Ariella stood before the polished glass doors of LaRoche Entertainment, her mother's warnings echoing like a ghost in her mind.
"Do you know what the LaRoche name did to us?"
And yet, here she was—card in hand, voice in her throat, dreams outweighing fear. Every bone in her body told her to run, but her soul told her to sing. She chose the latter.
Security buzzed her in. The receptionist didn't even glance up—just motioned toward the elevator with manicured indifference.
She rode up in silence, the hum of the lift mirroring the buzz in her chest. Then the doors opened to a glass-walled floor with neon lighting, framed platinum records, and a mural of artists past and present who built the empire. And there, leaning on a grand piano, was him—the boy from the other night.
He wore a black turtleneck and casual slacks like he was born in them, confidence laced through every motion. But there was something more beneath his eyes today. Less arrogance. More awareness.
"You came," he said, like he wasn't sure she would.
"I almost didn't," she replied.
He gestured to the studio room behind him. "I booked you a trial session. Best sound engineer in the city. This is a real shot."
Ariella hesitated. "Why are you helping me?"
He smirked, walking over. "Because I know a voice that doesn't belong in the shadows. And—because you're raw. No filters, no labels."
She stepped into the recording booth. And for a moment, everything outside—every secret, every scandal, every buried truth—faded.
When she sang, the sound engineer froze. Her voice had that kind of power—like cracked porcelain laced with honey and heartbreak. The pain wasn't perfect. It was human.
When the session ended, the boy looked at her like she'd just broken something inside him.
"That was…" he exhaled, "dangerous."
She raised a brow. "Is that your word for good?"
"No. That's my word for the kind of thing that makes people fall in love or fall apart."
Meanwhile, across the city, Naomi Gray gripped the edge of her kitchen counter, shaking hands holding a half-drained glass of red wine.
The screen on her phone still glowed.
LA ROCHE HEIR SPOTTED AT SOUNDLAB WITH UNKNOWN TALENT.
There was a photo. Blurry, but unmistakable. Ariella. And him.
She smashed the phone screen against the edge of the marble. Once. Twice. Until it shattered. Glass splintered her palm, but she didn't feel it.
She had spent 18 years burying the past. Burying him.
The headlines. The scandal. The night that ended everything.
And now it was coming back—wrapped in her daughter's voice.
Naomi sank to the floor. She couldn't let this happen. Not again.
---
Later that evening, Ariella exited the studio to find him waiting by the vending machine, sipping black coffee.
"By the way," he said, "you never asked my name."
She crossed her arms, wary. "What is it?"
He smiled like it was a punchline. "Grayson. Grayson LaRoche."
The name hit her like a slow-moving truck.
LaRoche.
She swallowed. "Any relation to—"
"My father owns this place. So yeah. That LaRoche."
Her stomach twisted, but she smiled through it. "Fitting."
"What?"
"Nothing." She shook her head. "Just—nothing."
Grayson leaned in slightly, something flickering behind his eyes. "You've got a lot going on in that head of yours."
You have no idea, she thought.
But all she said was: "I'm fine."
They walked out together into the night. Two legacies entwined by fate, lies, and voices they didn't know were echoes of the same past.
Scene cut: Los Angelus
Far from the city lights and secrets, in a penthouse bathed in sterile white and silence, Sophia Devereux stood before her vanity.
She hadn't worn makeup in weeks. Her eyes looked hollow. Her lips colorless.
She brushed back her hair and studied her reflection like it belonged to someone else.
Then she turned to the letter.
It had arrived without a return address, sealed in navy wax.
Inside: one line.
"You're next."
And a photo.
Of Ariella.
And Grayson.
Claudia crushed the paper in her hands. Someone was unearthing the past and dragging the next generation into a war they didn't understand.
She reached for her phone.
It was time to go home.