The early morning haze poured through the sheer curtains of Luca's flat, casting a soft golden wash across the wooden floor. Amira blinked against the glow, her body tangled in the sheets, her mind still floating somewhere between sleep and surrender. The faint scent of Luca—earthy, clean, warm—clung to her skin like a second memory.
His arm was draped around her waist, protective, almost possessive. For a moment, everything felt still. Not fragile. Not broken.
Just… still.
Luca stirred behind her. "You're awake."
"Mmhmm." Her voice was barely a whisper, throat dry from a night of moaned confessions and breathless laughter. "What time is it?"
"Too early to face the world," he muttered, pulling her closer. "Too late to pretend this didn't happen."
She turned slowly in his arms, looking up at him. His brown eyes were open now, watching her. Searching.
There was no regret in them.
And yet, something in Amira's chest tensed.
"I should probably get back to my sister's place," she said, not quite meaning it. "It's been a long week."
"You can stay," he offered. "As long as you want."
She smiled faintly. "You say that now."
"I'll say it tomorrow, too."
She touched the side of his face, brushing her thumb across his jaw. "Luca…"
"I know." He kissed her forehead. "We'll go slow."
She didn't reply. But the silence was laced with gratitude.
---
By noon, Amira stepped into her sister's apartment wearing yesterday's clothes and carrying a paper cup of chai she barely sipped. Her phone buzzed from the side pocket of her bag. She pulled it out halfheartedly, expecting a message from Luca.
Instead, it was Noah.
Noah: "Can we talk. Just once. Please."
She stared at the screen, heart clenched in a strange, unpredictable rhythm.
Ignore it.
Block him.
Throw the phone into the Thames.
But instead, she typed back three words she didn't mean to:
Amira: "What about?"
The reply was almost immediate.
Noah: "Tonight. Come to the promenade behind Royal Gardens at 8. It's about everything."
---
That night, after rehearsals and a long shower, Amira dressed in dark jeans and a tan coat. Her hair was pulled into a sleek bun, and her lips wore no gloss. She wasn't dressing to be seen.
She was dressing to be strong.
The promenade was quiet, lit only by the twinkling amber streetlamps and the shimmer of the Thames. She found him leaning against the iron railing, staring out over the water like it held all the answers.
"Noah," she said coolly.
He turned.
And for the first time in weeks, he looked ruined.
"Amira." His voice cracked like something old and tired. "Thank you for coming."
She didn't move closer. "Talk."
"I didn't ghost you. I swear. There's more—so much more—than you think. Things I couldn't say back then. Things I was trying to protect you from."
She laughed bitterly. "Protect me? You dumped me in a bar like trash."
His jaw tightened. "I was told to."
She blinked. "By who?"
Noah hesitated. Then:
"My family."
Amira's eyes widened.
Noah continued. "They never approved of you, Amira. They hated how I changed for you. They said being with you would ruin everything they built. That I'd lose my inheritance, my father's legacy, everything."
She stepped back. "And that made it okay to hurt me?"
"No. I—I thought if I pushed you away hard enough, you'd hate me. So you wouldn't come back. So they wouldn't hurt you."
Amira stared at him, fury and disbelief clashing behind her eyes. "And what makes you think I'd even consider forgiving you now?"
Noah looked devastated. "Because I never stopped loving you. And because now… I'm willing to lose everything for you."
---
Back at the club later that night, Amira sat on the edge of the piano bench, her fingers trembling. She didn't know how to hold the chaos.
Luca passed her a glass of water.
"You okay?" he asked softly.
"No," she admitted.
But when she stepped on stage minutes later, the lights hitting her cheekbones like spotlighted sorrow, the crowd hushed. And when she began to sing—a song she'd written last year for Noah but now sang with anger instead of ache—the room went still.
She didn't sing for forgiveness.
She sang for release.
And that night, in the back row, Noah watched with glistening eyes.
And for the first time, he realized…
He might have lost her for good.
The next morning dawned heavy and cold, clouds dragging themselves over London's skyline like bruises. Amira sat at the edge of her sister's couch, barely touching her tea. She hadn't told Luca she met with Noah. She hadn't told her sister either.
Because part of her didn't know how to name what was happening.
And the other part?
Was terrified that this—whatever this was—would destroy everything she'd started to rebuild.
Her phone buzzed again.
Noah: "I told them. I walked out. I'm done hiding. All I want is you."
Her thumb hovered over the screen, then locked the phone and dropped it face-down.
---
At rehearsal, Luca noticed the difference instantly.
"You're distant," he said during a break.
"I'm tired."
He stepped closer. "Is this about your ex?"
Her throat tightened. "Luca—"
"Did you see him?"
She hesitated.
His jaw clenched. "You did."
Amira folded her arms. "It wasn't like that. He asked to talk. I needed closure."
Luca's eyes darkened. "Closure, or confusion?"
"That's not fair."
"No," he said tightly, "what's not fair is falling for someone who's still haunted by a ghost."
Her mouth parted in shock, but before she could defend herself, Luca walked off, guitar slung over his shoulder like a shield.
---
That night, Amira found herself sitting on the club's rooftop, legs tucked under her, the London skyline stretching like a cold lover before her. Her thoughts tangled, frayed.
Until she heard a soft click behind her.
She turned. And for a second, her breath caught.
Avery.
Dressed in a slinky black coat, heels too sharp, red lips too familiar.
"I thought you didn't like heights," Amira said cautiously.
"I like control," Avery replied, gliding forward. "And lately, I've been feeling like I don't have any."
Amira frowned. "What do you want?"
Avery crouched in front of her. "To make a deal."
"Not interested."
Avery smiled like a wolf. "You should be."
She pulled out her phone and tapped the screen. A video loaded.
Amira's blood ran cold.
It was a grainy recording of her and Luca in his apartment—intimate, private, their night of passion captured through a window. Shadows, skin, the unmistakable rhythm of two people falling apart together.
"What the hell is this?" Amira snapped, snatching the phone.
"Insurance," Avery said sweetly. "And leverage."
"You recorded us? That's illegal—"
"I didn't," Avery shrugged. "But I bought it. There's always someone watching in this city, babe."
Amira stood, fury bubbling. "What do you want?"
"Step down from your next solo. I want the spotlight for the benefit concert next week. Oh, and Luca? Dump him. Publicly. Make it messy. Make him look like the user. Or…"
She tapped the phone again.
"I release this to every label and blog in London."
---
Later that night, Amira sat in front of her vanity mirror, her makeup half-done, her soul torn.
She could hear Luca's voice downstairs. He was asking where she was.
She opened the drawer slowly, pulled out her red lipstick, and stared at herself.
Not the girl who followed her heart blindly.
Not the girl who waited to be rescued.
But the woman who had something to lose.
Her phone buzzed. A new message.
Unknown Number: "Be at the rooftop again tomorrow. 11 PM. Come alone. There's more you need to know."
And somehow, Amira knew—
The war had just begun.