Chapter 7 - The Diva's Daughter Knew Something Was WrongIvy Vale had grown up believing her mother was fearless.
Celeste could walk into a room full of millionaires and make them feel lucky to stand near her.
She could silence interviewers with one raised eyebrow.
She could turn a mediocre song into a hit through sheer determination and expensive publicity.
When Ivy was eight, a journalist asked what made Celeste extraordinary.
Ivy answered proudly, "My mommy doesn't need anybody."
Her mother laughed and kissed her forehead.
For years, Ivy considered that the highest compliment imaginable.
Now, at twenty-six, she was beginning to understand the difference between independence and a life built around making sure nobody could contradict you.
The morning after Nia's concert, Ivy returned to her mother's mansion.
Celeste was having breakfast on the terrace.
An untouched plate of fruit sat beside a tablet displaying entertainment headlines.
One read:
NIA BROOKS STUNS NASHVILLE WITH ORIGINAL SONG.
Another declared:
CELESTE VALE FACES NEW QUESTIONS AS FORMER SESSION ENGINEER SPEAKS.
Celeste immediately turned the tablet facedown.
"I thought you were staying with a friend."
"I was."
Ivy sat opposite her.
"I want to ask you something."
Celeste sighed.
"We already had this conversation."
"No. You yelled at me. That's different."
Celeste removed her sunglasses.
"What do you want?"
"The truth."
The word hung between them.
Celeste looked toward the garden.
"I've told you the truth."
"Then answer one question without getting angry."
A long silence.
Finally, Celeste nodded.
Ivy took out her phone.
She played a few seconds of the 1995 recording.
Celeste's famous voice filled the terrace.
Then Ivy played Nia's original performance from the benefit concert.
Same phrasing.
Same distinctive musical instincts.
Different decades.
Different songs.
But a connection that was impossible to dismiss.
"Did Nia Brooks sing on your record?"
Celeste stared at the phone.
"I had backup singers."
"That's not what I asked."
"We had session musicians. Producers. Engineers. A whole team."
"Mom."
Celeste stood.
"I'm not going to let some opportunistic woman turn my daughter against me."
Ivy rose, too.
"She isn't turning me against you."
"Then what is this?"
"This is me asking whether my mother has been lying to me."
Celeste flinched.
Ivy had never spoken to her that way.
For a moment, Celeste looked almost ready to answer.
Then her expression closed.
"Grant is handling it."
Ivy shook her head.
"Grant handles everything you don't want to face."
"Grant built my career."
"Maybe that's part of the problem."
Celeste turned away.
Ivy followed her into the living room.
"Did she write it?"
Celeste stopped near the piano.
"Write what?"
"The song."
Celeste's shoulders stiffened.
"That song belongs to me."
"That's not an answer."
"I recorded it. I promoted it. I performed it for thirty-one years."
"Did you write it?"
Celeste turned.
"Who cares about a piece of paper from 1995?"
Ivy stared at her.
"I do."
The two women looked at each other across the grand piano.
Then Ivy asked something Celeste hadn't expected.
"When you sing that song alone, without a band or a recording, does it sound like the record?"
Celeste's eyes filled.
"You have no idea how hard I've worked."
Ivy softened.
"I'm not saying you didn't."
"I've spent my entire life earning everything I have."
"Then why won't you answer?"
Celeste looked away.
And Ivy knew.
Not every detail.
Not the documents.
Not the legal questions.
But she knew that her mother wasn't defending a memory.
She was defending a secret.
Ivy left without another word.
She drove to the small house she rented near the university, closed the curtains, and opened a storage box containing old family photographs.
Celeste had given it to her after Ivy's grandmother died.
Inside were concert programs, letters, photographs, and several cassette recordings.
Most were labeled with dates.
One bore a handwritten title.
STREETLIGHTS — PRIVATE REHEARSAL — MARCH 1995.
Ivy stared at it.
Her mother had never mentioned this tape.
She called June Brooks.
June didn't recognize the number.
"Hello?"
"My name is Ivy Vale."
Silence.
Then June said carefully, "I know who you are."
"I'm Celeste's daughter."
"I know."
Ivy swallowed.
"I think I have something you should hear."
June didn't respond immediately.
Finally, she asked, "What is it?"
"A tape from 1995."
"What's on it?"
"I don't know. I haven't played it."
"Why are you calling me?"
Ivy looked down at the label.
"Because for the first time in my life, I don't believe my mother is telling me the truth."
An hour later, June told Nia about the call.
Nia shook her head.
"No."
"Mom—"
"No. I won't pull that girl into this."
"She called me."
"Because she's confused."
"She's twenty-six. She's allowed to decide what she does with her own family history."
Nia paced the kitchen.
She remembered Celeste at nineteen.
The polished hair.
The expensive clothes.
The label executives surrounding her.
Nia had hated her for so long that she had sometimes forgotten Celeste was young when it began, too.
But youth didn't erase responsibility.
And Celeste had spent thirty-one years making the same choice again and again.
"I don't want Ivy hurt," Nia said.
June nodded.
"Neither do I."
"Then tell Evelyn first. Nobody handles that tape without proper advice."
June smiled.
"That's exactly what I was going to do."
The following afternoon, Ivy met Evelyn and June at the attorney's office.
She brought the cassette in a sealed case.
She also brought a handwritten note describing how she had obtained it from her family's storage.
Evelyn explained that receiving the tape did not mean they could automatically publish or use every part of it.
Its contents, authenticity, and provenance needed to be established.
Ivy agreed.
"I don't want to hurt my mother."
June studied her.
"Then why are you here?"
Ivy's eyes filled.
"Because I don't want to become somebody who helps her hurt someone else."
The cassette was examined and professionally transferred.
The recording began with piano music.
Then Celeste's younger voice entered.
It was recognizably hers.
Strong in some places.
Unsteady in others.
She stopped during the bridge.
A man's voice spoke.
Hal Merrick.
"Again, Celeste."
"I can't get that note."
"You don't need to get it perfectly."
"I thought you said this would be my single."
"It is."
"Then why do you keep comparing me to that girl?"
A long silence followed.
Ivy sat forward.
Celeste's younger voice continued.
"She sounds like somebody who actually lived the song."
Hal replied, "That's why we're using her take."
Another pause.
Then Celeste asked the question that made June's blood run cold.
"Will anybody know?"
Hal answered, "Not if everybody does their job."
The tape clicked off.
Ivy covered her mouth.
June stared at the table.
Evelyn wrote something in her notebook.
Nobody spoke for almost a minute.
Then Ivy whispered, "She knew."
June looked at her.
"Yes."
"She knew right from the beginning."
Ivy began crying.
For twenty-six years, she had loved a woman whose greatest achievement had been built partly on another woman's stolen recognition.
That didn't erase the good memories.
The birthday cakes.
The bedtime stories.
The times Celeste held her through heartbreak.
But it changed the story of her mother.
And Ivy wasn't sure what to do with that.
June moved closer.
"You don't have to decide everything today."
Ivy wiped her cheeks.
"Do you hate her?"
June considered the question.
"I hate what she did to my mom."
"That's not the same thing."
"No."
Ivy nodded.
"Thank you."
Later, when Nia heard the carefully preserved recording, she experienced something she hadn't expected.
Not satisfaction.
Grief.
Celeste had known the truth.
Before the records sold.
Before the awards.
Before the interviews in which she claimed the song came from her own heartbreak.
She had been given a choice.
And she had chosen herself.
Nia listened to the words again.
Will anybody know?
She shut her eyes.
For three decades, she had imagined Celeste as someone who simply took what she wanted.
But the tape revealed something colder.
Celeste had asked whether she could get away with it.
That distinction mattered.
One suggested selfishness.
The other showed awareness.
Evelyn placed the evidence summary beside the recording.
"This could be important, depending on authentication and how the broader record develops."
Nia nodded.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Of course."
"Will Celeste go to prison?"
Evelyn hesitated.
"We're dealing primarily with a complex civil dispute. We shouldn't assume a criminal outcome, especially given the age of the events and questions about who created the documents."
Nia looked disappointed.
Evelyn continued.
"Accountability doesn't always look like punishment in a courtroom. Sometimes it means correcting the historical record, financial restitution where legally available, and ending the deception."
Nia stared at her hands.
"I want my name back."
"Then we'll keep working toward that."
That evening, Nia was alone when someone knocked at the door.
She assumed it was Cole.
Instead, Celeste Vale stood on her porch.
No cameras.
No entourage.
No fur coat.
She wore jeans, a sweater, and dark glasses.
Her platinum hair was pulled into a loose ponytail.
For the first time, she looked fifty-one.
"Nia."
Nia stood motionless.
"What are you doing here?"
"We need to talk."
"Call my lawyer."
"Please."
Nia looked toward the street.
A black sedan was parked across the road.
"Did Grant send you?"
"No."
Nia laughed without humor.
"Does he know you're here?"
Celeste removed her glasses.
"No."
Nia considered closing the door.
Then she stepped aside.
"Five minutes."
Celeste entered the small living room.
Her gaze moved across the family photographs.
The piano.
The faded furniture.
The house Nia had spent years helping her mother maintain.
For a moment, Celeste said nothing.
Then she noticed the photograph of nineteen-year-old Nia outside Cypress Sound.
Her expression changed.
"I remember that day."
Nia folded her arms.
"So do I."
Celeste looked at the picture.
"You were happy."
"I thought my life was beginning."
A painful silence.
Celeste turned.
"Grant tells me you've rejected the settlement."
"I did."
"Two million dollars is a lot of money."
"To you?"
Celeste looked offended.
"Of course."
"Then imagine what thirty-one years of a number-one song is worth."
Celeste lowered her eyes.
"I came to offer something different."
Nia waited.
"A duet."
Nia stared.
Celeste continued quickly.
"We record a new version together. Your name appears beside mine. We tell people you were an important early collaborator."
Nia felt anger rise.
"An early collaborator?"
"It's an opportunity."
"To sing my own song with you?"
"Yes."
"And would you tell people whose voice was on the original?"
Celeste hesitated.
"We could find language that—"
"No."
"Nia, listen—"
"No."
Celeste's jaw tightened.
"I'm trying to give you a way forward."
Nia stepped closer.
"You keep talking like you own the road."
Celeste stared.
Nia pointed toward the photograph.
"That girl wrote a song in a house where the roof leaked. She recorded it because she wanted to help her mother. You took the recording and let the world believe you'd created it."
"I didn't make those decisions alone."
"But you made them."
Celeste's eyes filled.
"You don't understand what it was like."
"Then tell me."
For a moment, Celeste looked genuinely lost.
"My first album was failing. The label was ready to drop me. I had worked since I was fifteen to get a record deal."
Nia said nothing.
"Then Hal played your song."
Celeste looked at the piano.
"I hated how beautiful it was."
Nia felt a sharp ache.
Celeste continued.
"Not because you were bad. Because you were good. Better than me at that song."
Her voice trembled.
"I knew the moment I heard it that the label might decide you were the person they wanted."
Nia looked at her.
"So you took it."
Celeste whispered, "I let them."
"And then?"
"I kept waiting for somebody to discover it."
Celeste's eyes filled with tears.
"Every interview. Every award. Every time somebody called it the greatest vocal of my career, I thought the truth would come out."
Nia felt no relief.
"Then why didn't you tell them?"
Celeste looked ashamed.
"Because every year made it harder."
Nia stared at her.
"For you."
Celeste lowered her head.
"Yes."
Nia's voice broke.
"Do you know what those years were like for me?"
Celeste didn't answer.
"I watched you sing my song on television while I worked double shifts. I watched people call you a genius for notes I wrote in a notebook on my mother's kitchen table."
Nia wiped her eyes angrily.
"My daughter grew up thinking I was afraid to chase my dreams."
Celeste whispered, "I'm sorry."
Nia shook her head.
"You're sorry you got caught."
Celeste flinched.
"That's not fair."
Nia stepped back.
"Fair?"
Her voice rose.
"You want to talk about fair?"
Celeste looked away.
Nia forced herself to breathe.
Then she spoke more quietly.
"If you're truly sorry, tell the truth."
Celeste stared at her.
"Publicly?"
"Yes."
"My career would be destroyed."
Nia looked toward the front door.
"Mine was destroyed before it started."
Celeste began crying.
For one moment, Nia saw the frightened young woman from Ruth's recording.
Then Celeste straightened.
"I can't."
Nia felt something settle inside her.
Not rage.
Clarity.
"Then you didn't come to apologize."
Celeste wiped her face.
"I came to make peace."
"No."
Nia opened the door.
"You came to negotiate another version of my silence."
Celeste stood motionless.
Nia held the door.
"Please leave."
Celeste walked toward the porch.
At the threshold, she stopped.
"Nia."
"What?"
"I really did admire your voice."
Nia met her eyes.
"I know."
Celeste looked surprised.
Nia continued.
"You admired it so much you spent thirty-one years pretending it was yours."
Celeste walked away.
Nia closed the door.
Then she leaned against it and cried.
Not because Celeste had refused to confess.
Because, for the first time, she understood that the confession was no longer something she needed in order to believe herself.
Outside, Celeste climbed into her car.
Her phone rang.
Grant.
She answered.
"Where have you been?"
Celeste stared at the house.
"Out."
"Did you speak to Brooks?"
Celeste hesitated.
"Yes."
Grant swore.
"I told you not to do that."
"She won't accept anything."
"Then we're going to have to fight."
Celeste looked back at the porch.
Through the window, she could see Nia's old piano.
Something twisted inside her chest.
"Grant."
"What?"
"Did you forge that second contract?"
Silence.
Celeste gripped the phone.
"Grant?"
His answer came slowly.
"Go home, Celeste."
"What did you do?"
"Go home and let me handle it."
The line went dead.
Celeste sat motionless.
She had spent thirty-one years believing she knew every part of the lie she was protecting.
May you like
Now she realized there might be another crime buried beneath the one she had helped create.
And for the first time, she was afraid of Grant Mercer.
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