The Cover Chapter 2

After I sang "Echoes of Time" in that class, my life changed. I went viral.

The flood of online attention quickly led to an invitation to compete on a national music show. I was supposed to be the unknown underdog, the cannon fodder. But against all odds, I battled my way through the competition and placed second.

That was the beginning. I signed a record deal, released albums, and sold out concerts. I became a household name, and I made a fortune.

Selene, however, never caught her break. Even when she tried to ride my coattails, her follower count barely budged. Eventually, she gave up and let me support her, her favorite refrain becoming a constant echo in my life:

"Sera, if it wasn't for my song, you'd be nobody. Anyone could have sung it and become famous. I gave you that chance. At least eighty percent of your success is because of me."

"So what if I ask for a little money? You get all the fame, all the fans. You should be thanking me for everything you have."

"Honestly, your talent was never even half as good as mine. If I had sung that day, I would have been the star. Don't you dare forget where you came from."

Armed with that narrative, she demanded designer bags, luxury cars, and sprawling mansions. Bound by a sense of sisterly duty, I gave her almost everything she asked for.

But then, she set her sights on the one thing I couldn’t give her: Leo Vance, the famously untouchable, award-winning actor.

She demanded I set them up.

For the first time, I said no.

So she went behind my back, using my name to get close to him, hoping for a one-night stand that would launch her into his orbit.

It was a disaster.

Leo had her wrapped in a bedsheet and thrown out of his hotel room. "You think you're your sister?" he'd sneered, his voice dripping with contempt as she stood humiliated in the crowded hallway. "A woman like you isn't worth a single strand of her hair."

Selene never forgave the world for that humiliation. But she blamed it all on me.

So on the night I won the "Artist of the Year" award, she stormed into my dressing room. Her eyes were wild, her face a mask of madness as she sliced my throat open with a razor blade. Before the police arrived, she killed herself.

As my life faded, her face, contorted with hatred, was the last thing I saw. "If you hadn't stolen my song, you'd be nothing!" she spat, her voice a venomous hiss. "The award, the fame, even Leo… it should have all been mine!"

The memory of her vicious snarl blurred and merged with the serene expression she wore now, her eyes closed as she sang.

Perhaps my stare was too intense.

Her eyes snapped open, locking with mine. And in their depths, I saw a flicker of defiant challenge.

In that instant, I knew.

She was reborn, too.