The morning sun burned through the smog of Los Angeles like an accusation. Maya Delaney tightened her ponytail and took a long sip from her thermos as she stood outside Vortex Studios, the same building that once made her feel like a queen and a prisoner in equal measure. The coffee was lukewarm, but it grounded her. The slight bitterness matched her mood, steadying her nerves.
She hadn't slept well. Too many dreams. Too many memories clawing at the edges of her resolve. Julian Vance was like a song stuck in her head—annoying, addictive, and always arriving when she least wanted him. He lived in the cracks of her day, in the silence between notes. Even when she ran, even when she reinvented herself, he was there.
She inhaled deeply and stepped inside. The receptionist's eyes widened slightly at the sight of her, but she said nothing. Just buzzed her through with the press of a button, like Maya was still a regular. Like nothing had changed.
Maya walked with purpose, past gold records and framed magazine covers of Julian in his prime. Her heels echoed on the polished floors like a slow-building drumbeat. Memories layered themselves over every inch of this place. The couch they crashed on between late-night sessions. The sound booth where they argued over vocal takes. The hallway where he kissed her for the first time and told her she was the only real thing in his life.
It had all been a lie, of course. Wrapped in just enough truth to make her believe it.
When she reached Studio B, she paused. The door was cracked open.
He was already there.
Julian stood with his back to her, headphones around his neck, strumming his guitar absentmindedly. He was wearing that same damn leather jacket, the one she used to curl up in after long sessions. She hated that she remembered how it smelled—like tobacco, cedarwood, and sin.
He turned before she could announce herself, as if he felt her enter. "Morning."
"Don't. Be civil. Don't be familiar," she said flatly, dropping her bag near the keyboard.
Julian raised both hands in mock surrender, but his eyes sparkled like he was already toying with her. "You always did like mornings better than I did."
"And I always preferred silence to your flattery."
The banter was a minefield, and they both knew it. She took her seat at the piano, flipping open her lyric book. Julian sat across from her, the tension between them as thick as the air before a storm.
"Did you bring anything to start with?" he asked, voice low and smooth.
She nodded and passed him a sheet of handwritten lyrics. It was raw. Bitter. Honest.
Julian read it twice, brow furrowed. Then, without looking up, he said, "This one's about me."
"They're all about you," she replied. "But not for you. This time, the song is mine."
He looked at her then, really looked. There was something unreadable in his expression—a mix of regret and defiance.
"You think you're the only one who got hurt?"
Maya's laugh was sharp and hollow. "You used me, Julian. You fed off my heartache like it was a buffet. You turned my love into your legacy. And then you left me to clean up the wreckage."
Julian opened his mouth, but the studio door swung open before he could respond. Zara Carrington walked in, heels clicking like a metronome.
"Well, isn't this cozy," she drawled. "Progress? Or war?"
"Both," Maya said, standing. "You wanted a hit. I'm writing it. But if you want it sugar-coated, find someone else."
Zara gave her a slow, appraising look. "I want it real. I want what only you can give. Don't disappoint me."
With that, she turned and walked out, but not before giving Julian a look that said: Control her, or I will.
When the door clicked shut, Maya turned back to him. "Let's be clear. I'm not here to save your career. I'm here to bury the version of me you destroyed."
Julian leaned forward. "Then let's make sure it burns beautifully."
They worked in tense silence for the next two hours. Maya tested melodies on the upright piano while Julian layered in guitar chords. The silence between notes was loud—filled with memories, unspoken thoughts, and restrained urges.
"I liked the way you bent that third chord," Julian murmured.
She glanced at him. "Don't flatter me. You're not trying to get me back."
"Who says I ever stopped?"
Maya paused mid-note. Her eyes narrowed, but she said nothing. Instead, she turned the page in her lyric book and started again.
Julian's gaze lingered on her face. Her hair was shorter now, darker at the roots. There were fine lines around her mouth, carved from three years of learning to survive without him. She looked stronger, somehow. More dangerous.
"I remember the night you wrote 'Heaven in Reverse,'" he said suddenly.
Maya stiffened. That song had been a turning point—the night she realized she loved him and the beginning of everything unraveling.
"You played it while I slept. I woke up to you humming it in my shirt, barefoot in the kitchen."
She looked at him now, sharp and unblinking. "And then you recorded it without crediting me."
He looked away, guilt flickering through his expression. "I didn't think—"
"No, you didn't. And that's the problem. You never thought about what it cost me."
Silence returned. This time heavier.
By the time afternoon light slanted across the studio, they'd made progress. A melody had taken shape, echoing a bittersweet blend of longing and defiance. Julian's voice hummed over the notes like a ghost—familiar, seductive, and dangerous.
They took a break. Maya sat alone near the soundboard, sipping water. Julian hovered by the window, watching traffic crawl below.
"This isn't easy for me either," he said quietly.
"You had three years to say that."
"I didn't know how."
"You knew how to lie. You knew how to manipulate. But honesty? That was always your weakest chord."
Julian turned slowly, jaw tight. "Do you really think I didn't love you?"
Maya stared at him. Her throat tightened. "I think you loved how I made you feel. How I made you sound. That's not the same thing."
He stepped closer. Too close.
She didn't move.
Julian leaned in. "Then tell me why I still dream about you."
Maya's heart pounded, but her voice stayed even. "Maybe your conscience finally found a mic."
And just like that, the moment broke. He laughed, a low, bitter sound, and moved away.
They worked until the sun dipped low again. They fought over melodies, disagreed on chords, argued about tempo. But somewhere between the tension and the fire, something else took root. That dangerous familiarity. That heat.
And when Julian brushed past her, his fingers grazing her lower back, her breath caught. Not because she wanted him.
But because a part of her still remembered how good he used to feel.
That was the danger. Not the music. Not the lyrics. Him.
He was a melody she should have erased.
But instead, she was writing him back into existence.