Sign the release, Hannah, or the label drops you before dinner

I set the notebook down gently, right on top of her contract. “Before I sign,” I said, “you should hear track nine.” Vivienne rolled her eyes. “We’re not here for your little demos, Hannah.” But the head of A&R, Mr. Halloran, leaned forward. He’d been my father’s friend once, before Vivienne convinced everyone I was the unstable one. “Play it,” he said. I pressed my phone to the boardroom speaker. My voice filled the room — raw, unpolished, singing the exact melody of Vivienne’s upcoming single. The one she’d recorded in secret last week. The one that wasn’t supposed to exist yet. The timestamp on the file was from eight months ago. Vivienne’s face drained. “That’s — that’s a fake, she hacked my sessions —” “I have thirty-seven more,” I said quietly. “Every song you’ve ever released. Voice memos. Handwritten lyrics. Publishing metadata. My lawyer filed the copyright claims this morning under my real name.” I slid a second folder toward Halloran. “Registered with the Library of Congress in 2019. Vivienne’s name appears nowhere.” The room went silent except for the rain. Halloran opened the folder, flipped one page, then another, and slowly took off his glasses. “Vivienne,” he said, “the label’s position is that we contracted a songwriter. Not a thief.” She lunged for my notebook. I lifted it out of reach. “You told me I was nothing without you,” I said. “So I spent six years making sure the paper trail told the truth.” Halloran stood. “Hannah, we’d like to talk about a solo deal. Tonight.” Vivienne started crying — the same practiced tears she’d used on our mother, on interviewers, on me. Nobody looked at her. I picked up her pen, crossed out the release, and wrote a single line at the bottom: *Return every royalty. Or I release the demos publicly at midnight.* I slid it back. “Sign it, sister. Don’t make this dramatic.”