Chapter 1: She Chose Fame Over Me

Kids’ Songs in America Have Tanked—Big Time

My wife, Autumn Sinclair, and I entered a music competition together.

It was supposed to be our thing—a shared dream. Late-night harmonies in the kitchen, scribbling lyrics on napkins, sipping diner coffee. Sometimes I’d look at her and think, This is it. This is what happiness sounds like. But after making it to the top eight, Autumn hooked up with a Grammy-winning songwriter and immediately divorced me. Just like that. The news hit like a cold slap, but I kept my face blank, refusing to give her the satisfaction.

She shoved the divorce papers in my face. I just smiled.

Because I knew my talent hadn’t slipped. I knew what I was worth—even if she’d forgotten. Still, that stung.

“Chris, let’s get divorced.” She didn’t even blink.

Autumn slid a divorce agreement across the kitchen table. Her hand didn’t tremble. Of course it didn’t. She was always so composed, even when her world was changing. The table between us was littered with half-drunk coffee mugs and unopened mail—everyday clutter from a life we were suddenly splitting in two.

She’d just made it into the top eight of a national music competition, and now half a dozen entertainment agencies were fighting to sign her. The kitchen felt smaller, somehow—her confidence filling the room, pressing in from every side.

I looked up at her. Memories flickered—her laugh at my dumb jokes, the comfort of her hand in mine after a tough day. All of it felt so far away now.

Autumn’s voice was icy. “Just sign it.” She didn’t even look me in the eye. Her gaze fixed somewhere over my shoulder, like she couldn’t bear to see what she’d done.

I let out a bitter laugh, raw and ugly between us. “So, two and a half years together can’t compete with a few record deals?” I didn’t care if my voice cracked.

Crazy, right? In this world, kids’ songs ruled the charts. Once Autumn got a taste of fame, I just wasn’t enough for her anymore. Our little apartment, once filled with music and hope, felt like a museum of what we’d lost.

Her manager, Denise Porter, saw I still hadn’t signed and tried to hurry me along. “We’re going to make Autumn a top star. If you really love her, you shouldn’t stand in the way of her future!” Denise’s voice was syrupy sweet, but her eyes could cut glass. She was the kind of woman who could sniff out weakness from a mile away.

Denise loved to play the moral high ground. Petty, always stirring the pot. If it hadn’t been for her, my marriage with Autumn wouldn’t have crashed so fast. She always managed to wedge herself between us, whispering doubts into Autumn’s ear.

She pulled out a wad of cash. “Here’s thirty grand as hush money. Not a word about you and Autumn to anyone, or we’ll sue you for everything you’ve got!” She slapped the stack onto the table like she was buying a used car, not ending a marriage. Unreal.

I didn’t hesitate. I signed the divorce agreement. The pen felt heavier than I expected. It dragged across the paper, like it knew this was the end.

Things were already over—no point trying to win her back. The fight was gone. Just a hollow ache left.

Autumn froze, not expecting me to agree so fast. Then—a flash of disgust. Maybe she wanted me to beg. I wasn’t going to give her that.

She stood up. “This is all you’re good for.”

The chair scraped against the linoleum. Loud. The silence she left behind rang in my ears.

I called out, “Wait, I have something to say to you.” My voice came out steadier than I felt. But I wasn’t done.

She looked at me, mocking. “What, can’t let go after signing?” She folded her arms. Smirked.

I stood up slowly. “I just wanted to tell you, I’m entering that show too—and I’ll be more famous than you.” I let the words hang. Daring her to laugh.

They both burst out laughing—sharp, brittle. It stung.

She sneered. Rolled her eyes so hard I thought they might get stuck. “Chris, do you even hear yourself? Can you even sing?”

Autumn rubbed her forehead, exasperated. Her words dripped with disbelief. Like I was a kid playing pretend. “Stop making a scene. I know you can’t accept the divorce, but please, face reality! You think singing’s that easy? The show requires original songs starting at the finals. No one will write for you—are you planning to write them yourself?”

Denise chimed in, smug. “Even if you do join, that’ll be next season. By then, our Autumn will probably already be a superstar!” She tossed her hair, like it was already settled.

She shot me an even more disdainful look. Her words were acid. Burned away the last of my patience. “A loser is always a loser, just daydreaming all day! Autumn must’ve been blind to fall for you in the first place!”

I said, my voice flat, “What did you say? Say it again if you dare.” My hands balled into fists. I could feel my pulse pounding in my ears.

In the past, I’d let Denise’s words slide. Out of respect for Autumn. But not today.

She didn’t get it. “I said you’re a los—”

Before she could finish, I slapped her.

Smack!

A sharp sound echoed. The silence after was deafening. Like the world stopped. A bright red handprint appeared on her cheek.

She stared at me in disbelief. “You hit me? Do you believe I—” Her voice went shrill, right on the edge of hysteria.

I looked at her with a thin smile. I leaned back, arms crossed. Dared her to try something. “What can you do? You used to threaten me with my marriage to Autumn. Now, what do you have left to hold over me?”

Her bravado slipped. I could see the fear creeping in. “I’ll call the cops! I’ll have you thrown in jail!”

Autumn wanted to say something. She just stood there, mouth opening and closing like a fish.

I shrugged, playing it cool. I raised an eyebrow. Dared her to make a move. “Go ahead, call them. Let everyone know about me and Autumn. I don’t think that would count as breaking the agreement, would it?”

Denise was speechless. For once.

If this blew up, Autumn’s career would definitely take a hit. And from the look in her eyes, she knew it too.

I spat the word. My voice cracked like a whip. “Get out!”

They left. Designer heels. Wounded pride.

Now I was alone. The apartment felt emptier than ever. Every echo a reminder of what I’d lost—and what I might still become.

I opened my phone and checked my email. The screen glowed in the dark. A little beacon of hope. There was a notice saying I’d advanced in the competition.

“Guess writing songs isn’t impossible after all.” I grinned, feeling that old spark.