The Unseen Empress of Sound

My belly swollen, nine months in, I clutched the counter as a brutal contraction stole my breath.

"Ethan," I gasped, "I think it's the baby. It's too early."

He didn't even glance up from his phone, scrolling through pictures of Sabrina Chavez, the singer who' d stolen my song.

"Not now, Jocelyn," he drawled, "I'm dealing with a crisis." He meant Sabrina's stylist sent the wrong shoes.

Not impending premature birth.

Another wave of pain hit, sharper.

I saw red on my legs.

But he took my phone and keys. "You're going to sit down, drink some water, and stop trying to sabotage the biggest night of my career." He left, the door clicking like a coffin lid.

An hour later, I was bleeding on the floor, the storm had knocked out the landlines, and the front door was locked.

When help finally came, it was Ethan' s mother, who called my pain "theatrics," then shoved me into the dark, damp storm cellar, filled with corrosive cleaner.

My baby died there, in the acid, in the dark.

I should have died. I did die, to the world.

But my father, the reclusive music legend Jackson Fuller, saved me. Now, the old Jocelyn is gone, burned away.

And from the ashes, a new one has risen. And she wants revenge.