Chapter 8

It was during their third session in the practice room that Jacob realized he had made a mistake. He had given her the songs not to sing but to own. The realization came as he watched Jet work through an arrangement of “Hidden Light,” changing both melody and lyrics with confident ease. The songs were becoming hers in a way he hadn’t anticipated.

As he sat quietly, guitar across his lap, a familiar tightness formed in his chest. His songs were deeply personal—fragments of his soul carefully arranged into melody and verse. Giving them away felt like surrendering pieces of himself. Even the thought of selling his work made him ill, which was why he’d never pursued publishing despite his prolific output.

“What do you think about changing this line?” Jet asked, turning to him with bright eyes. “‘The shadows hold no fear for me’ could be ‘The shadows can’t exist in me.’ Gets to the same idea but feels more active, you know?”

Jacob nodded automatically, though something must have shown in his expression.

“Or we could keep it as is,” Jet added quickly. “They’re your songs, after all.”

“That’s just it,” Jacob mumbled. “They’re not, are they? Not anymore.”

Jet’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“I gave them to you,” he clarified. “Not just to sing. To have.”

Understanding dawned on her face. “Jacob, I never meant to take ownership. I thought we were collaborating, not—”

“It’s okay,” he interrupted, deciding in that moment. “I knew what I was doing, even if I didn’t fully understand what it would feel like.” He faced up to it and let them go, his voice steadier than he expected. “Those three songs are yours now. To record, to perform, to change. Whatever you want to do with them.”

“But—”

“I gave them freely,” Jacob insisted. “And I’ll help finish the arrangements. But I need to be clear about this—going forward, anything else we work on together stays ... shared. These three are different.”

Jet studied him for a long moment. “You’re sure?”

Jacob nodded. “I’m sure.”

As was his usual mode, he faced his mistake, took responsibility, and then let it go. The collaboration was reward enough—the experience of creating with someone who understood his musical language, who could take his ideas and expand them in ways he never would have considered. He would simply be more careful with boundaries in the future.

Over the next three weeks, they met twice weekly, polishing the songs until they shone like diamonds. Jacob brought his perfectionism to the process, insisting on reworking sections until they flowed naturally, until each song felt complete and inevitable. Jet introduced Marcus, the drummer, during their fifth session. To Jacob’s surprise, the addition of a third person didn’t disrupt their dynamic—Marcus was quiet, intuitive, and focused entirely on serving the songs.

Their final recording session took place on a Sunday at a small studio Jet knew, where they laid down proper demos of all three songs. The owner, an old jazz musician named Ray who owed Jet a favor, handled the mixing with a delicate touch that preserved the emotional core of each piece.

“These are special,” Ray told them when they gathered to hear the final mixes. “Don’t know what you kids plan to do with them, but they deserve to be heard.”

Two days later, Jet called Jacob, her voice vibrating with excitement.

“You’re not going to believe this,” she said without preamble. “Ray sent the demos to this producer he knows at Meridian Records. They want to hear more. They’re talking about a development deal, Jacob. For me. For the songs.”

Jacob sat on the edge of his bed, phone pressed to his ear, an unfamiliar warmth spreading through his chest. “That’s amazing, Jet. You deserve it.”

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” she said. “Your songs—”

“Our arrangements,” he corrected gently. “But your interpretations. Your voice.”

“We should celebrate,” she insisted. “Tomorrow night? That little place on Fourth Street with the good pasta?”

Jacob agreed, surprising himself with his own genuine enthusiasm.

The restaurant was more upscale than Jacob usually frequented, but the dim lighting and corner booth made him feel less exposed than he’d feared. Jet arrived in a vintage dress that sparkled subtly under the restaurant lights, her usual composure giving way to barely contained excitement.

“I brought something,” she said, reaching into her bag as they waited for their meals. She passed him an envelope. “Open it.”

Inside was a contract, meticulously drafted, assigning him co-writing credit on all three songs, along with a percentage of any future royalties. “I know you said they’re mine,” Jet explained, “but this makes it official—and fair. If anything ever comes from these songs, you’ll be properly compensated.”