Certainly! Here is a rewritten 500-word English summary of the story, capturing its emotion, intrigue, and the six artists Barry White could never forgive:

Barry White, the legendary “Maestro of Love,” left behind not only a legacy of velvety soul classics but also a series of wounds that never truly healed. In his final days, he quietly revealed the six artists he could never forgive—not out of anger, but from a deep, lingering hurt that shaped his music and his life.

The first name was Prince. In the early 1980s, Barry reached out to the rising star, hoping to blend his own smooth soul with Prince’s electrifying funk. But Prince never replied. The silence was deafening, and Barry felt erased by the new generation—a wound that festered as Prince soared, leaving pioneers like Barry in the shadows. For Barry, it wasn’t about rivalry, but about the pain of being forgotten by those who walked the path he helped pave.

Whitney Houston was another. Barry admired her voice and invited her to collaborate on a tribute to soul legends. Whitney’s team never responded. For Barry, it wasn’t rejection that stung, but the cold indifference. He didn’t want fame—he wanted respect and acknowledgment. The silence from Whitney’s camp became an unspoken rift that he carried for years, never mentioning her name again, not out of spite, but out of heartbreak.

Quincy Jones, a mentor and inspiration, wounded Barry in a way few understood. Barry believed his signature sound was borrowed for one of Quincy’s projects without credit. He didn’t sue or confront, but quietly withdrew, shelving unfinished albums and locking away his arrangements. For Barry, music was about giving credit where it was due. Being overlooked by someone he once admired was a betrayal that cut deep.

Diana Ross, the diva he once admired, refused to even listen to a demo Barry wrote specifically for her. Her management said his style didn’t fit her image—a rejection that felt personal. Barry, who believed in the raw authenticity of soul, felt dismissed as “not refined enough.” He never spoke ill of Diana, but her absence from his list of favorite vocalists spoke volumes about the pain of being deemed unsuitable by someone he respected.

Teddy Pendergrass was never a direct rival, but their relationship was marked by tension. Barry saw his own style echoed in Teddy’s performances and arrangements, and the lack of acknowledgment left him feeling imitated but unrecognized. Their silence toward each other—never collaborating, never exchanging words—was a testament to a rift neither wanted to mend.

Finally, Marvin Gaye. Unlike the others, Barry’s pain here was pure regret. The two were working on a secret album together when Marvin died suddenly. Barry never released the unfinished tracks, keeping them locked away as a tribute to their lost potential. It was not anger, but sorrow for what could have been—a collaboration that might have changed the course of soul music.

Barry White’s story is not just about music or fame, but about the quiet ache of respect lost, recognition denied, and the haunting silence between artists who once shared a dream. These six names shaped not only his career but also his understanding of forgiveness, legacy, and the cost of genius in an unforgiving world.