The buzz had barely died down.
Layla Bennett's phone was still vibrating every few minutes—interview requests, blog tags, a DM from a stylist in Milan, and a cryptic message from an editor at British Vogue that simply read:
"Call me. You've awakened the ghosts. —A."
It should've felt like victory.
But beneath the hum of validation was something… off. Like a piano note that sounded perfect, but echoed just slightly too long.
Layla stood in the marble guest bathroom, clutching her toothbrush and blinking at her reflection.
"You went viral for wearing your own dress," she muttered to the mirror. "You're either brilliant or completely mad."
The door creaked open behind her. Mira's voice came through the speakerphone she'd placed on the windowsill.
"I vote both. But listen—this could be your moment, Lay."
Layla spat into the sink. "I'm supposed to be cataloguing embroidery threads and fetching ancient corsets. I'm not ready for… all this."
"You are ready," Mira snapped. "The world finally noticed. Now you decide what they see next."
Layla stared at herself.
Designer. Dreamer. Disruptor.
Girlfriend?
She thought of Adam—the way he looked when he played, the way he listened when she rambled, the way he defended her when he didn't have to.
But that world… his world… still made her feel like a trespasser.
Downstairs, Adam Sterling stood in the drawing room, back straight, hands folded.
"Your mother is going to ruin her again," Yusuf murmured beside him.
Adam's jaw tightened. "Not if I move faster."
Yusuf raised an eyebrow. "Mate, it's not a chessboard. It's your life. If you want her in it, say so."
Adam turned to him. "You don't understand."
Yusuf shrugged. "I'm a gay Egyptian man raised between Harrow and Hackney. Trust me, I do understand."
Adam cracked a faint smile, but it didn't last.
That afternoon, Layla was summoned to the East Conservatory—Lady Evelyn's private greenhouse of orchids and control.
She arrived in black culottes and a mustard blouse with Edwardian bell sleeves. A statement.
Evelyn, dressed in a cream silk jumpsuit that somehow whispered "power", gestured toward a chair.
"I thought it time for a… truce."
Layla sat slowly. "Terms?"
Evelyn folded her hands. "Public perception matters. You've stirred it. The internet is loud, but fleeting. You could disappear tomorrow. But if you're strategic, you might endure."
Layla tilted her head. "Are you giving me… PR advice?"
"I'm offering you a deal."
Layla raised a brow.
"I sponsor your fashion line. Quietly. In exchange, you and Adam part ways."
The words hit like a cymbal crash.
Layla stood. "You'd fund my future if I gave up the person who makes it mean something?"
Evelyn rose too. "He's not yours to keep, Miss Bennett. He belongs to this world."
Layla's eyes flashed. "No. He doesn't. And neither do I. We belong to ourselves."
She left the conservatory without another word, palms sweating and heartbeat wild.
She wanted to cry.
She wanted to scream.
Instead, she went looking for Adam.
She found him in the library, surrounded by first editions and ghost-light.
"Your mother just offered me the fashion world… in exchange for you."
Adam didn't look surprised. He closed a book slowly.
"And?"
"I said no."
Silence.
Then he stood. "She offered me a marriage proposal this morning."
Layla blinked. "For you?"
He nodded. "Lady Sarah Lovell. Her family owns half of Belgravia. It's… a calculated match."
Layla stepped back. "Did you accept?"
"Of course not."
He walked toward her. "I don't want a dynasty. I want a life. My life. With music. With choice. With—"
"Me?" she asked, voice small.
Adam's eyes met hers.
"Yes. You."
It started to rain.
They stepped onto the balcony, mist clinging to the marble like breath on a mirror.
Below, guests gathered under white tents, sipping champagne, discussing headlines. None of them knew that the heir to the Sterling empire had just chosen defiance over duty.
Layla leaned against the balustrade. "Your world will punish you."
Adam took her hand. "Then let's write a new one."
She squeezed it. "With better costumes."
"And better music."
A roll of thunder echoed behind them
Layla turned to him. "Do you think we're being reckless?"
Adam smiled. "We're composers, Layla. We don't follow scores. We write them."