LOGINI spend eight long years helping my cellist husband climb out of a dark, self-destructive spiral and reach the stage of Viremont Philharmonic Hall. During his hardest year, he can barely keep his grip on the bow. Time and again, I break into his locked room, staying by his side through every breakdown and every moment he loses control. He writes his first complete piece for me, naming it "Love of My Life". He swears that as long as I want to hear it, he'll play it for me for the rest of his life. Then his fame skyrockets. With global tours filling his schedule, he can barely spare ten minutes a week for me. Every time those precious ten minutes arrive, I ask him to play "Love of My Life" again. Yet he just closes his eyes, exhausted. "I'm wiped out from performing. I don't want to bring work home with me." My heart aches for him, so I never ask again. Then comes Saturday, when I'm unexpectedly sent to Viremont for an interview. After the concert, I hear that familiar melody drifting through the otherwise empty concert hall. The audience is long gone, save for his female assistant asleep in the front row. There sits my husband in the spotlight, playing "Love of My Life" on loop just to put her to sleep. When someone urges him to take a break, he looks down at her and murmurs, "It's fine. She likes it." He plays for three straight hours that night. It turns out he isn't tired, nor does he mind bringing his work home. He just doesn't want to play it for me anymore. I don't march in to confront him. I simply turn around and walk out. That night, I accept a three-year overseas transfer to Noveria. After submitting the application, I slip off the wedding ring I have worn for eight years. At the same time, a text pops up from him. "Show's over. Let's roll this week's ten minutes into next week." I delete our chat without replying. If "Love of My Life" has a new audience, it's time for me to take my exit.
View MoreThree months after the divorce, Matthew announced his comeback. There were no publicity stunts and no documentary crew this time, and the last piece on the program was "Love of My Life".Once the news spread, the media speculated about whether I would show up. Matthew had saved me a ticket in the front row, and this time, the name card clearly read Hannah Newman.I didn't go. When the concert started, I was editing the final episode of "Uncredited".My assistant poked her head in. "Hannah, the livestream's starting. You're not going to watch?""No.""Seriously? People online are saying he's got something big planned tonight."I put on my headphones. "The final cut is due tomorrow morning."She shrugged and closed the door for me.Later, the recording of that concert went viral. When Matthew finished playing, he didn't take his bow like he usually did. Instead, he sat in the middle of the stage and looked at the empty front row."I wrote this piece for someone who stood by me f
Matthew's public statement left him no way out. He admitted he had gone along with the documentary rewriting of the timeline, and he owned up to the family seating and camera arrangements at the premiere. He also admitted that for the past three years, he had only set aside ten minutes a week for his wife.The internet exploded. Some people called him an ungrateful jerk, while others said his whole devoted-husband image had been a joke from start to finish. Sponsors dropped him, his performances were postponed, and even the tour he had spent half a year preparing was canceled.Charlie asked whether he wanted to bring in a PR team, but Matthew said no. "Everything they're saying is true."The documentary was pulled for good, and the production company issued a public apology. Every piece of material involving me was deleted, and Aidan returned the original recordings and medical records back to me.Matthew also put out a follow-up statement making it clear that "Love of My Life" h
On Matthew's second day in the hospital, I flew to Ravenport to interview a composer who had retired from public life years ago. He had turned down more than a dozen media outlets, and when we met, he glanced over my interview outline."You know the cello too?""A little.""Someone in your family plays?"I paused for a second. "Someone used to."The interview lasted three hours. As we were wrapping up, the old man suddenly asked me a question. "Why do you keep asking about the people who get overlooked behind the work?"It was snowing outside. I turned off my recorder. "Because I used to be one of them."He looked at me for a long time, then nodded. "Then this story is yours."Once the exclusive went live, its readership quickly broke the company record. My boss called me into the office. "You're in charge of the next feature."I took the file, which had "Uncredited" written on the cover. The series would document the people who had genuinely contributed to works of art but
I had just gotten out of a meeting when Matthew showed up outside my office building. He was standing in the cold wind, wearing only a thin black coat, and his eyes were bloodshot.I stopped in my tracks. "What are you doing here?"He looked like he could finally breathe again, and he stepped forward to grab my wrist. "Let's go home and talk about this."I pulled my hand away. "I'm not going back."Matthew's hand froze in midair. "Hannah, don't make a scene here.""I work here." I looked at him. "You're the one who barged into someone else's workplace.""Fine." He reined in his temper. "Then let's find somewhere to talk."There was a café on the ground floor of my building. Once we sat down, Matthew slid a photo from the premiere across the table. In it, I was sitting in the last row, with the stage lights sweeping across my profile."I didn't know the broadcast director would cut you out of the shot.""Okay.""Evie's off the documentary.""Okay.""The film's been pulled to












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