myself up from the wall, wanting to get this sleaze away from her.

“No,” she replies in a soft whisper as she shakes her head at me, warning me not to intercede.

MacArthur finally untangles his arm from her and claps his hands. “Perfect. So let’s finish the recording. Leon, send me the final cut when you’re done today.”

Daphni slinks out of the room, rushing back to the recording booth, as if she couldn’t escape fast enough.

When he sees that Daphni is perched back on the chair in the booth and sliding on her headphones, MacArthur turns to Melissa, not bothering to hide his annoyance. “What is going on with your girl?”

“She’s going through a lot right now,” Melissa explains, her voice tight. “We still don’t have any leads on her stalker and it’s been really upsetting for her.”

“Stalker?” MacArthur asks.

“She’s been getting some threatening letters. Pretty explicit and scary, talking about how they have been watching her, how they want to take her. It’s been a lot for her to deal with.”

“When did this start?”

“The first night of the tour, back in New York City. It was left in her hotel room. But it’s escalated recently.”

“How so?”

“Whoever it is broke into her house.” Melissa sighs and looks around the room. “Stole a pair of her panties,” she adds, lowering her voice.

A flicker of confusion crosses MacArthur’s face. “And are there any leads with the police?”

Melissa shakes her head. “Nothing yet, but we are hopeful it will all be over soon.”

He narrows his eyes at Melissa and shakes his head. “Keep her happy and keep her calm. I don’t want any more of these dramatics.”

Melissa balks under his aggressive tone and nods. The whole exchange is unsettling and when I catch Melissa’s eye, she quickly shakes her head, warning me not to interfere. Only when Leon and MacArthur are busy discussing the record, do I follow Daphni into the recording booth.

When I see her hands are shaking, I catch them in mine. “What was that, Daphni?”

“Nothing, Roman. Leave me alone,” she says, pulling her hands from mine.

“Daphni—”

“Roman, leave. Now,” she orders, her voice shaky.

“I’m not—”

“If you two little lovebirds are done, we’d like to start recording now,” Leon’s annoyed voice comes through the mic into the recording booth.

“Leave, Roman.” Her voice breaks and she forces herself to look me in the eyes. It’s then that I realize why she was avoiding my stare. Because when her glistening, pleading green eyes look at me, I see something that I’ve never seen there before: fear.