The sun dipped low behind the skyline, painting the city in hues of gold and crimson. Streetlights flickered awake, one by one, as if the city itself exhaled after another day of unspoken wars.
Alex Carter hated this part of town. It smelled like stale beer and desperation — reminders of how his family's iron grip suffocated every corner of the city. But tonight, he needed air away from the suffocating walls of Carter Manor.
So he found himself here: in the dim backroom of an underground jazz club, ignoring the bodyguards trailing him like silent shadows.
He pushed open a side door and slipped outside, where a narrow alley opened into a forgotten garden — a hidden nook behind the club. Strings of fairy lights glowed above a cracked stone bench. Someone had left an old piano here, half-eaten by rust and time.
And someone was playing it.
Alex stopped mid-step.
A girl sat at the piano, her back to him, long dark hair spilling over a faded denim jacket. Her fingers danced over the broken keys, coaxing a melody so haunting it made the hairs on his neck rise.
She shouldn't be here.
He should turn around.
But something in that fragile tune — defiant yet aching — pinned him to the spot. He hadn't heard music like that in years, not since his mother used to play to drown out his father's shouting.
He stepped closer, drawn to the girl like a moth to flame. A twig snapped under his shoe.
The music stopped.
She spun on the piano bench, eyes wide in the soft halo of fairy lights.
Alex forgot how to breathe.
She was beautiful — not in the painted way of the girls his father paraded at charity galas, but in a raw, quiet sort of way. Freckles dusted her nose. Her lips parted, as if she were about to scold him but changed her mind.
"Sorry," he said quickly, hands raised in surrender. "I didn't mean to interrupt."
She studied him, eyes sharp and searching.
"You're trespassing," she said, her voice like velvet laced with steel.
He laughed despite himself. "So are you."
She arched an eyebrow. "Fair point."
He took another step closer, ignoring the protests of his common sense. "Do you play here often?"
She shrugged, a casual flick of her shoulders. "Only when I need to breathe." She tapped the broken keys. "Old friend of mine."
He let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. For a moment, they simply stood there, two strangers in a bubble of music and broken promises.
Then she frowned. "You shouldn't be here."
"You don't even know who I am," Alex said, unable to hide his amusement.
She rose from the bench, standing toe-to-toe with him now. Her perfume was faint — jasmine and something warm. She was shorter than him by half a head, but somehow she made him feel like he was the one intruding.
"I know enough," she said, her voice dropping low. "You're one of them, aren't you?"
His smile faltered.
"One of who?" he asked carefully.
"The Carters." Her tone was a whip crack. "I've seen you on the news. Charity dinners, ribbon cuttings, pretending you're not the poison killing this city."
Alex felt the old anger simmer in his veins — anger he buried under suits and polite nods at board meetings.
"I'm not my father," he said, voice flat.
She crossed her arms. "No. But you wear his name. That's enough."
A gust of wind rattled the piano's brittle strings. Somewhere beyond the alley, laughter spilled from the club. But here, in this forgotten garden, the world felt painfully quiet.
Alex wanted to tell her she was wrong. That he hated the family business more than she could imagine. That he'd give anything to break free.
Instead, he asked, "What's your name?"
She hesitated — a flicker of something behind her eyes, softer than anger.
"Maya," she said finally. "Maya Donovan."
The name punched the air from his lungs.
Donovan.
Of course. Fate had a cruel sense of humor.
The Donovans — the family sworn to ruin the Carters. Decades of rivalry, violence hidden behind polite handshakes. Blood spilled quietly in the backrooms of boardrooms and city council halls.
And here she was, a Donovan playing an old piano in his sanctuary.
"You're joking," he muttered.
Maya tilted her head. "Do I look like I'm joking?"
God, she didn't. She looked fierce and tired and heartbreakingly real.
He should leave. He should turn around, call his driver, and pretend this never happened.
Instead, he found himself asking, "Can I hear you play again?"
Maya stared at him like he'd grown a second head.
"You want me to serenade a Carter?"
"Just Alex," he said, surprising even himself. "Not a Carter. Not tonight."
For a heartbeat, she wavered. Then she huffed out a laugh — small, reluctant.
"Fine. But just one song."
She sat back down, fingers poised above the battered keys.
"Anything in mind, Alex?" she asked, mocking his insistence on the name.
"Surprise me."
She did.
The notes drifted up, slow and mournful at first, then swelling into something bold. Alex closed his eyes, letting the music wash over the years of bitterness and hollow parties and false smiles.
He didn't see the Carter Empire. He didn't see the Donovans at the city council, fighting for scraps.
He saw her — Maya, eyes closed, mouth barely open, lost in her own world.
He wondered if she felt it too: the fragile, dangerous thing blooming between them, fed by the darkness and the piano's ghostly echo.
When she finished, neither spoke. The silence hummed like a secret they both promised not to say aloud.
Finally, Maya stood and brushed past him.
"Don't follow me, Alex Carter," she said, without looking back.
Before he could answer, she vanished into the alley's shadows, taking the music and the warmth with her.
---
He didn't know it then, but that fleeting encounter would ignite a war neither family could contain.