The Rhythm Between Us
Ayah's Pov
Emotions swallowed me whole—lies, betrayal, truth, and love circling my heart like a storm with no center. Each one demanded to be believed. Each one insisted it was right. My mind went numb, exhausted from trying to separate what was real from what only sounded convincing. Whom do I listen to when reason abandons me? Whom do I follow when my heart no longer agrees with itself?
I couldn't breathe.
The air felt heavy, as though the walls were slowly closing in. I loosened the collar of my shirt, fingers trembling, but the pressure in my chest refused to ease. So I fled to the washroom, my steps unsteady, and performed wudu with shaking hands. The cool water met my skin like a quiet mercy. And then I prayed.
If the weight of this world was too much for me to carry, then I would place it at the feet of the One who created it.
As my forehead touched the ground, a tear escaped—just one, but it carried everything I could not put into words. Fear. Love. Doubt. Hope. My mother's voice echoed softly in my mind, as clear as if she were standing beside me.
"Whenever your heart or your mind feels conflicted," she used to tell Kais and me, "never believe you have nowhere to go. Your Lord is always waiting. One tear from your eyes, one plea from your voice, one step toward Him—and He will begin opening doors you never even knew existed. Hundreds of them. Thousands. But you must keep faith."
I stayed there longer than I meant to, pressing my pain into the prayer mat, afraid that if I stood up too soon, the world would rush back in and steal what little peace I had left.
And in that moment, I didn't ask for answers.
I only asked to be held by a faith strong enough to survive what was coming.
I knew—and I had admitted it long ago—that I was in love with him. And I trusted my judgment enough to believe he could not be tied to the drug case, not the man I knew, not the one my heart recognized so instinctively.
I wiped away my tears and whispered a prayer, "If this is not good for me, then break my heart gently—handle it with care. And if it is good for me, then do not give me a reason to doubt it."
With that, I did what I had to do.
I kept Aubrey close to my heart, and my mission close to my mind—never allowing one to eclipse the other.
I reached for my coat and paused, my gaze drifting to the invitation card resting on the table. I picked it up, traced its edges with my thumb, then set it back down. Tomorrow was the show.
A small smile found its way to my lips.
It had been a long time since I had seen him.
I waited outside the office building, eyes fixed on our target—Mr. Anderson.
He exited alone.
Seconds later, Emmett stepped out, catching my gaze and giving a subtle signal. I returned it, and we began the hunt. We wanted this case closed—clean and fast.
We followed Anderson into an increasingly isolated street.
The first red flag: he sped up.
We maintained a safe distance, watching carefully. His movements were sharp, deliberate—too quick. The second red flag.
Then he made an abrupt turn without hesitation.
The third red flag.
Emmett and I exchanged a glance. He knew it too. Anderson was aware of us.
I signalled Emmett. He nodded once before peeling away, disappearing down another path.
I reached for my gun, steadying my breath, and rounded the corner with calculated caution.
And just as I expected—
Anderson was there.
Gun raised.
Pointed directly at me.
Aubrey's Pov
Thump. Thump. Thump.
The rhythm arrived before the music.
It pulsed through my wrists, my chest, my throat—an insistence that refused to be ignored. I adjusted the violin beneath my jaw, the cool varnished wood pressing into my skin, familiar and grounding. The city beyond the glass stretched wide and luminous, a sea of lights breathing in and out with me.
I drew in a slow breath.
Nerves, I told myself.
Tomorrow would do that. The performance. The audience. Her presence somewhere in the dark, watching the way she always did—like she was listening for something beneath the sound. And after… the words I'd been rehearsing in silence, the confession I'd carried like a secret chord.
The bow met the strings.
A low note spilled into the room, raw and vibrating, lingering in the air like an unanswered question. It wasn't perfect. It wasn't meant to be. I let it stretch, let it ache, then guided it into a melody that unfolded slowly, deliberately.
Thump. Thump.
The rhythm threaded itself into the music, shaping it, driving it forward. My fingers moved on instinct, pressing memory and longing into every shift, every tremor of sound. The violin sang—soft, then sharp—filling the penthouse with something almost alive.
Yet beneath it all, something felt wrong.
The air was too still. My breath came shallow, uneven. The bow dragged just a fraction heavier than it should have, as if the strings resisted me.
I faltered.
The note wavered, then broke.
Silence rushed in, sudden and unforgiving.
I lowered the violin slowly, my pulse loud in my ears. The city resumed its hum, but the unease remained, coiled tight in my chest.
I laughed under my breath, shaking my head. You're imagining things. Wanting did this. Anticipation did this. Feelings—unguarded, unspoken—had a way of unsettling even the most practiced composure.
Still, I couldn't shake the sensation that something had shifted, that the world had tilted ever so slightly off its axis.
Somewhere, far from the glow of this room, breath was being held.
A gun was raised.
And the rhythm echoing through my body was not fear—
not nerves—
but a heartbeat calling out to mine.
Ayah's Pov
It wasn't the first time a gun had been pointed at me.
But it was the first time fear rooted itself so deeply in my chest—not the fear of pain, or death itself, but the fear of not making it back. Of leaving something unfinished. Of missing the one thing that had quietly, irrevocably become my life.
I forced myself to breathe.
Anderson wasn't just a threat. He was a casualty too—chewed up by a system that used him, then discarded him. Victim and accomplice tangled together, trembling behind a weapon he barely knew how to hold.
"Anderson," I said, keeping my voice low, steady. "Put the gun down. We're not here to hurt you. We're here to help."
His face crumpled.
Tears streaked down his cheeks as his fingers tightened around the grip, knuckles whitening, the barrel wavering but never lowering. The gun shook—not with weakness, but with desperation.
I took a careful step forward.
The metal lifted higher.
"Don't," he shouted, panic tearing through his voice. "Don't you dare come near me or I will shoot!"
The words echoed off the walls, sharp and final.
I froze, my heartbeat thundering in my ears, every instinct screaming at me to retreat—but I stayed. Because running now would only make this worse. Because somewhere beneath the fear, I understood him.
And because for the first time in my life, I had something waiting for me on the other side of this moment.
Something I wasn't ready to lose.
I held my ground, eyes locked on his, silently willing him to see me—not as a threat, not as the enemy—
But as someone who still believed he could be saved.
Aubrey's Pov
The feeling didn't fade.
If anything, it sharpened.
I set the violin down carefully, almost reverently, as though it were something fragile that might splinter if handled wrong. The room felt altered now—subtly, but unmistakably—like the moment after a door closes somewhere you can't see.
I stood there, listening.
Not for sound, but for absence.
The rhythm in my chest slowed, then stuttered, then settled into something uneven. I rolled my shoulders once, grounding myself, but the tension refused to leave. It sat beneath my skin, quiet and watchful.
I moved toward the window again.
The city looked unchanged. Lights still burned. Cars still flowed. Life continued with infuriating normalcy. Whatever had unsettled me hadn't touched the world outside this room.
Only me.
I pressed my fingertips lightly against the glass.
For a brief, inexplicable moment, the certainty struck me—not as panic, not as fear, but as knowing—that if something were to go wrong tonight, I would feel it before I understood it.
The thought came uninvited.
And stayed.
I frowned, exhaling slowly through my nose. Enough. I wasn't the type to indulge instincts without evidence. I trusted what I could see, what I could touch, what I could control.
Music.
Discipline.
Silence.
Yet even silence had weight now.
I closed my eyes for a second, letting the city's hum wash over me, waiting for the unease to recede.
It didn't.
Somewhere deep inside, something remained alert—as though part of me were standing guard, listening for a sound that hadn't arrived yet.
I opened my eyes.
Whatever this was, it wasn't passing.
And for the first time that night, I understood this much with clarity:
Tomorrow wasn't just about music.
Or words.
Or confession.
It was about timing.
And timing, I had learned too late, was never something you truly controlled.
Ayah's Pov
I didn't move.
Not an inch.
Because the moment I did, the balance would shatter—and we were standing on something thinner than glass.
"Anderson," I said again, softer this time. Not pleading. Not commanding. "Look at me."
His eyes flickered. Just briefly. Enough.
"You don't want to do this," I continued, slow and deliberate, each word placed carefully between us. "You're not a killer. You're scared."
His grip tightened.
"You don't know anything," he rasped. His voice cracked halfway through the sentence, splintering under its own weight. "You think I want this?"
The gun trembled violently now.
I swallowed, keeping my tone steady. "Then tell me. Because people who want to hurt someone don't look like you do right now."
Silence stretched.
His breath hitched. Once. Twice.
"I can't," he whispered.
The word barely carried, but it landed like a confession.
"I can't put it down," he said again, louder now, desperation bleeding into every syllable. "They'll kill her."
My heart clenched.
"Who?" I asked gently.
"My daughter," he said, tears spilling freely now. "They have her school schedule. Her route home. Her face." He laughed weakly, hysterically. "They send me pictures to remind me what happens if I don't listen."
The gun dipped an inch.
Then rose again.
"They said if I talk—if I hesitate—they won't need me anymore."
I took a careful step forward, slow enough not to startle him.
"They're lying," I said. "They always do."
"You don't understand," he choked. "I already tried to get out. That's why you're here. That's why this is happening."
I met his eyes fully now.
"You're not alone anymore," I said. "And neither is your daughter."
His head snapped up. "Don't say her name."
"I won't," I promised. "But listen to me. If you put the gun down, we can protect you. Both of you. Full security. Relocation. New identities if needed." My voice didn't waver. "I swear to you—nothing will happen to her."
His breathing fractured.
Behind him, just beyond his line of sight, movement flickered.
Emmett.
He was silent. Precise. A shadow peeling itself from the alley's edge.
I kept my eyes on Anderson.
"They only have power as long as you believe you're trapped," I said. "You're not."
"I don't get to choose," he sobbed.
"Yes," I said firmly. "You do. Right now."
His attention stayed locked on me.
That was all Emmett needed.
In one swift motion, Emmett lunged—grabbing Anderson's wrist, twisting hard. The gun clattered to the ground, skidding across concrete as Anderson cried out in shock.
It was over before my breath caught up.
Anderson collapsed to his knees, hands empty, shoulders shaking violently.
I moved immediately, crouching in front of him.
"It's okay," I said, placing a steady hand on his shoulder. "It's over. You did the right thing."
"They'll come for her," he gasped. "They won't stop."
"They won't get near her," I said, unwavering. "I give you my word. I will personally see to it. Protection. Safe housing. Constant surveillance. She will be safe."
He looked up at me then—really looked.
Searching.
"Promise?" he whispered.
"I promise," I said. "As long as I'm breathing."
His body gave in after that, tension draining all at once as he broke down, sobs wracking through him.
Emmett secured the gun and stepped back, giving us space.
I stayed.
Because this was the part that mattered most.
When fear loosened its grip—and hope had to take its place.
The café was silent in a way that felt deliberate.
A handwritten "CLOSED" sign hung on the glass door; the street beyond blurred into a distant smear of motion and light. Inside, the lights were dimmed low, casting long shadows across empty tables and neatly tucked chairs. The air smelled faintly of roasted coffee beans and sugar, warm and misleadingly calm.
Anderson sat at a corner table, hunched over a glass of water.
Both hands were wrapped around it as if it were the only solid thing left in the world. They trembled uncontrollably. When he raised the glass, water sloshed over the rim and onto the table, his breath hitching as he drank.
Emmett stood behind me—still, solid, unreadable. Not a threat. Not comfortable either. Just certainty.
The door opened with a soft chime.
June stepped inside.
She held a little girl's hand, guiding her gently forward. The child's backpack slid crookedly off one shoulder, its cartoon patch frayed at the edges. Her sneakers squeaked faintly against the café floor as she paused, eyes wide, absorbing the unfamiliar stillness.
Anderson saw her and broke.
"She's here," he whispered, the words barely sounding.
He stood too quickly, chair scraping loudly against the floor, and dropped to his knees as his daughter ran to him. He caught her mid-step, pulling her into his chest, one hand cupping the back of her head, the other splayed protectively across her small spine.
"I've got you," he murmured, voice thick. "Daddy's got you."
June stepped back without a word, returning to stand beside Emmett behind me—watchful, composed, eyes never leaving the room.
I let the moment stretch.
When Anderson finally sat again, his daughter curled tightly into his side, her legs tucked beneath her, her fingers knotted into his jacket, I spoke.
"Anderson," I said quietly, mindful of the child between us. "I need you to tell me what you know."
He choked and glanced down at his daughter.
The movement was instinctive—protective. Like even his words needed permission to exist in her presence.
June noticed immediately.
She crouched slightly, softening her posture, her voice warm and bright in a way that felt almost unreal against the heaviness of the room."Hey, darling," she said gently. "Do you want to watch some cartoons?"
The little girl's eyes lit up.
She nodded enthusiastically, ponytail bouncing, fear momentarily replaced by the simple joy of familiarity.
"Let's go upstairs," June added with a smile. "We have a big TV. You'll love it."
I watched as Anderson hesitated for half a second—just long enough for every fear he carried to surface—before his daughter slipped her hand into June's without a second thought.
Trust, given freely.
She followed June toward the stairs, backpack thumping softly against her back, sneakers squeaking faintly with each step. She didn't look back.
June cast one brief glance over her shoulder at me before disappearing upstairs.
The café felt colder the moment they were gone.
Anderson exhaled shakily, shoulders slumping as if he'd been holding himself upright purely out of obligation. Without his daughter there, the weight he carried no longer had to pretend to be strong.
He began to speak.
"About six months ago," he said hoarsely, "my wife died. Poor health." He swallowed hard, eyes fixed on the table. "It was just me and my daughter after that."
I didn't interrupt.
"I needed a job—urgently," he continued. "But with my qualifications… it was hard. Everywhere I went, the answer was the same. No openings. No callbacks."
His fingers curled against the edge of the table.
"Then I saw an advertisement," he said. "Posted in that alley. The one where you found me."
I felt something tighten in my chest.
"At first, I thought it was a joke," he admitted. "It was mostly an empty space. No company name. No details." A bitter laugh escaped him. "But then I saw the salary."
He looked up at me then, eyes rimmed red.
"It was huge. For an office job." His voice cracked. "I was desperate. I didn't think anyone would even respond—but I applied anyway. I didn't have much hope."
Silence settled between us, thick and heavy.
"And when they did?" I asked quietly.
He hesitated.
That was when I knew the worst part was coming.
Anderson drew a slow, uneven breath before continuing.
"At first, it felt… normal," he said. "An office. Desks. Schedules. People coming and going." His fingers tightened slightly against the table. "But it didn't take long for me to notice the differences."
I stayed silent, letting him speak.
"Some employees were treated differently," he went on. "Not because of their position or experience—because of who they were connected to." He shook his head faintly. "A few of them never clocked in or out. Never answered to anyone. People lowered their voices when they walked by."
His gaze drifted toward the stairs, then back to me.
"There was an imbalance," he said quietly. "You could feel it the moment you stepped inside. Authority didn't follow titles. Power didn't follow rules." His jaw tightened. "Some people gave orders. Others just obeyed."
He swallowed.
"And the rest of us learned very quickly not to ask why."
He continued.
"There was one person," he said slowly. "One bright spot."
I waited.
"Her name was Julia," he continued. "She worked a few desks away from me. Always smiled. Always asked how my day was going, even when it was obvious I didn't want to talk."
The corner of his mouth twitched faintly—not quite a smile, but close.
"She noticed things," he said. "That I skipped lunch. That I stayed late. That I was always watching the clock, worried about getting home on time." He exhaled. "She helped me more than she had to."
I said nothing, letting the memory settle.
"She explained procedures no one else bothered with. Covered for me when I made mistakes. Taught me how things really worked—who to avoid, when to keep quiet." His voice softened. "She was kind. Genuinely kind."
His fingers curled together, restless.
"For a while, she made it feel survivable," he admitted. "Like maybe this job was just… a job."
He looked up at me then, eyes shadowed.
Anderson's voice dropped to something barely audible.
"One night, I stayed late," he said. "Overtime. I was packing up, ready to leave, when I heard noise coming from the meeting room."
His jaw clenched.
"Laughing. Too loud. Wrong for that hour."
He swallowed hard.
"I opened the door."
His hands began to shake again.
"There was white powder everywhere," he said. "On the table. On their faces. On the floor. They were high—out of control. Drunk on it. On themselves." His breathing grew shallow. "They didn't even notice me at first."
He looked up at me, eyes glassy.
"And then I saw her."
The silence in the café thickened.
"Julia was laid out on the meeting room table," he said. "Motionless. Bare. Her limbs slack like they didn't belong to her anymore." His voice cracked. "Her head was turned to the side. Her eyes were open, but… empty. Like she wasn't inside her body."
He dragged a hand down his face.
"She couldn't speak. Couldn't move. They'd drugged her—so much that she didn't even react." His voice shook. "They were laughing. Treating it like a joke. Like she was nothing."
His shoulders curled inward.
"I stood there," he whispered. "Frozen. Watching them destroy the one person who had ever been kind to me."
Tears slipped down his face unchecked.
"That was the moment I understood," he said quietly. "This wasn't just a job. It was a cage. And once you see something like that—once they know you've seen it—you don't walk away."
He looked at the table, at his shaking hands.
"You become theirs."
"And do you know who's behind all of this?" I asked."I want the name of the mastermind."
Anderson shook his head slowly.
"No one ever saw him," he said. "Except a few people. The ones high enough to survive knowing."
He hesitated, then leaned forward, lowering his voice as if the walls themselves were listening.
"But there's one thing I know for sure."
The pause stretched.
His eyes locked onto mine—suddenly sharp, suddenly afraid.
"I heard he's from a very powerful family," he whispered. "The kind with influence everywhere. The kind you don't cross." His jaw tightened. "They said he was an artist. Well-known. Untouchable."
He swallowed.
"And that he was connected to some major entertainment company. I couldn't remember the name at first—"
Then his face went still.
"Ardel," he said quietly. "Ardel Entertainment."
The name settled into the room like a verdict.
I didn't move.Didn't react.
But something cold and deliberate slid into place inside me.