Small Hands Novel Chapter 04

Small Hands Novel Chapter 04

Three thousand people packed the Dolby Theatre for Titan Records’ investor showcase-producers, label executives, streaming moguls, artists

who’d sold half a billion records between them-and not one of them knew the woman walking through the VIP entrance was about to end Jax

Mercer’s career. My badge read: V-VESPER MUSIC GROUP – KEYNOTE. The first person I saw was my husband, standing at the Titan banner

with Sienna on his arm, laughing that golden laugh that had fooled me for eight years. He was wearing the watch I’d given him for our anniversary

He hadn’t seen me yet.

Good.

Backstage, Rhys was waiting. Charcoal suit, grey eyes alight.

“Ready?”

“I was born ready for this.”

He handed me an earpiece and a remote. “I introduce you at two. Titan’s pitch is at two-thirty. Thirty minutes to dismantle them.”

“Fifteen will be enough.”

His smile was slow and wolfish. “I do enjoy watching you work.”

The main stage. Three thousand seats, standing room only. Every power player in the industry.

Rhys took the podium.

“For nearly a decade, one company has quietly reshaped the music industry. Their artists dominate every chart. Their technology has revolutionized production. And their founder has remained completely anonymous.” He paused. “Until today.”

The screens lit with the Vesper logo.

“It is my privilege to introduce, for the first time publicly, the founder and CEO of Vesper Music Group-V.”

I walked onto the stage.

Three thousand people stared.

In the fourth row, Jax Mercer’s face went white.

“Good afternoon.” My voice was steady as a metronome. “My name is Wren Mercer. Some of you know me as V, founder of Vesper Music. Others

might recognize me as the woman whose husband thanked his mistress at the Grammys last week instead of the person who actually wrote the

song.”

Shocked laughter rippled through the crowd.

“Today I’m here as both.” I clicked the remote. Waveform comparisons, timestamps, metadata filled the screen. “Eight months ago, Vesper

detected a breach. Unreleased masters were stolen from a secure server.”

Click. Jax’s face appeared alongside Titan’s logo.

The breach traces to Titan Records-specifically, their CEO, Jax Mercer. My husband Who used access to my personal devices to steal music worth approximately two billion dollars.

The theatre erupted.

Jax was on his feet. “She’s lying-she’s-‘

“Mr. Mercer.” My voice cut through the noise like a blade. “Sit down. I’m not finished.”

Security converged. He sat.

“The stolen recordings are scheduled to be presented today-at two-thirty-as Titan’s new catalogue.” Side-by-side on the screen: my original demos on the left, Titan’s “new releases” on the right. Identical waveforms. Same vocal takes. “Forensic audio analysis confirms these are my recordings, repackaged.”

I turned to the audience. Then clicked once more.

“But I’m not here just to expose a theft. I’m here to play you something.”

Silence.

From the speakers-a voice. Raw. Shaking. Broken. My voice, singing “Small Hands” for the first time, on a bathroom floor at three in the morning,

between sobs.

Small hands, I held you for a moment…

Three thousand people listened to a mother grieving.

When it ended, the silence was absolute.

That recording was made fourteen months ago,” I said. “The night I miscarried. My husband took that song, gave it to his mistress, and

performed it at the Grammys as a love duet.”

I looked directly at Jax.

“Your publicist said wives kill the fantasy.” My voice carried to every corner. “She was wrong. I was the fantasy. Every note. Every lyric. Every

Grammy on your shelf. Mine.”

The room detonated-savage, thunderous, three thousand people watching a thief stripped bare.

Backstage, Rhys’s eyes blazed.

“That,” he said, “was the most extraordinary thing I’ve ever witnessed.”

“The night’s not over.”

“No.” He offered his arm. “It’s just beginning.”

As we walked offstage, I saw Jax surrounded by federal agents, Sienna sobbing into her hands, cameras flashing everywhere.

And I felt it-quiet, vast, mine.

Power

The power I’d buried for eight years because the man I loved told me I had none.

Never again.