Chapter 3
The rage still burned in my chest as I found myself drifting through the streets of Beverly Hills. I didn't even realize where I was going until I stopped in front of a massive white mansion.
This wasn't the cozy apartment Miles and I used to share. This was some next-level rich shit.
Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, I could see into the kitchen - our dream kitchen. Miles was making breakfast, moving around like he fucking owned the place.
"How's your throat today?" His voice carried through the glass as he kissed Bliss's forehead. "I was worried after yesterday's livestream."
Bliss stretched like a satisfied cat in silk pajamas. My champagne silk pajamas - the ones I'd splurged on for our Napa trip.
"With you taking care of me, nothing scares me," she purred, wrapping around him. "You're more amazing than I imagined."
Miles smiled that soft smile he used to save for me. He made her coffee exactly how I liked it - two sugars, oat milk, stirred counterclockwise.
"That's our kitchen layout," I murmured, watching him move through the space we'd planned together. "Those are my pajamas. That's my coffee."
But they couldn't hear me. They were living in our stolen dreams, and I was nothing but air.
I couldn't stop myself from following. I had to see how deep this betrayal went.
The recording studio was pure torture.
This private Beverly Hills facility had everything - gleaming equipment, gold records covering the walls, sunlight streaming through massive windows. Miles was in full producer mode, adjusting levels with those careful hands I used to love.
"Softer on that run," he told Bliss, fingers dancing across the mixing board. "Your voice has this natural purity - don't force it."
There was that word again. Purity.
Bliss leaned into the mic, batting her lashes at him through the booth glass. "I only sing this well for you. You're my inspiration."
She cracked the high note on purpose - I could tell. Miles came into the booth and wrapped his arms around her from behind, adjusting her posture like he used to do with me.
"You make me believe in music's magic again," he murmured against her ear.
"THOSE ARE MY WORDS!" I screamed, making the speakers crackle. "You said that to ME, you lying piece of shit!"
But they kept working. Bliss giggled every time she "messed up," drinking in his attention.
I watched him teach her my techniques, my breathing patterns, everything we'd discovered together. He was rewriting our history with her as the star.
Lunch at Catch LA was nothing short of a spectacle.
Miles and Bliss sat at the window table like they were putting on a show for the paparazzi outside. Every touch calculated, every smile camera-ready.
"Miles, things are moving pretty fast with Bliss!" some reporter yelled through the glass.
Miles flashed that media smile I'd helped him practice. "When you meet the right person, timing doesn't matter."
Bliss leaned into him, practically glowing. "Miles says I helped him forget his past pain and start fresh."
The words hit me like a punch to the gut. Forget his past pain.
I watched him clasp an expensive diamond necklace around her throat while cameras flashed like strobe lights.
Past pain. My chest tightened. That's all I was to him. Pain to be erased.
Miles kissed her temple, and she laughed - bright and carefree. Like she'd never hurt anyone in her life.
I couldn't watch anymore. The pain was too much.
I drifted aimlessly through the city for hours, my spirit heavy with the weight of betrayal. Every street corner reminded me of something we'd shared. The recording studio where we'd met. The coffee shop where he'd first said he loved me. The vintage store where we'd bought matching leather jackets.
'Maybe I was just fooling myself,' I thought as the sun set over the hills. 'Maybe what we had was never real.'
But something nagged at me. The way he'd looked when he thought no one was watching. The careful way he'd handled my old demos. Why keep them if he really wanted to forget?
By midnight, I found myself drawn back to the studio. I didn't know why.
The building was dark except for the soft glow of equipment LEDs and the smell of cold coffee.
Miles sat alone at the mixing desk, multiple audio files open on the monitors. My heart stopped when I recognized my own voice playing through the speakers.
"Layla..." The name escaped his lips like a prayer, eyes closed as my demo filled the space.
I drifted closer, confused. On his screen was a hidden folder labeled "L.R. - Personal." Inside were dozens of my files - demos, rough cuts, photos I thought he'd deleted.
He opened another program with complicated graphs and wave patterns. I didn't understand the technical stuff, but I could see him isolating something tiny from my recordings.
'What is he doing?' I wondered, watching him work with intense focus.
He layered this microscopic piece into one of Bliss's tracks - so quiet I almost missed it. But then I heard it. My breathing. The way I naturally paused between phrases.
"Only you would notice this," he murmured to the screen.
'He's hiding pieces of me in her music? But why?'
Then I watched him open his email and started typing an anonymous message with audio attachments.
"This should be enough evidence," he muttered to himself. "Time to plant some doubt."
The email contained audio comparisons between my work and Bliss's releases.
"One step at a time," he said, hitting send. "Can't rush this. Too much at stake."
He looked at my photo on his desktop. "I know you're out there somewhere. I know you can see this. Just... trust me a little longer."
The email he composed made my heart race:
[Bliss Hartwell's new releases contain plagiarized material. Please review the attached audio comparisons and investigate potential copyright theft involving deceased artist Layla Rivera.]
He sent it to TMZ, Pitchfork, Rolling Stone - every major music publication.
My mind tried to process what I was seeing. Miles wasn't moving on. He was... what? Planning something?
"You weren't betraying me," I said to the empty air, but doubt still clouded my thoughts. "But then why the public act with Bliss? Why make me watch you two together?"
As I watched him save his work, pieces started clicking together. The perfect boyfriend routine. Getting close to Bliss. Access to her recording sessions.
'He's not her producer,' I realized with growing amazement. 'He's a spy.'
The rage that had burned in me for weeks began transforming into something else. Not quite hope - not yet - but the first spark of understanding.
"You're fighting for me," I said to the empty room, my voice barely a whisper.
Miles saved his work and closed the laptop, but not before speaking to the screen one more time: "Almost ready, baby. Almost time."
Outside, the first hints of dawn were creeping over the hills. And for the first time since waking up dead, I smiled with genuine anticipation.