ARIA'S POV
The rotting wood beneath my feet cracks.
I don't have time to scream. One second I'm singing to five drunk people in Murphy's Bar, the next I'm falling through the stage into darkness.
My whole life explodes in my mind like fireworks.
Age 22: Kyle kissing me after I showed him my songs. "These are beautiful, babe. Let's register them together." I was so stupid. So trusting.
Age 24: Standing outside the recording studio, watching through the window as Kyle handed MY songs to Vivian. My stepsister. My boyfriend. Together. Laughing.
Age 26: The rejection letters. Hundreds of them. "We're not interested." "Your work doesn't meet our standards." Meanwhile, Vivian wins Best New Artist using my music.
Age 29: My father's words at his birthday party. "Don't come. You'll embarrass the family. Vivian's bringing important people." I wasn't even invited to my own father's celebration.
Age 32: Tonight. Singing for pocket change at a bar where the owner doesn't remember my name.
This is how I die? After wasting everything?
My back hits the ground. Something snaps—loud and terrible. Pain explodes everywhere.
The bar owner's face appears above me. "Someone call 911!"
But I can't breathe. Can't move. Blood fills my mouth.
My last thought is pathetic: I could have been someone.
Then—nothing.
I gasp awake, lungs burning.
Wrong. That's wrong. Dead people don't breathe.
My eyes fly open. I'm staring at a ceiling I recognize. Water stains in the corner. Crack shaped like a dragon. This is... this is my old apartment. The one I shared with Zoe ten years ago.
"No," I whisper. "No, this isn't possible."
My body doesn't hurt anymore. I sit up fast, hands patting my back, my legs, my arms. Everything works. Everything's fine. Better than fine—my knees don't ache. My shoulder doesn't have that constant pain from sleeping on cheap mattresses.
I run to the tiny bathroom and flip on the light.
The face in the mirror makes me scream.
It's me. But YOUNG me. Twenty-two-year-old me with smooth skin and bright eyes and hope still living somewhere deep inside.
"I'm going crazy," I say to my reflection. "I died. I fell. I felt it."
But my reflection looks solid and real and definitely NOT dead.
My phone buzzes on the bathroom sink. I grab it with shaking hands.
The date on the screen makes my heart stop.
May 15th, 2015.
Ten years ago. The day before everything went wrong.
My calendar app shows one event for tomorrow: STAR MAKER AUDITION - 9 AM.
Oh God.
OH GOD.
Star Maker. The singing competition that was supposed to launch my career. The audition where I bombed so badly the judges laughed. Where I sang Kyle's "arrangement" that made me sound like a dying cat. Where my dreams died on national television.
That audition is TOMORROW.
My phone buzzes again. A text from Kyle: "Can't wait for tomorrow, babe! Meet me at my studio at 7 tonight. I finished the arrangement for your audition song. It's PERFECT. You're going to blow everyone away. Love you! "
My hands start shaking so hard I almost drop the phone.
Kyle. My boyfriend who I thought loved me. Who I trusted with everything.
I remember now—so clearly it hurts. Tonight in my first life, I went to his studio. He played me his "arrangement" of my song "Dreams Don't Die." It sounded wrong, but he convinced me he knew better. "Trust me, Aria. I'm a professional. This will show your range."
I trusted him.
I used his arrangement.
I failed.
One week later, I saw him kissing Vivian at a café.
Two weeks later, my song "Dreams Don't Die" was registered under Kyle Reed as the writer.
My song. MY song that I poured my heart into. Gone.
I stare at his text message, and something cold and hard forms in my chest.
He hasn't done it yet. In this timeline, Kyle hasn't stolen anything. Vivian hasn't become famous on my work. My father hasn't cut me off for "embarrassing the family."
None of it has happened yet.
Which means I can stop it.
I can change EVERYTHING.
My reflection in the mirror looks different now. Same young face, but my eyes—my eyes hold ten years of pain and knowledge and rage that doesn't belong to a twenty-two-year-old.
I know which songs become hits. I know which scandals break careers. I know exactly who betrayed me and how.
Most importantly, I know I'm not talentless. I'm not worthless. I'm not the failure everyone made me believe I was.
They stole my future.
This time, I'm taking it back.
I open my phone and start typing a reply to Kyle, then stop. Something catches my eye—an email notification from three hours ago.
Subject: Demo Submission - Apex Entertainment
Wait. I never submitted anything to Apex Entertainment. They're the biggest label in the country. They don't accept random demos from nobodies like me.
But my finger hovers over the email, and a memory flickers. Not from this timeline. From... before? After? My head spins.
In my first life, did I try to submit to Apex? I can't remember. Everything's jumbled.
I open the email.
"Thank you for your demo submission. Unfortunately, your work does not meet our current standards. We wish you the best in your future endeavors. - Apex Entertainment"
The rejection hits like a slap. Even in this new timeline, they don't want me.
Except... I didn't submit anything yet. This email is from my FIRST life. Somehow, I'm seeing emails from both timelines?
My head pounds. This doesn't make sense.
Unless—
My old phone. In my first life, I had a different phone number. I switched carriers after Kyle stole my identity to access my song files. What if...
I dig through my desk drawer and find it. My old phone, supposedly dead and useless.
I plug it in.
It powers on.
The screen shows 147 missed calls from "Kyle " and 89 texts from "Dad" and one voicemail from a number I don't recognize.
My finger trembles as I press play on the voicemail.
"Miss Chen, this is Damien Cross from Apex Entertainment. I personally listened to your demo 'Shattered Crown.' I don't know how you got past our screeners with such a rough recording, but your voice is... remarkable. Call me back. We need to talk."
The voicemail is dated three days from now.
Three days from NOW.
Which means I haven't sent that demo yet. I haven't recorded "Shattered Crown" yet.
But in some other timeline—some other version of events I'm half-remembering—I did.
And Damien Cross, the most powerful CEO in the music industry, personally called me.
The phone slips from my hand and clatters on the floor.
What is HAPPENING to me?
Am I remembering one past life or TWO?
And if Damien Cross wants to sign me in one timeline, why did Apex reject me in the other?
My bedroom door crashes open.
I spin around, heart hammering.
A man stands in my doorway. Tall, dangerous-looking, with sharp eyes that see too much.
"Aria Chen?" His voice is deep and cold. "You need to come with me. Now."
"Who are you?!" I grab the closest thing—a lamp—and hold it like a weapon.
He pulls out a badge. "Security for Apex Entertainment. Mr. Cross sent me to find you."
My blood turns to ice. "That's impossible. I haven't even—"
"You submitted a demo forty-three minutes ago from this address. Mr. Cross listened to it personally." His eyes narrow. "The question is, Miss Chen, how did you record a song that doesn't exist yet?"
The lamp falls from my hands.
How did I record something I haven't recorded?
Unless this timeline is already changing because I'm here.
Unless I'm not just remembering the past—I'm REWRITING it.
And someone knows.