Three days after Maya released her original track, the world had made its choice.
The unfiltered version was a hit.
Streaming numbers climbed steadily. Music blogs lauded it as the "Anthem for women reclaiming their narrative." Radio hosts debated its place in a changing industry. And behind closed doors, executives who once ignored Maya's name were suddenly wondering how they'd missed her the first time.
But it wasn't just the numbers. It was the messages—the ones Maya received in her inbox, on social media, through whispered conversations in cafes. Messages from young artists, from survivors, from people who heard something in her voice they hadn't heard in anyone else's: freedom.
And for the first time in her career, Maya wasn't just someone's muse.
She was the movement.
She met with the Chicago-based indie label virtually that Friday. The call took place in Liam's loft, where she sat cross-legged on his couch in jeans and a sweatshirt, barefaced and confident. She didn't dress up for them. She didn't need to.
The rep, a woman named Nadine, had a warm smile and an unapologetic Chicago accent.
"We don't want to reinvent you," Nadine said. "We want to amplify what you're already doing. Your story, your voice—it matters. And it's connecting."
Maya felt herself relax. "I've already spent years being remixed and rearranged to fit someone else's idea of who I should be."
"Then let's make music that sounds like who you really are."
By the end of the call, they weren't just talking about singles. They were planning an EP.
Julian's benefit show aired that weekend.
Despite the controversy, the venue was packed. Fans were curious to see how he'd handle the fallout. And in classic Julian fashion, he gave them a performance they wouldn't forget.
Maya didn't watch it live. She wasn't interested in watching him spin apologies into lyrics. But social media was ablaze with commentary:
Julian Vance breaks down during performance of Maya Delaney's track.
Julian says, "She wrote the song. I broke the story."
Maya Delaney's name chanted by fans after final set.
It was surreal. Three weeks ago, no one remembered her name. Now, it was on their lips.
Julian had finally done what he couldn't before—he gave her public credit. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was strategy. But whatever it was, Maya no longer needed his validation. She had already won.
She recorded her first studio session for the EP two weeks later.
The studio was smaller than Vortex. More intimate. No glass walls or gold plaques—just instruments, padded walls, and a sound engineer named Tori who wore pink headphones and swore like a sailor.
Liam came with her, as always.
"Ready?" he asked as she tuned her guitar.
"I've never been readier," she said.
The first track was new, written in the aftermath of everything. A song about healing, but not the soft kind. It was about clawing your way out. About scars that didn't beg to be hidden. About surviving love without apology.
Tori listened to the first run-through with wide eyes. "Holy hell," she muttered. "You're not just writing songs. You're drawing blood."
Maya smiled. "Then we're getting it right."
She recorded for five hours straight, voice hoarse but heart full. Each lyric felt like a reclamation. Each note, a boundary redrawn.
The day the benefit show was posted online, Julian messaged her again.
Julian:You didn't have to watch. But thank you for letting the song live.
Maya:I didn't let it live. I gave it life.
There was no reply after that. She didn't need one.
By the end of the month, Maya's EP had a release date. Interviews were lining up. A small tour was already being discussed.
She stood in the middle of Liam's living room one night, looking at the proof sheets for her album art.
It was simple—just her in profile, her eyes closed, no makeup, her curls wild and free. Vulnerable, but strong. Honest.
Liam wrapped his arms around her from behind.
"You did it," he murmured.
"No," she corrected gently. "I'm doing it."
He turned her around and kissed her.
And when they stood there, swaying slightly to music only they could hear, Maya knew that this wasn't just a hit.
It was her rebirth.
A week before her first performance as a solo artist, she visited Studio B for the last time.
The place was quiet. Empty.
She walked the length of the soundboard, fingers brushing the same knobs Julian once used. She stood in the booth where she had sung her pain into permanence. She sat on the velvet couch where her heart had been both broken and rebuilt.
Then she pulled a Sharpie from her pocket and wrote one sentence on the inside of the booth wall:
You can't erase a woman who writes in ink.
And she walked out without looking back.
This time, the hit was hers.
This time, she wasn't second to anyone.
She was the headline.