Julian was waiting on the sidewalk outside her mother's house, leaning on his car like he still had a right to be there.
Julian: Your lip is bleeding. Let me guess. You told your brother no.
He held out a pen and a folded page. The contract was already printed, and her name was spelled right.
Julian: Sign it. It's one song. Cleo gets her comeback, and your family stops tearing itself apart.
Julian: You know how she gets. She'll fall apart up there, and everyone will say it's your fault.
Julian: And your mother is serious about that countdown. Don't make her prove it.
A month ago she would have taken the pen just to keep him smiling. That was the part that made her sick now.
Daphne: Say it plain, Julian. You want me to hand my song to the woman who cried until you came to collect it.
Julian: Don't be dramatic. You've been singing behind her for years.
Julian: You think you're worth a stage? You're worth whatever the family says you're worth.
That was the man she had almost married. He was not confused about what he was asking. He had chosen her sister's tears over her face.
Daphne: Then go hold her hand. You picked her years ago.
He caught her wrist and squeezed, hard enough to leave marks, and the valet looked at the ground.
Julian: Walk away now and I'll make sure this city never plays your voice again.
Daphne: It already plays it. It just doesn't know my name yet.
The Blue Room was three blocks and one whole lifetime away. Small stage, sticky floor, twelve tables, and a sign-up sheet by the door.
Daphne wrote her real name on the sheet and sat with her hood up near the back.
Nobody in that room knew Cleo Wray. Nobody there cared what her mother thought.
The host called her name. She took the mic and sang her own song, plain and low, with nobody standing in front of her.
It was a song about being someone's secret and never anyone's first choice.
For the first few lines the club was quiet enough to hear the glasses settle on the tables.
Then a woman at the front put her hand over her mouth, like the song had reached in and pulled something loose.
When she finished, the claps came late and loud, and a man at the bar shouted her name like he had known it for years.
Somebody else yelled for her to sing it again.
At the dark corner table, one man had not moved the whole song. Soren Thane. He owned rooms like this one the way other men owned cars.
He watched her like he had been looking for this all night and had just found it.
Daphne came off the stage shaking, and it wasn't from fear.
Twenty years of family love had never felt this warm. These strangers handed it to her for nothing.
Soren: You signed the sheet with your real name. Nobody does that here.
He said it like it was the best thing he had heard all week.