Amira stood backstage at the Velvet Vine, her heart thudding with an unfamiliar rhythm. The kind that didn't belong to nerves or fear—it pulsed with something deeper, rawer. She wasn't the same girl who arrived at Heathrow three weeks ago, dragging her suitcase through a storm of heartbreak. She was someone else now—sharper, still scarred, but louder in the silence.
Her fingers brushed the velvet curtain, still stained with the scent of cologne, sweat, and something richer—ambition.
"You're up in five," said Theo, the club's ever-blunt stage manager. He barely looked up from the clipboard in his hand before disappearing down the corridor.
She inhaled deeply, fixing the mic's shimmering gem with practiced hands, though her gaze wandered.
Luca was already on stage, finishing his solo. Dressed in midnight black, his sleeves rolled up, curls slightly tousled, he looked like a storm about to settle. His voice wrapped around the room like silk—warm, intentional, low. And when he looked toward the wings, catching her eye, Amira forgot how to breathe.
His eyes didn't roam her body or trail down her curves like Noah's used to. No. Luca's gaze always paused at her face—like he was trying to read the whole book, not just the cover.
She stepped out under the lights.
The crowd clapped automatically, drawn to her like moths to flame. And maybe she was fire tonight. Her black satin jumpsuit shimmered under the spotlight, tailored to her body like a second skin. A single slit ran up one leg, revealing thigh with each step. Bold, sultry. Exactly how she wanted to feel.
"Good evening, London," she purred, lips brushing the mic.
A few whistles floated up from the crowd. She smirked but kept her eyes on Luca, now settled in the shadows beside the piano.
"This next one's for the ones who left without saying goodbye," she said softly. "May your ghosts be louder than my silence."
And then the first note struck.
---
Her voice filled the air—smooth jazz, honey-drenched and smoky. She sang like the heartbreak was behind her, like the lyrics were more memory than wound. But inside, she was burning.
Luca leaned back on the stool, watching her with a reverence that made something in her chest twist.
He could see it—the pain behind the velvet voice. He always could.
When she finished the set, the applause was thunderous. The club owner himself raised a glass to her from the corner booth. She nodded politely, then vanished backstage before anyone could ask for more.
She was halfway to the dressing room when she heard footsteps behind her.
"Didn't know ghosts could sing," Luca said, voice teasing but careful.
She rolled her eyes, a small smile tugging at her lips. "And yet here I am. Resurrected."
He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "You killed that performance."
"Thank you." She started unfastening her mic belt, trying not to notice how close he was.
"You meant what you said. About the ghosts?"
Amira paused. "Every word."
There was silence. Not the awkward kind—but something heavier. Like the kind that hangs after a truth is spoken, before it's absorbed.
"I was thinking," he said, clearing his throat. "There's a new set coming up next week. Just duets."
Her brow arched. "Are you asking me to sing with you?"
"I'm... proposing we make people jealous together," he said with a wink.
She laughed—unexpected, breathy. "You have a plan?"
"I have a piano and a voice that doesn't break when you're around. That's gotta count for something."
She studied him—his face open, his tone light, but his eyes... those held things he hadn't said yet.
"I'll think about it."
He stepped back. "Fair enough."
Then, without warning, he added, "Your voice—it's got cracks in it. The beautiful kind. Like stained glass. Just thought you should know."
She watched him go, heart fluttering like a page turning in a breeze.
---
Later that night, the silence of her sister's flat crept in like fog. The keys of her tiny electric keyboard trembled beneath her fingers as she played a gentle tune, one she hadn't written—just felt.
The city outside her window was a different kind of music. One she was still learning to dance with.
Her phone buzzed beside her. Unknown number.
Her stomach flipped.
She hesitated... then opened the message.
> I messed up. Can we talk? I'm still here. I still—
She dropped the phone before she could finish reading it. The message blurred on the screen.
It was him.
Noah.
And in that moment, the lyrics she sang hours ago came flooding back.
"You can read a book twice... but you can't change the ending."
But what if he wanted to write a new chapter?
What if... she didn't?
Amira didn't sleep that night. She lay wide awake on her sister's sofa bed, staring at the ceiling as the city hummed outside—London never truly slept. Neither did her thoughts.
Noah's text sat unanswered in her phone. Four hours had passed. No follow-up. No calls. Just the echo of words she no longer trusted.
I messed up. Can we talk?
She laughed bitterly to herself.
"Talk," she whispered, voice dry. "Now you want to talk?"
The hurt still lived inside her, not as fresh wounds, but as bruises she kept pressing just to remind herself of the pain. He hadn't just ghosted her—he discarded her like a song he was tired of playing. And now… now he wanted a conversation?
The doorbell buzzed downstairs.
She jolted upright.
It was 2:43 a.m.
Cautious, she crept toward the window, peeking down to the street below. A black car idled in front of the building, engine purring. Then, a figure stepped out—hooded, broad-shouldered, familiar.
Noah.
She froze.
The knock at the entrance door was soft, almost hesitant.
Her heart raced, but her feet didn't move. She just stared at the door.
Another knock.
This time firmer.
She backed away, chest tightening. He couldn't do this. He couldn't vanish for weeks and show up like a storm pretending it hadn't wrecked everything.
She didn't answer.
After a long silence, the sound of retreating footsteps faded. Then, the hum of the car disappeared into the night.
Amira slid to the floor, legs pulled to her chest.
This time, she didn't cry.
Not a single tear.
---
By the time evening rolled around again, Amira was at the Velvet Vine early. She couldn't stay cooped up in the flat any longer. The jazz club had become her cathedral—where her grief became gospel, her voice a prayer.
Luca was already seated at the piano when she arrived.
"Can't sleep either?" she asked, walking toward him.
He smiled lazily, fingers dancing absentmindedly over the keys. "Sleep's overrated."
"Hmm," she murmured, setting her bag down. "Nightmares?"
"Dreams," he said. "But not the nice kind."
Their eyes met. Neither needed to explain. Some pain didn't come from horror. It came from memory.
He slid a steaming paper cup across the top of the piano. "Flat white, extra shot. I figured you'd show."
She took the coffee, warmth spreading through her hands. "Thanks."
They sat in silence for a few minutes, sipping, letting the notes settle between them. Then, Luca turned toward her.
"I saw you backstage last night. After the text."
She stiffened slightly. "You knew it was him?"
He nodded. "Didn't need to. I saw your face."
She placed her cup down carefully. "He came to my sister's place."
Luca blinked, tension creeping into his shoulders. "At night?"
"Middle of the night." She exhaled. "Didn't open the door."
"Good," he said without hesitation. "He doesn't deserve a second of your time."
"Maybe," she said softly. "But he still got three years of it."
There was a pause.
"I'm not going to lie and pretend I don't want to scream at him for what he did to you," Luca admitted. "But... it's not my place."
She looked at him curiously.
"Your place?" she echoed.
He hesitated, then gave a small smile. "I've been trying not to step into something I'm not invited into."
"And if I invited you?"
His gaze sharpened.
"I'd walk in, close the door, and stay as long as you let me."
Her heart thumped. Fast.
But instead of leaning in, she simply asked, "What's your story, Luca?"
He leaned back, folding his arms. "You mean the tragic musician origin story?"
"I want to know why you sing like you've already lost everything."
He was quiet for a moment.
Then: "I had a little sister. She loved music more than anything."
Amira's breath caught.
"She used to sneak into the clubs I played at, wearing her school uniform under a hoodie. Said my voice made her feel like everything was going to be okay. Even when our parents were fighting. Even when she got sick."
Her throat tightened. "What happened?"
"Leukemia," he said. "Fast. Vicious. She was fifteen."
Amira blinked away the sting in her eyes.
"I stopped singing after that. For a long time," he said. "Until I realized she wouldn't have wanted me to stay quiet."
She reached across the piano and took his hand. No hesitation this time.
"Thank you," she whispered. "For telling me."
Their fingers stayed intertwined, warm, steady.
Then Luca said, "Sing with me. Tomorrow night. Just one song."
Amira hesitated.
"It's just a duet," he added. "Not a proposal."
She smiled. "Alright. One song."
Their eyes locked again—and for the first time in weeks, Amira felt like she wasn't breaking anymore.
She was… bending. Maybe healing. Slowly.
---
That night, Noah sent another message.
> I'm not leaving until we talk. You owe me that much.
She stared at the screen, then at the reflection of her own face in the dark window.
She didn't reply.
Because maybe he was right.
She did owe someone something.
But not him.
She owed herself a clean slate.