Until the Last Note: Chapter One

February 10, 2026

Until the Last Note: Chapter One - Out of Tune

Audrey "Rey" St. James is back in New Orleans to claim her future, but a shocking legal discovery brings her world to a grinding halt. She thought her marriage to Brooks Garrett ended five years ago; she’s about to find out he never let her go.

Chapter One

Out of Tune

Audrey

The humidity in New Orleans has a way of ruining everything. It wilts my hair, it makes my skin feel like it’s humming, and it’s a goddamn nightmare for a seventeenth-century Italian violin.

I sit in the middle of my empty rental apartment in the Marigny, the case of my Amati open in front of me like a holy relic. I’ve been back in the city for three weeks for the Philharmonic residency, and every day feels like a battle against the air. The wood of my violin is sensitive; it breathes with the city, expanding and contracting, losing its tuning the second I step out of the AC.

Much like my life.

Five years. I have spent five years meticulously tuning a version of myself that doesn't need Brooks Garrett. I play in the greatest concert halls in Europe, I sleep in five-star hotels, and I have learned how to breathe without smelling the cedar and bourbon scent that seems to radiate off his skin.

I am finally "Audrey St. James." Not "The Wife of Brooks Garrett." Not the girl who is always apologizing for a flight or a late-night rehearsal.

The knock on the door is jarring, interrupting the silence I’ve worked so hard to curate. It’s my lawyer, Marcus. He doesn't look like a man bringing good news. He looks like a man about to tell me the foundation of my house is made of salt.

"Audrey," he says, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. "We have a problem with the mortgage application for the house on Prytania Street."

"What kind of problem?" I wipe a bit of rosin off the strings, not looking up. "I have the down payment. My credit is spotless."

"It's not your credit," Marcus says, his voice dropping an octave. "It’s your marital status. The title company did a deep dive. They couldn't find a filed divorce decree."

I freeze.

The bow in my hand feels suddenly heavy. "What are you talking about? I filed five years ago. I signed everything in that office in Charlotte before I left for the London tour."

"You signed, Rey. But the papers were never returned to the court. The file was never closed. According to the state of Louisiana, and the IRS, for that matter, you are still very much married to Brooks Garrett."

The room doesn't just go quiet; the air seems to vanish. I feel a cold, jagged spike of adrenaline hit my chest. Five years of freedom. Five years of telling myself I am a solo act, and it is all a lie. I have been tethered to him this entire time, like a kite that thinks it’s flying but is actually just being held on a very long string.

"He didn't sign them?" I whisper. My throat feels like it is lined with sandpaper.

"He never filed them," Marcus corrects. "Which means he either didn't sign them, or he signed them and tucked them into a drawer to rot."

I stand up, my legs feeling like they belong to someone else. I walk to the window, looking out at the lush, overgrown greenery of the courtyard. I can almost see him. Brooks. The man who looks at my violin like it is a rival lover. The man who stayed in that house in Charlotte while I chased the music, his silence growing louder with every city I visited.

"Where is he?" I ask.

"He's here, Rey. He’s been in New Orleans for two days. His family's firm just took over the logistics contract for the port. I think he’s been waiting for you to find out."

I turn around, a slow, hot rage beginning to simmer beneath the shock. He has let me live a lie for half a decade. He let me file taxes, travel the world, and build a "new" life, all while knowing he still owns a piece of my name.

"Call him," I snap.

"I already did," Marcus says. "He’s at the Roosevelt. He said if you want the papers signed, you have to be the one to bring them to him."

I don’t go to the Roosevelt immediately. I go to the rehearsal hall. I play the Tchaikovsky concerto until my fingers bleed, until the music is the only thing I can feel. I want to drown him out. I want to pretend that the man I loved, the man who once promised to be my biggest fan and ended up being my biggest critic—doesn't have the power to ruin me.

But when the last note fades, the reality is still there.

I arrive at the Roosevelt Hotel at eight p.m. The lobby is all gold leaf and crystal, a monument to old-world New Orleans excess. I feel like a ghost in my black rehearsal leggings and oversized sweater, my violin case slung over my shoulder like a weapon.

I don’t call his room. I go straight up.

When the door opens, the air leaves my lungs.

Brooks hasn't aged; he’s just solidified. He’s wearing a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, the top buttons undone. He looks like the "suit" he’s become, but his eyes are still the same dark, turbulent sea I drowned in a hundred times.

"Rey," he says. His voice is a low vibration that I feel in my teeth.

"You're a son of a bitch," I say, my voice steady only because I am holding onto my violin case for dear life.

He doesn't flinch. He just steps back, gesturing for me to enter the suite. It smells like him, expensive scotch and the ghost of the woodsmoke he used to carry on his skin.

"I figured it would take you a few weeks to notice," he says, walking over to the bar. "You were always so focused on the music, you tended to miss the fine print."

"The fine print?" I follow him into the room, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. "We were over, Brooks! I left! I told you I couldn't be the wife you wanted. I told you the tour wasn't a choice, it was my life. You said you understood."

"I lied," he says, turning to face me. He doesn't look sorry. He looks like a man who has been playing a very long game and has finally reached the endgame. "I didn't want the divorce, Rey. I told you that. I told you we could fix it."

"By making me stay? By making me turn down the London residency?"

"By talking to me! Instead of leaving a set of papers on the kitchen island and catching a red-eye to Heathrow." He slams his glass down on the marble counter, the sound echoing in the suite. "You didn't give us a chance. You gave us a deadline."

"It's been five years, Brooks," I whisper. "Why now? Why keep me trapped?"

He walks toward me, and I realize too late how small the room is. He stops just inches away, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him. He looks down at my violin case, then back at my eyes.

"Because as long as those papers aren't signed," he rasps, "you still belong to something besides that box of wood and strings. You’re still mine, Rey. Even if you hate me for it."

I raise my hand to slap him, but he catches my wrist in mid-air. His grip isn't painful, but it is absolute. For a heartbeat, the five years vanish. I’m not a world-class violinist. I am his wife, standing in the dark, wondering how we managed to turn a love story into a war.

"Sign the papers, Brooks," I hiss.

"No," he says, his thumb brushing the sensitive skin of my inner wrist—a move that makes my knees go weak despite the fury. "I think I’m going to stay in New Orleans for a while. I think we have a lot of catching up to do."

He lets go of my wrist, but the ghost of his touch stays behind, burning.

"I'm not that girl anymore," I say, backing toward the door. "I don't need you."

"We’ll see," he says, picking up his drink. "I’m going to the Philharmonic on Friday, Rey. I want to see if you’ve finally learned how to play with a heart, or if you’re still just hitting the notes."

I walk out of that room and don’t stop until I am back in the humid New Orleans night. I feel like I am suffocating. I am still married. I am still Brooks Garrett’s wife. And the worst part? The part that makes me want to scream into the street?

When he touches me, my body hasn't forgotten a single thing.

Come back tomorrow for another chapter

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Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

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First Edition: February 2026

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