Kylie Cantrall's Arc

Chapter 78 of 78

The private recording sat on the drive, safe and theirs. But safe wasn't enough now. Arianna wanted people to hear it. She wanted fans to know she built this. Kylie leaned back in the studio chair and saw the problem clearly. The moment they posted the song, the label would claim a cut. Every stream, every download, they'd take their share. And they'd twist the story back to "the fan who got lucky." "We can't just upload it," Kylie said. "They own our output. The second it makes money, they're in it." Arianna sat on the desk, arms crossed. "So we give it away. No money. Just the song." "They'll still claim it. A leak, a stream, anything. And they'll say we owe them." Kylie rubbed her eyes. "We need proof it's ours before they can touch it." Arianna looked at the mixing board. Then at the screen still glowing with the take she'd produced. "The file has my work on it. My edits. My timing choices." She tapped the desk. "What if we don't post the song at all? What if we post how it was made?" Kylie sat up. "Say that again." "The recording session. Me at the board. Directing you. Catching the flat note." Arianna's voice sped up. "That footage proves I produced it. Not a headline. Not a contract. Video. The label can't claim a session that never released a track." Kylie stared at the studio. The panels on the wall. The desk. The chair. She pulled out her phone and set it on the shelf facing the board. "Do it again. All of it. I'll record." Arianna slid into the producer's seat. Kylie stepped to the mic and clipped on the pop filter. The phone caught everything. Arianna pushed a fader up and leaned in. "Second verse. Just your line." Kylie sang. Arianna stopped her. "Rushed the third word. Slower." She reset the take. "Again." Kylie sang it slower. Arianna nodded, marked the screen, fixed the harmony with two fingers. The camera saw her hands shape the sound. It saw her ear catch what no one else could. Kylie ended the recording and played it back on the small screen. Arianna filled the frame, running the board, calling the shots. No stranger. No microphone. A producer at work. "That's the post," Kylie said. "Not the song. The proof. Your name on the work, in a room the label never entered." Arianna took the phone. Her thumb hovered over her own account. She'd told her own story once before and changed how the world saw her. She could do it again. She pressed post. The video went up under her name. Arianna Smith, producing. The song stayed on the drive, unreleased and untouchable. The label had no track to claim, no earnings to split. Within minutes, comments filled with fans calling her a producer, not a fan. Kylie's phone rang. Her mother's name lit the screen. The label had already seen it.