Amira didn't sleep.
Not because she didn't try—but because her mind replayed everything Luca said, everything Noah implied, and everything the blocked number threatened.
By morning, the storm outside mirrored the one in her head. Rain tapped against the windows like impatient fingers. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but dry. Too many tears had already been spent in this lifetime.
When a knock came at the door, she knew before she opened it.
Luca.
She didn't invite him in.
He stood outside, drenched, holding a folder.
"I know you're angry," he said. "But you need to see this."
She crossed her arms. "Unless it's evidence that your past isn't going to burn down my life, I'm not interested."
He handed her the folder. She hesitated, then snatched it.
Inside were documents, bank statements, emails, and a photo.
The photo froze her.
A man in a white suit. Cold smile. Tattooed knuckles resting on a wine glass.
"Who is he?" she asked.
"Sebastian Crowe," Luca said. "Used to run high-end underground clubs in Monaco and Madrid. I played gigs at a few when I was starting out. He made a fortune using artists like me to front money laundering operations. I didn't know at first. When I found out, I ran."
"You ran?" Amira repeated, stunned. "And now he's in London?"
Luca nodded. "He wants me to reopen a club under my name. Something flashy. Legal on the outside, criminal on the inside. He wants your jazz nights as the bait."
Amira stared at the man in the photo. The face alone made her stomach curl.
"How do we stop him?"
Luca hesitated. "We don't."
She blinked. "What?"
"We disappear," he said. "Just for a while. Long enough for me to gather proof, set up a sting. He doesn't just go away, Amira. He eradicates obstacles."
Amira's laugh was bitter. "So first, my ex ghosts me, then he tries to claim me again. Then you bring a criminal to my doorstep and tell me to run?"
"It's not forever," he said. "It's survival."
Her phone buzzed again.
Unknown Number: "You've got 72 hours, songbird. Or you'll be singing for me next."
She looked at Luca.
"I have a life here. A stage. A name."
"You also have a target on your back," he said quietly.
---
They left that night.
Amira packed only what she needed—lyrics notebook, her mother's ring, and a single silver microphone.
They took Luca's old car, driving in silence past the rain-slicked streets of London.
"I know a place," he said. "In Brighton. A friend owns a villa. Private."
She nodded, but didn't look at him.
Not yet.
---
Brighton smelled like salt and uncertainty.
The villa was modern, oceanside, and eerily quiet.
Inside, it was warm, clean. Too clean. As if it had been waiting for them.
Amira walked to the balcony and stared at the crashing waves below.
Luca joined her. "You hate me right now, don't you?"
"I don't know what I feel," she admitted. "I'm too busy being terrified."
He nodded. "I deserve that."
She turned to him. "Do you still love me?"
He didn't flinch. "Yes."
She looked away. "Then prove it."
He stepped forward.
One hand on her waist. One hand on her jaw. His touch was careful, reverent, but there was fire behind his eyes. The same fire that lit up when she sang.
He kissed her—slow, then rougher. Like an apology. Like a promise. Like something holy and forbidden.
Amira gripped his shirt, pressed against him.
"I'm still mad," she whispered against his lips.
"Good," he said. "I'd be worried if you weren't."
That night, they made love again—not like two people chasing passion, but like two souls clinging to the only peace they had left.
And outside, the ocean raged louder than ever.
---
Meanwhile, back in London…
Noah stared at his phone screen.
He had intercepted a message meant for Amira.
From Crowe.
His lips curled. "Interesting."
He picked up his phone and dialed.
"Mr. Crowe? I think we have a mutual interest. Let's talk about Luca Deveraux."
Morning arrived in Brighton with a golden haze. The sea was calm now, but Amira's thoughts weren't.
She stood barefoot in the villa kitchen, clutching a cup of black coffee, eyes scanning the sunrise like it might carry answers.
Luca emerged from the bedroom shirtless, tattoos exposed, his usual stormy look replaced with something softer.
He approached cautiously. "You okay?"
"No," she said flatly, sipping. "But I'm not running anymore. Not inside my head."
He leaned against the counter. "We'll fix this, Amira."
"How?" she asked. "You said Crowe doesn't just go away. And now Noah's back in London? What if—"
Luca interrupted gently, "Then we burn them both."
Amira blinked. "What?"
Luca's voice dropped an octave. "Noah doesn't want you—he wants to possess you. Crowe doesn't want music—he wants power. We don't play their game. We create our own rules."
"And the first rule is…?"
He stepped closer. "No more hiding. We go back."
She raised a brow. "To London?"
"Yes. After tonight. Let them think we're weak. Let them think we've vanished. Then we'll hit them where it hurts."
Amira stared at him. "You think we can outsmart two powerful men? One who has the police in his pocket, and the other who once ghosted me like I was a freaking iCloud file?"
Luca chuckled darkly. "You're forgetting who you are."
She narrowed her eyes.
"You're Amira Monroe. The girl who built a stage from heartbreak. The woman who sang through storms and made the world listen. You're mine, and that makes you dangerous."
She paused, eyes flicking to his bare chest. "You're annoyingly poetic in the morning."
He shrugged. "Comes with being in love."
Amira flushed. "Say that again and I might kiss you."
"I'm in love with you."
She did.
Hard.
His mouth devoured hers like he'd been starving for it. Their bodies crashed together, reckless and hungry. She pulled his waistband down just enough to feel skin-on-skin. He lifted her onto the kitchen counter like she weighed nothing.
"You drive me insane," she whispered as his lips trailed down her neck.
"Likewise," he rasped, voice thick with need.
Her breath hitched. "Then let's get lost."
He didn't need another word.
He made love to her like the world was ending. Their movements were urgent, desperate, but also filled with a tenderness that made her chest ache.
And when it was over, she lay on the counter, tangled in his arms, heart beating like a drum solo.
They didn't need to speak.
Because in that moment, the music between them said everything.