Gabriel didn't ask.
He never did.
Adrien stood in his father's office while the decision settled around him like a closed door. Britain. Distance. Silence dressed up as protection.
"You need space," Gabriel said. "And so does the brand."
"I'm not a crisis to be managed," Adrien replied.
Gabriel's expression didn't change. "You're my son."
Adrien understood then that this wasn't about care.
It was about removal.
They didn't have much time.
Luka met him just outside the city, where the streets grew quieter and the lights less intrusive. The sky hung low and gray, threatening rain. Adrien looked tired—more than Luka had ever seen him.
"So it's really happening," Luka said.
Adrien nodded. "They're sending me away. Tomorrow."
Luka swallowed. "Britain?"
"For now," Adrien said. He hesitated, then smiled faintly. "I told them Texas is very calm. Peaceful. Somewhere you go when you want to breathe."
Luka frowned. "Texas?"
"My mom used to say that," Adrien continued. "She had this old barn house there. Nothing fancy. Just quiet. I used to imagine running away to it when things got bad."
His voice softened. "If I ever… if something ever happens to me, I'd want you to go there. Sit on the chair on the porch. Play something simple. Nothing sad."
Luka's chest tightened. "Don't talk like that."
Adrien stepped closer.
"This isn't goodbye," he said, like he was trying to convince both of them. "It's just distance."
He kissed Luka before fear could stop him.
It wasn't careful.
It wasn't restrained.
It was desperate and warm and real, hands clutching fabric like this moment was the only solid thing left in the world. Luka kissed him back without hesitation, pouring every unspoken promise into it.
When they pulled apart, Adrien rested his forehead against Luka's.
"I'll come back," he said. "I swear."
Luka nodded, even though something in him hurt too sharply to be ignored.
The road was empty.
Adrien drove alone, night stretching endlessly ahead of him. His phone buzzed once on the passenger seat. A message from Luka, unread.
A flash of headlights came too fast.
There was no time to think.
Only sound.
Metal screamed. Glass shattered. The world spun violently out of control. Adrien felt weightless for half a second before everything collapsed inward.
The explosion lit the road like daylight.
Fire climbed the sky.
By the time help arrived, there was nothing left but wreckage and smoke.
The news broke before dawn.
ADRIEN AGRESTE DEAD IN TRAGIC CAR ACCIDENT
Footage looped endlessly—burnt metal, flashing lights, reporters speaking in hushed, reverent tones. The word explosion was repeated like it explained everything.
Luka heard it from Jagged first.
He didn't answer.
He watched the broadcast in silence, heart pounding violently against his ribs, waiting for someone to say mistake.
No one did.
At the memorial, Paris felt hollow.
Flowers piled high. Cameras lingered. People cried for the idea of Adrien Agreste—for the loss of beauty, of potential, of a story cut short.
Luka stood at the edge of it all, numb.
He never cried.
Not until later.
Weeks passed.
The world moved on, slowly, awkwardly. Headlines faded. New scandals replaced old grief.
One morning, Luka found himself in Texas.
The barn house was smaller than he'd imagined. Weathered. Quiet. The porch creaked beneath his weight as he sat in the old wooden chair Adrien had described.
The air was warm. Still.
Luka rested the guitar against his knee.
He played something simple.
Nothing sad.
The sound drifted over empty fields, carrying memories that refused to burn away.
And somewhere far from the noise, far from the cameras, the truth waited—unseen, unspoken, and very much alive.