The morning after Luca and Amira's night together was strangely quiet. No buzzing guilt. No morning-after doubt. Just the hum of contentment, interrupted only by the occasional birdsong outside her London apartment.
Luca had left early for a soundcheck, pressing a soft kiss to her temple and whispering, "I'll see you tonight."
Tonight.
Tonight was her official debut performance at Echo Noir, London's most elite jazz and soul venue. The press would be there. Musicians. Labels. The curious. And, unfortunately, Noah.
She had learned from her sister that he'd RSVP'd with an exclusive invite—no plus one. Typical Noah. Always wanting to make a statement.
Amira stood in front of her vanity, applying eyeliner with hands steadier than they'd been in months. Her hair was pinned in sleek, dramatic waves, lips a deep crimson, her black satin dress tailored to hug her curves like a glove.
She didn't just look the part.
She owned it now.
"You look like heartbreak dressed in diamonds," said Layla, adjusting her mic headset as they waited backstage.
"I am heartbreak. And rebirth," Amira answered with a smirk.
Layla gave her a high-five. "Kill it out there."
Amira stepped onto the stage, blinded momentarily by camera flashes and warm lights. The soft hush that fell over the crowd when she took the mic was reverent. She didn't scan for Luca or Noah. Not yet. Not when the air itself seemed to hold its breath.
Her first song was a ballad she wrote two weeks ago, called "Second Chances Burn Slow."
The melody was low and slow, like a confession slipping out beneath a blanket of pain.
Her voice quivered on the high notes—not from nerves, but from remembering every word she'd once bitten back.
When she opened her eyes, she saw Luca.
In the second row. Hands folded. Watching her like she'd hung the moon.
Then she saw Noah—farther back, arms crossed, sunglasses still on inside the dark-lit venue.
The second song was angrier. Raw. A burning letter to every man who thought a woman wouldn't survive without him.
And as she sang the final line—
> "You left me in ashes, but I learned to breathe smoke…"
—someone from the crowd shouted:
"Is that about Noah Jensen?!"
Gasps. Whispers. A hundred heads turned toward the back of the room.
Noah stood, coolly removing his glasses. "Nice song," he said loud enough for the front rows to hear. "Still trying to sell me as the villain, huh?"
The room stiffened like a frozen lake.
Amira stepped forward, voice cool. "If the shoe fits, Jensen."
Someone snorted. A camera clicked.
Luca stood too, jaw tightening. Ready.
Noah smirked. "You sure it wasn't you who wanted to wear it? I mean… you came back to find me, remember?"
She swallowed the sting. "I came to say goodbye. You just weren't brave enough to let me."
Another silence. This one deeper. Sharper.
Then Amira turned back to the mic. "We don't heal by burying songs we were born to sing. We heal by setting them free."
And she launched into her final track, "Velvet Scars," with the kind of fire that made the crowd rise to their feet.
She didn't look back again.
She didn't need to.
By the time the curtain closed, the crowd was on their feet, phones in the air, and murmurs of "industry legend in the making" swirled among the velvet seats.
But the true storm was waiting backstage.
Noah intercepted her near the exit door.
"You're going to regret this, Amira," he said, jaw clenched. "You're not as untouchable as you think."
She looked him in the eye, no fear left to give. "And you're not as needed as you wish."
Before he could respond, Luca stepped beside her.
"Walk away, Jensen," he warned. "She's not yours. She never was."
Noah sneered but didn't push it. Not tonight.
But the look in his eyes promised something darker.
This wasn't over.
Not by a long shot.
The celebration after the show was a blur.
Everyone congratulated Amira—producers, bloggers, fellow artists. Layla cried, Damien handed her a vintage bottle of French wine, and someone offered her a record deal on a bar napkin.
But behind her red-painted smile, something unsettled festered.
Noah's threat had slipped beneath her skin like a splinter she couldn't reach.
"Are you okay?" Luca asked as he drove her home through the dimly lit London streets, one hand on the steering wheel, the other gently resting on her thigh.
She nodded too quickly. "I'm just tired."
He pulled into her driveway and turned off the engine. "You sure it's not him? He got under your skin tonight."
Amira sighed, unclipping her heels. "He knows how to twist the knife. But he's not the one I'm worried about."
Luca tilted his head. "Then who?"
"You," she said quietly. "I know there's something you're not telling me."
His hand froze on the gearshift.
"I saw you," she added, watching him carefully. "That day at the jazz club. You were arguing with someone before you saw me."
Luca leaned back in his seat. His jaw tightened, and for a long time, he said nothing.
When he finally did speak, it was low. Controlled.
"It's about my past. There's... something I've been hiding from you."
Her pulse quickened. "Are you in danger?"
"No," he said too quickly. "But I might've brought some of it into your world without meaning to."
She stared at him, thunder clapping in her chest. "What did you do?"
Luca took a deep breath. "I used to be involved with a private investor who has ties to... less-than-legal venues. Gambling. Laundering. Nightclubs with 'exclusive deals.' I thought I left that all behind when I came back here."
"You thought?" she echoed, voice sharp.
Luca nodded grimly. "Turns out he followed me here. I got word two days ago. He's making threats. Said if I didn't give him a cut of my new earnings—including any profit you make while under my 'wing'—he'd burn everything down."
Amira's world tipped. "Are you saying I'm being targeted?"
"I'm saying I can fix this," he said. "But I didn't want to ruin your moment."
Her eyes widened with fury. "You should've told me before tonight. Before we slept together. Before I let you in again."
Luca looked like he'd been slapped. "I didn't want to lose you."
"And now I might lose everything because of you."
She opened the door and stepped out into the cool night, heels in hand, dress dragging against the wet pavement. Her fingers trembled—not from fear, but fury.
Behind her, Luca stepped out too. "Amira, wait—"
But she didn't.
She didn't wait for his explanations or promises or lies. She walked into her house, slammed the door, and locked it.
Only then did she sink to the floor, heart pounding, tears spilling down cheeks that had worn so many masks.
She had survived heartbreak.
She had survived Noah.
But surviving love that lied in order to protect her?
That was a war she never saw coming.
And somewhere in the distance, her phone lit up with a blocked number.
> Unknown Caller: "Sweet voice tonight, Amira. Let's see how loud you sing when your stage is on fire."
Her blood ran cold.
This wasn't just jealousy anymore.
This was war.