The first night she sang, the club held its breath.
The lights were low, washing the mahogany walls in a warm amber hue, and the smoke curled like a lover's hand into the air above glittering glasses. Velvet Tempo, the jazz club, wasn't just another live lounge in London — it was a sanctuary for stories told through music, a place where pain and beauty waltzed unapologetically on stage.
Amira stood at the mic, legs steady, heart not so much. She wore a deep red silk dress that hugged her curves and whispered confidence, but her fingers trembled slightly as they rested on the vintage mic stand. The piano started — soft, seductive notes that wrapped around her ribs like a corset — and then she began to sing.
Her voice poured like honey — thick with emotion, laced with something mournful, something mesmerizing. It wasn't just that she could sing. It was the way she told a story with every word, the way her voice cracked ever so slightly on certain lines, revealing just enough of the break in her soul to make you ache with her.
From the bar, Luca watched her like she was the only star in a blackout sky.
The rest of the room faded — conversations stilled, forks paused mid-air, drinks forgotten. Every eye was on her. And when she hit the last note, a whispery breath of a finish, the silence that followed was almost reverent.
Then the applause exploded.
Amira exhaled only then, her chest rising and falling as if she'd just survived something. She stepped off the stage, smiling shyly as a few people complimented her in passing.
Luca met her halfway near the back hallway. "You just murdered half the hearts in this room," he said, his voice smooth, low, teasing.
Amira laughed softly. "I didn't think anyone would actually listen."
"They didn't. They fell." He paused. "You have a habit of making people do that."
Her smile dipped slightly. "It's just a song."
Luca tilted his head. "You think it's just your voice that's doing the work?"
She didn't answer. She didn't need to. There was something raw in her eyes, a flicker of grief that hadn't fully healed.
He took the hint and gently changed the subject. "We have another set in an hour. You okay for a duet?"
"With you?" she asked playfully. "Might be too much for the crowd."
"Let them burn," he grinned, then added more gently, "You were brilliant, Amira. Really."
She met his gaze. "Thank you, Luca. That means a lot."
---
Later that night, after the last song had been sung and the club had cleared out, Amira sat alone on the rooftop above the building, nursing a small glass of red wine and staring at the London skyline. The cold bit at her skin, but she didn't care.
She hadn't felt alive like this in weeks — maybe even months.
The applause still echoed in her bones, and so did something else: the look on Luca's face when he watched her sing.
She was so lost in thought that she didn't hear the rooftop door creak open behind her.
"I figured you'd be up here," Luca said, stepping into the night with two paper cups in hand. He handed her one. "Hot chocolate. Not quite wine, but warmer."
She took it, the steam curling up and kissing her face. "You're a mind reader now?"
"Just a guy with good instincts," he said, settling next to her.
For a moment, they just sipped and stared out over the city. The hum of late-night life buzzed in the distance — sirens, laughter, the hush of a passing car.
"I don't talk much about what happened," Amira finally said. Her voice was soft, fragile around the edges.
"You don't have to," he replied, not looking at her. "But if you ever want to, I'm not going anywhere."
"I came here for someone," she said, eyes fixed on the sky. "He stopped replying. Stopped calling. I thought something happened. So I flew across the ocean like an idiot to surprise him."
Luca didn't say anything.
"He dumped me in a bar," she continued, letting the words fall out like ashes. "Didn't even flinch. Said it was over and that I should've known."
"Then he's more of a fool than I thought," Luca muttered. "And I already thought pretty low of him."
She gave a hollow chuckle. "It just hurts, you know? I didn't come for a fairytale. I just… wanted honesty. Closure, maybe."
Luca turned to face her now. "What you gave was real. What he gave back wasn't. That says everything about him — not you."
The sincerity in his voice made her throat tighten.
"I thought I'd crumble," she admitted. "But then I remembered my sister's key. I remembered I had legs and lungs and this voice. And tonight — I felt powerful again."
"You were," Luca said. "And you are."
She glanced over at him, surprised to find he was already looking at her.
For a few seconds, they just stared at each other, something delicate and unspoken passing between them like a secret too tender to name.
Then she smiled, small but real. "Thanks for the hot chocolate."
"Anytime."
They stayed like that until the city lights blurred, and her heart felt just a little bit whole again.
The next morning, Amira woke to sunlight stretching across the hardwood floor of her sister's flat. She blinked slowly, trying to adjust to the unfamiliar brightness. Her body ached slightly from the late night, and the ache behind her eyes wasn't just from exhaustion.
She sat up on the pull-out couch, blanket tangled around her legs, and reached for her phone. A single notification blinked on her screen:
1 New Message — Unknown Number.
Her stomach tightened.
She opened it slowly.
> "You looked beautiful on stage last night. I wish I could've told you in person."
No name. No emoji. Nothing else.
Her heart thudded — and not in a good way.
She blocked the number instantly.
There was only one person who would say something like that. Noah.
The coward couldn't even send the message from his real number.
She tossed the phone onto the couch and stood up, stretching. She wasn't going to let him haunt her anymore — not through fake texts or stolen glances. She had a new life now. One he chose to walk out of.
After a quick shower and a breakfast made from whatever was left in her sister's almost-bare kitchen, Amira got dressed and headed back toward the club. It was Saturday, which meant a long rehearsal day — and possibly a night shift if the manager needed her.
The streets of London buzzed around her with quiet chaos — buses chugging by, taxis honking, people moving like threads weaving through the city's tapestry. She pulled her coat tighter as she walked through the front doors of Velvet Tempo, the familiar scent of leather, perfume, and aged wood wrapping around her like a comfort blanket.
Luca was already on stage, playing the piano with his back to the door. His fingers danced over the keys, the music soft, jazzy — flirtatious, almost.
"Trying to seduce the piano now?" she called out teasingly.
He turned and grinned. "Jealous?"
"Only if it plays better than I sing."
"No chance of that." He closed the lid and stood. "You good?"
She nodded, though her smile didn't quite reach her eyes. "Yeah. Just… tired."
He walked over, his gaze sharper than usual. "You sure?"
She hesitated. "I got a message this morning."
He didn't ask who. He didn't need to.
"Blocked it?" he asked instead.
"Immediately."
"Good."
Before she could respond, the club's manager — a sharp-dressed woman in her mid-40s with short platinum-blonde hair and an accent as crisp as her heels — called them both over.
"Amira. Luca. Good set last night."
"Thank you, Marla," they chimed in unison.
Marla's gaze landed on Amira. "There's someone who wants to meet you."
Amira's brows lifted. "Meet me?"
"She's a talent scout. Friend of mine from a streaming network — likes to feature new faces on live-lounge nights and interviews. You made quite the impression."
Luca shot her a look, as if to say told you so.
Amira's lips parted. "Wait… she wants to book me?"
"She wants to see what else you've got. Come back tonight. Give her a full set. Three songs. No duets. Just you. Lights, band, mic. We'll handle everything else."
It felt like the room tilted slightly. Her throat went dry.
"I… okay. Yeah. I can do that."
"Good," Marla said briskly. "Don't waste it."
With that, she spun on her heels and disappeared through the velvet curtain leading to her office.
---
By 8 p.m., Amira was standing in the dressing room of Velvet Tempo, trying to breathe through the nerves clawing at her chest.
Her reflection stared back at her from the lit mirror — bold lips, smoky eyes, and that same long white hair she used to braid and dye in her bedroom back in NYC. She wore a fitted black satin jumpsuit that made her look like a storm and feel like thunder.
She was about to step out when there was a knock at the door.
Luca leaned against the frame. "You ready?"
"Nope," she said honestly.
He chuckled. "You're going to destroy them."
Her eyes searched his face. "What if I don't?"
"Then we destroy them together."
That made her smile.
"Luca," she said softly, "Thank you for being here. For showing up."
He shrugged, trying to play it cool, but his voice was warmer than usual. "You make it easy."
Then he nodded toward the hallway. "Go make the world regret not listening sooner."
---
The lights dimmed.
The host introduced her with a low, melodic voice, "Returning for her second night — the velvet voice that made us weep and swoon all at once — give it up for Amira White."
A slow build of claps.
She walked onto the stage, the microphone waiting like an old friend.
She inhaled, let the music start, and this time, she wasn't afraid.
She poured every ounce of heartbreak into the first song — a bluesy rendition of an old classic about betrayal and survival. The second was slower, softer, a song she wrote in her journal back in New York when she thought Noah loved her.
The third — was about now. About letting go. About becoming something new.
By the time she finished, the audience was on their feet. The scout sitting near the corner table was already whispering into her phone.
Backstage, Marla grabbed her hand with a smirk. "You just bought yourself a chance at more than London nights, sweetheart."
But just as Amira turned to change, Luca appeared, jaw tense.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
He hesitated — then held out her phone.
"Someone left this at the bar… unlocked."
She took it, confused — until she saw it.
Seven missed calls.
Three voicemails.
From: Noah.
And a final message, sent just a few minutes ago:
> "I made a mistake. Please, Amira. I'm at the back entrance. Let me explain."
Her entire body froze.
"No," she whispered.
"Want me to send him away?" Luca asked, his voice low and dangerous.
But Amira didn't answer right away.
She looked at the phone — then at the stage — then at Luca.
Her chest was heaving. Her hands trembled.
"I'll handle it."
And with that, she turned and walked toward the back door, not knowing if she was going to finally end a chapter — or reopen a wound.