Two weeks later...
The night was wet with London drizzle, soft and moody, like the jazz melody slipping from Amira's headphones as she leaned against the window of her sister's flat. Her eyes were tired but wild, like the city outside — restless, full of questions.
Behind her, a suitcase stood packed.
She was leaving.
Not just the flat.
Not just the club.
She was ready to leave it all behind.
Until a knock came at the door.
Slow. Measured.
She didn't want to answer it. But something in her chest tugged her forward. When she opened the door, Luca was standing there — soaked, out of breath, and desperate.
"Don't go."
She blinked, stunned. "You said— you wanted space."
"I didn't know what I wanted. Until I realized I'd rather lose myself in you than find myself without you."
Her heart twisted. "That doesn't fix anything, Luca."
He stepped inside, closing the door behind him gently. "No. But maybe... this does."
He pulled out a small velvet pouch from his coat pocket and unwrapped it slowly. Inside was a silver pendant shaped like a treble clef — carved with the word Salvaje.
"You called yourself wild," he said. "But I see someone who's brave."
The room trembled with silence.
---
[Mature Scene – 18+]
They collided in the quiet like two records spinning on the wrong speed — frantic, clumsy, and aching with rhythm.
Luca's hands slid up her thighs, lifting her onto the table where sheet music once lay. Amira's breath came out ragged as he traced the line of her throat with his mouth.
Her dress slipped off one shoulder. Then the other.
He kissed every note of her — a melody unplayed for too long. Her moans were his chorus, his tempo set by the arch of her back and the press of her hips against his.
Their bodies found each other like lyrics fitting into a verse.
She whispered his name between gasps. He responded by gripping her tighter, moving slower — worshipping every inch of her until they collapsed, breathless, tangled in satin sheets and quiet promises.
---
Later, as dawn spilled gold into the room, Amira lay in his arms, blinking at the ceiling.
"I have to sing tonight," she said softly.
"I'll be in the front row."
She paused. "Noah came to the club last night."
Luca tensed beside her.
"I told him it was too late," she added. "But part of me... still needed to say goodbye."
"You already did," Luca whispered. "The moment you chose yourself."
---
At midnight, she stood in the spotlight of Velvet Note for one final performance.
The jazz club pulsed with warmth. London watched.
Amira closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and let her voice rise. Her song wasn't for heartbreak anymore — it was for freedom. For letting go. For every woman who ever stood alone in a foreign city and turned it into her stage.
When she opened her eyes, Luca stood at the back.
Smiling.
Hands in his pockets.
Eyes only for her.
Noah, somewhere in the crowd, slowly turned away.
Because some stories end.
But some — they rewrite themselves.
And this time, Amira was holding the pen.
Two years later...
The city had changed seasons a hundred times. Velvet Note had new talent, new owners, and new records spinning through the speakers. But the spirit of it — that intimate hum of soul and sound — still lived in every corner of the club.
A poster hung framed near the bar.
"Amira Rose — Live Finale"
Underneath: She rewrote her story with her own hands.
She hadn't sung publicly since that night. Not because she couldn't. But because she didn't need to.
Now, she told her story in a different way.
Amira's Lounge.
Her very own jazz bar.
Nestled in Brooklyn, cozy and fierce — a place where wild women told their stories through rhythm, words, and wine. A place where survival became art.
---
"Mommy, mummy, look!"
Little fingers tugged at her sleeve as Amira stood by the stage. A curly-haired toddler with Luca's deep green eyes grinned up at her, a makeshift microphone in hand.
"I wanna sing like you!"
She lifted her daughter in her arms, kissing her cheek.
Luca appeared beside them, arms wrapped around her waist from behind.
"You ready for tonight's opening?" he murmured against her skin.
"Yes."
They kissed — gentle, knowing. Nothing rushed. Nothing broken. Just... music.
---
Across town, Noah West sat alone in a high-rise studio. A platinum record on his wall, a glass of scotch in hand.
He stared at his phone, where Amira's name was still saved under Jazz Queen.
He never called.
Not because he didn't want to.
But because he knew he was a closed chapter in a finished book.
---
Amira stood center stage.
Lights low.
Her fingers wrapped around the mic like an old friend.
"Tonight," she said to the packed crowd, "I sing a song I once wrote in the dark — not to mourn what I lost... but to celebrate what I found."
The audience waited.
She smiled.
And then the first note spilled out — rich, full, wild.