It was a bad idea to have brought Daniel to her flat, or so Amelia thought. He had been there before – the morning he discovered her circumstances – but had spent mere minutes, focused only on her. Today, her abode was in its normal state, cosy and feminine but a little too modest nevertheless. There was no grand piano, no opulent art, no expensive decor, only a small, well-worn sofa, a floral tablecloth covering a dining table set for two, and the smell of old books. Daniel was a meticulous person– his house was neat and spotless, his kitchen tidy and stocked, and his habits fastidious. Amelia felt embarrassed to have conveniently forgotten about the basket full of laundry in the kitchen and the dishes from last night in the sink. She never had guests and was not expecting Daniel’s offer to visit her flat that evening, shaking up the usual practice routine that had always taken place at his house.

But if she could read his face, then he looked rather impressed as he perused her unfinished concerto. Her practice for the day had just ended. She had played the completed final recital, with more confidence than she had felt in months. Daniel had suggested ways to modify her approach to the piece, to change her fingerings to allow more flexibility. The session had ended with an impromptu duet. Perhaps it was his presence next to her that had made her falter, a brief stumble in the intricate choreography of notes. Without interrupting the music, Daniel had adjusted his own playing, subtly compensating for her lapse, guiding her back on track.

And on track she was, finally. Her blocks had loosened with each day over the fortnight that he had been coaching her. There had been no sign of Jason since she had the lock changed. It had not been easy but convincing the landlord seemed less of a hassle than looking for a new place to live.

“Incredible,” he mused, that quiet smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “What do they call this aesthetic? Dark royalcore, right?”

“Yes. Finding beauty in decay.” She stared at his solid form occupying that small flat. He had taken off his jacket and rolled the cuffs of the pale blue shirt, allowing the firm, hairy arms to breathe. The necktie had been loosened and the collar unfastened, letting her have the tiniest glimpse of dark chest hair. She turned her face away. “Is it too unconventional for the festival?”

“Nothing is too unconventional in music. You’ve created something different and powerful while still sticking to the traditional format of a concerto. The percussionists will love you for making them the most essential part of the composition.”

The words washed over her, filling her with a strange exhilaration. Yes, Daniel still called to her. It was his gait, his voice, his grace, the smooth, seductive accent, the quiet confidence in his mannerisms, the unforced masculinity, and the authority he commanded. Everything about him was electric. But it was his ability to make her feel like the most treasured debutante that had set her heart aflutter many times throughout that evening.

“What?” Daniel turned to look at her downcast face. “Did I say something wrong?”

Amelia shook her head. “Do you know the feeling of composing a piece for your own joy?” she asked. “Without the weight of expectations, without the world waiting to hear it?” Her eyes met his. “I miss it.”

“Yeah. I do too, sometimes.” He returned the sheets to their place on the piano deck and came over to sit on the other end of the sofa, returning his glasses to his shirt pocket. “But your music is too good to keep to yourself. The world has so much darkness and erosion, and music is the beauty that it deserves.”

Leaning back in the sofa, he threw an arm across the back. “You’ve been better these days,” he noted, studying her face. “I’m glad our practice has been paying off.”

A doctor in chamber music from Oxford University, piano legend and genius composer, with a record of performing in over eighty countries with every major orchestra in the world. And here he was, giving her his undivided attention in a tiny Brixton apartment. It made her feel both fortunate and awkward.

“Would you fancy some tea?” she asked, suddenly remembering her manners. “A cup of black tea with Jammie Dodgers, perhaps?”

Daniel chuckled, shaking his head. “No, you don’t have to do that. Just… sit here with me. You need to relax.”

He paused, the interlude filled with the same tension that had been humming between them lately. “Can I ask you something?” he queried. Amelia pulled a cushion onto her lap and folded her arms around it.

“Only if I can ask you something,” she challenged. Removing his arm from the back of the sofa, he leaned forward, clasping his hands together.

“Why do you live here?” he questioned, his voice dropping to an almost conspiratorial whisper. She frowned slightly.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean… you are a very well-to-do woman, aren’t you? Why do you rent when you can afford to buy a place of your own?”

“I’ve considered it,” she sighed. “I’d like a nicer place, honestly. A quieter place. But I’m too busy all the time to look for another house, and I guess… this place has grown on me.”

“Really?”

The sarcasm was not lost on her. “The state of my life isn’t the fault of this place. You know that, right?”

He nodded. “Don’t get me wrong, I love what you’ve done to transform the flat. The soundproofing, the vintage chic, the antiques that tell stories, the whole unpretentious feel…” His gaze locked on hers. “Like an extension of your personality.”

She gave a little half laugh. “Just a girl making a home for herself.”

Daniel smiled. “Okay, your turn.”

“What happened to your wife?”

“Oh. That.” He cleared his throat. “We divorced, six years ago.”

Six years. The first time they shared the concert stage in Berlin. “That’s too bad. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. We were having problems for a while. It was mutual.”

“Do you have anyone in your life now?”

“That’s two questions,” he retorted gently.

“Fine. You get to ask another one.” She arched her brow. “Do you?”

“I’m forty-six, Amelia,” he scoffed. “Probably too old to date.”

She refrained from pointing out that everything about him belied his years. “I’m not talking about dating. I mean someone you feel genuine love and passion for.”

His eyes lowered on a deep exhale. “No. The world isn’t exactly abundant with people you can connect with on a deeper level.”

“True. Particularly if you’re in the public eye, like us.” She put away the cushion and rose from the sofa, fastening the loose belts of her dress. “I’ll make some tea anyway.”

He watched her saunter into the kitchen, then slowly followed her. “I guess it’s my turn now,” he said from the doorway. Amelia nodded, pulling out the kettle from a cabinet. “What was it like growing up in foster care?”

She shrugged. “Lonely. They were group homes, so I was never part of a family. I also moved every two years or so, just tossed from one home to another like a hapless shuttlecock.”

Daniel tried to imagine the instability and insecurity of such an arrangement. “The other children… were they…” He considered the right adjective. “…tolerable?”

Tolerable. Being called a posh princess, having her books torn, her complimentary clothes and hair accessories stolen – it was all probably tolerable when you had nowhere to go and no one to complain to. “Mostly,” she said, filling the kettle with water. “It wasn’t like I was there to make friends.”

“Did anyone ever want to adopt you?” he asked.

“Yes, after I started becoming famous,” she scoffed. “They only hoped to share a slice of my success.”

“I’m not going to pretend that I know what it’s like to grow up lonely,” he murmured. “But I hope you know that you’re no longer alone, Mel.”

She set the kettle on the stove and paused. “Why do you call me that?”

Daniel leaned against the door frame. “I’ve always called you that in private. It seemed to suit your diminutive form. You said I could, remember?”

“Yes, you allowed me to call you Dan in return, something that no one outside of your family or close social circle will ever dare call you.”

“It was probably my way of… acknowledging… the connection we shared.” An immediate, overwhelming, and unconventional connection. Him, the legendary maestro, an unhappily married man keeping it together for his child. She, the rising star still in her teens, already conquering the stage, the world, the deepest parts of his soul. It had felt terrifyingly real yet utterly wrong at the same time.

“We still do,” Amelia agreed quietly, her hands tightening around the kettle. For seven years, she had revered his genius, cherished their unusual friendship, and loved the common ground that they had. After being around the world and meeting more men than she cared to remember, she knew there could be only one Daniel McGraw— an extraordinary artist with a worldwide reputation, highly regarded by his family, peers, followers, and students everywhere. A man of such dignity that it physically hurt to think about the line that existed between them – or the idea of crossing it. “Dan, I-“

A loud thud on the front door made them flinch. Amelia froze, clutching both hands to her chest. Daniel turned from the kitchen doorway, his forehead scrunching as he stared at the front door. When he stepped forward, she reached for his arm. His frown deepened when she silently shook her head at him.

“I know you’re in there!” The voice was slightly slurred. “Let me in, you slut!”

An emphatic bang on the door followed. Amelia flinched again, blood roaring in her ears. Daniel freed his arm from her grip and walked up to the door. From what he could see through the spyglass, the man would not be over thirty, with pale skin and dark hair, and blinded by alcohol.

“Open the bloody door!” It sounded like a foot this time, the noise echoing off the floor. “You can’t keep me out by changing the lock. I will break down the fucking door…”

Daniel reached for his jacket and fished out his phone, but she held his arm again. “Please, Dan…” she whispered, a touch hysterical but trying to be strong all the same.

“I’m going to end this tonight,” he announced, dialling triple nine. The banging turned louder.

“You’ve got someone in there?” There was a pause. “You’ve got a man over? You…” The silence became heavier. “You fucking whore.” The door jolted from the next bang. “Who the fuck is it?”

Daniel’s hands clenched into fists, rage swirling inside him like a volcano ready to erupt. He stepped towards the door again, but Amelia clung to his arm, unwilling to let him move.

“I’m going to fucking kill him…” A boot slammed into the door again. The hinges rattled. “Then I’ll break all your fingers so you can never play again… I’ll ruin you, I’ll fucking ruin you!”

Without another minute’s consideration, Daniel strode towards the front door, letting it swing open. He met bloodshot hazel eyes filled with obdurate malevolence, the alcohol in the drunkard’s breath strong enough to make anyone sick. Unexpectedly cornered with his back to the wall, Jason raised the bottle in his hand, but Daniel was too quick. He grabbed his wrist and twisted it, his grip slacking to let the bottle roll down the stairs.

“I’ll kill you…” Jason hissed, struggling to free his hand as he was pressed to the wall. “I’ll kill you before I kill that bitch…”

The word poured over Daniel like vitriol. He curled his other hand, his jaw clenched and temples pulsing as he recalled the state he had found her in, the wounds he had tended to— and the man responsible for tearing her world apart. Then he channelled all his fury into one solid blow.

Jason crashed onto the steps, dazed and motionless.

From over his shoulder, Daniel saw Amelia stagger back, her eyes wide and mouth agape. He re-entered the flat and drew her away from the door.

“It’s alright,” he breathed, shielding her in his arms. “I’m here. Stay with me.”

A siren blared in the distance a minute later, and everything abruptly became still.