The next morning felt like the kind of silence before a storm—too quiet, too tense, too full of things left unsaid.
Amira sat at the tiny café table inside the hotel restaurant, sunglasses on, a cappuccino between her palms. Her phone buzzed every few seconds with messages from Mia, from promoters, from people who suddenly remembered her name.
Because somehow… someone had leaked a photo.
Of her.
And Noah.
Her pressed against the mirror, his face buried in her neck. The timestamp clear. The headline cruel:
"Noah Rivera and Mystery Singer Caught in a Backstage Tangle—Is This the Ex-Girlfriend He Left?"
Amira's heart plummeted.
Across the café, Luca entered.
He didn't say a word. Just walked up to her, pulled out the chair, and slid into it with the stillness of someone suppressing fury.
"You okay?" she asked, voice gentle.
He pulled out his phone, turned the screen to her.
The same photo.
Amira removed her glasses. "Luca—"
"Tell me the truth. All of it."
She exhaled. "I didn't know it would happen like that. I saw him, I was angry… he said things that triggered everything I locked away."
"And so you slept with him?"
"Yes." Her honesty shocked even herself. "But it wasn't about him. It was about power. I thought… if I could be the one to leave this time, maybe I'd be the one walking away with dignity."
Luca looked at her long and hard.
"I never asked you to erase your past, Amira. I just thought you knew what your present meant."
"I do," she said. "But sometimes, when ghosts show up wearing a familiar smile, we forget they're the ones who built the grave."
He leaned back. "So what now?"
She didn't answer.
Instead, she stood, pulled her coat on, and walked outside. The London air was crisp, biting her cheeks as she tried to shake the humiliation. Her phone buzzed again.
Unknown Number.
She answered instinctively.
"Amira."
Noah's voice.
She stopped walking.
"What do you want?"
"You saw the news."
"Everyone saw the news."
"I didn't leak it. I swear."
"I don't care if you did," she bit out. "Because now I get to own it."
"What does that mean?"
"It means I'm not running anymore."
She ended the call.
And marched straight into her manager's office.
---
"Headline?" Mia asked, arching a brow as she closed the door.
Amira slid a sheet of paper across the desk.
Her eyes scanned it, then widened.
"You want to… produce your own EP?"
Amira nodded. "Six original songs. No label. No filters. Just my words. My sound. My story."
Mia leaned back, impressed. "And the funding?"
"Already handled."
"How?"
Amira smiled, cool and sharp. "Let's just say I learned from the men who thought I'd need them forever."
---
That evening, her first original track—"Rehearsed Goodbyes"—went live on Spotify and Apple Music.
Within hours, it trended.
The lyrics?
Poisoned honey. Sweet but brutal.
> He kissed like he forgot the goodbye.
Held me like I was still his lullaby.
But silence has a melody too—
And this time, it plays without you.
Fans flooded social media.
"Who hurt her?!"
"Her voice sounds like heartbreak wrapped in fire."
"This is better than the entire Billboard Top 10."
"Luca or Noah… I need to know!"
She was viral.
But not for scandal.
For her art.
For her voice.
She closed her laptop and looked out her window. The city shimmered below like an orchestra of lights playing just for her.
Her heart ached.
She missed Luca.
But she wasn't going to chase anyone anymore—not even the one who stayed.
---
Meanwhile, Luca stood outside her door—flowers in one hand, hesitation in the other.
He didn't knock.
Not yet.
Because the man who once thought he knew Amira had just met the version of her who finally knew herself.
And she was breathtaking.
Later that night, Amira stood in front of the mirror in her apartment bathroom. She wore nothing but a silk robe, her hair slightly damp from the shower, skin warm and glowing beneath the soft yellow light.
She had just returned from her studio session—her throat raw from recording, her fingers trembling with the adrenaline of baring her soul into a mic. But as she leaned closer, she didn't see a broken girl anymore.
She saw a woman.
One who didn't wait for apologies. One who didn't need anyone to validate her pain. Or her pleasure.
Her phone chimed again. This time it was a message from Luca.
> I'm outside. I just want to talk.
She froze. Then walked to the door.
When she opened it, there he was. Hoodie, jeans, no guitar. Just Luca. Raw and unreadable.
"I didn't come here to yell," he said softly. "I came because I can't sleep without knowing if we're done."
She stepped aside, silently letting him in.
He entered like he belonged there. Because he had. Because she had once wanted to make him a key.
He stood near her living room window, arms crossed, face troubled.
"You said the thing with Noah was about power," he murmured. "But when you sing, Amira… you're power. That's what kills me."
She swallowed hard. "It was a mistake. One I'm not proud of."
"Do you still want him?"
"No." Her voice cracked. "I want the girl I was before him to stop thinking she still owes him closure."
Luca took a slow step forward. "And what about me?"
She hesitated. "You make me feel like I'm more than what I've been through. You look at me like I'm not a bruise, but a song that's still being written."
He stepped even closer, until they were nearly touching.
"I came here to say goodbye if I had to," he whispered. "But I'd rather stay… if you'll let me."
She didn't speak.
She grabbed his face in her hands and kissed him.
Fierce. Raw. Unapologetic.
Her body melted into his as he pressed her against the wall, their mouths locked in a hungry rhythm. Her robe slipped slightly, revealing her shoulder, her collarbone, the vulnerable curve of her neck.
"Are you sure?" he breathed against her skin, voice low and reverent.
"Yes," she whispered. "Tonight, I don't want to think. I just want to feel."
Luca lifted her gently and carried her to the bedroom.
Their clothes fell like old memories. Forgotten. Unnecessary.
She explored every inch of his skin, fingers tracing the muscles of his chest, the soft slope of his hips. He tasted like heat and music, like longing and safety. He kissed her slowly, taking his time, as if learning a new language written across her skin.
And she sang his name—not with notes, but with breathless gasps and whispered moans.
In that moment, she wasn't the girl who had been left behind.
She was the woman finally choosing who to give herself to—and Luca received her like a prayer.
---
They lay tangled in her sheets, hearts thudding, chests rising and falling together.
No words.
No need.
Just the echo of trust slowly rebuilding in silence.
Until he whispered against her temple, "I don't care about your past, Amira. But I'm ready to be part of your future."
And she—wrapped in his arms, kissed by moonlight—believed him.
This time… maybe she'd finally found the kind of love that didn't require her to lose herself.