Chapter 12

Lydia slid the keycard into her hotel room door, riding a creative high unlike anything she’d experienced in years. The three hours with Jacob had flown by, each song he shared revealing new depths to his talent. By the end of their session, they’d worked through five compositions, each one striking a different emotional chord, each one feeling more right for her solo project than anything Arclight had recorded in their last two albums.

“The Father Song” remained the standout, the one she couldn’t stop hearing in her head as she made her way back to the Marriott. She hummed the bridge under her breath as she entered her suite, tossing her bag onto the plush sofa and kicking off her boots.

Only then did she notice the buzz of missed calls on the phone, which she’d turned off during their session. Sixteen missed calls. Twenty-seven text messages. Unusual, even for her.

Curious, she turned the phone on. Almost immediately, it began buzzing with incoming notifications, a cascade that didn’t slow for nearly a minute. Her publicist. Her manager. Her bandmates. Friends from across the industry. Music journalists.

“What the hell?” she muttered, opening the most recent text from her manager, Shawn.

CALL ME NOW. You’re everywhere. Not sure if this was planned, but if it was, it’s brilliant.

Attached was a link to a YouTube video titled “Lydia Summers + Mystery Scarred Man - Heartbreaking New Song (Campus Coffee Shop).”

It already had over 500,000 views.

Lydia sank onto the edge of the bed, her heart suddenly racing. She clicked the link, and there they were—she and Jacob at the coffee shop table, his scarred profile partially visible as he played guitar, her face in full view as she joined him for the chorus of “The Father Song,” tears streaming down her cheeks.

The video quality wasn’t professional, clearly captured on someone’s phone from a nearby table, but the audio was surprisingly clear. Their voices blended perfectly, the raw emotion in the performance undeniable. The comments section was exploding with reactions:

Lydia winced at the last comment, knowing how Jacob would hate the reduction of his appearance to a fairy tale trope. But the overwhelming sentiment was positive—the song moved people, by their performance, by the unexpected intimacy of the moment.

She quickly searched Twitter and Instagram, finding dozens more videos and posts. Different angles, different portions of the song, all capturing the same authentic moment between two musicians connecting through music. Some focused on her tears, others on Jacob’s haunting lyrics, still others speculating about their relationship, both personal and professional.

Her phone rang—Shawn again. She answered, her mind still processing the implications.

“Please tell me this was strategic,” her manager said without preamble.

“It wasn’t,” Lydia replied honestly. “We were just working through a song. I had no idea anyone was recording.”

“Well, someone was. Several someones, actually. You’re trending, Lydia. #FatherSong is all over Twitter. People are already asking when they can buy it.”

Lydia closed her eyes, thinking of Jacob—intensely private, cautious about sharing his work, now suddenly thrust into the spotlight without warning or consent.

“Shawn, I need to call you back. There’s someone I need to speak with first.”

“The guy in the video? Jacob Whitney, right? The songwriter Jet’s been raving about?”

Lydia wasn’t surprised Shawn had already identified Jacob. “Yes. This wasn’t what we agreed to. I need to talk to him before we make any statements or decisions.”

“Fine, but don’t wait too long. This kind of organic viral moment is gold, especially with your solo announcement coming up. The label’s already called twice.”

After hanging up, Lydia paced the hotel suite, processing the unexpected turn of events. What had been a private creative session, a delicate building of trust, had suddenly become very public. Part of her—the career-minded professional who understood the music industry—recognized the potential benefit. This kind of authentic moment, unplanned and emotionally raw, was the perfect introduction to her new musical direction.

But another part—the artist who had just spent hours with a man who guarded his privacy fiercely—felt protective of Jacob and the fragile trust they’d established.

She tried calling him, but the call went straight to voicemail. Not surprising—he’d mentioned he often kept his phone off while working on music.