It was late. The city lights of Century City twinkled below the floor-to-ceiling windows of Cullen Hunter's office like fallen stars. The office was cold, sterile, and silent, save for the hum of the hard drive on his desk.

The door opened. Liam Jenkins walked in. He didn't knock. He was the only person on the payroll allowed to do that.

"We have a problem," Liam said. He placed a tablet on the glass desk. "Hamlin Ward is threatening to sue Avery for assault."

Cullen rolled his eyes. He leaned back in his leather chair, rubbing his temples. "Since when does Avery assault people? Did she throw a martini at him?"

"She threw an elbow," Liam corrected. "To the solar plexus."

Cullen stopped rubbing his temples. He looked at Liam. "Excuse me?"

"Watch."

Liam pressed play on the tablet.

The security footage was grainy, black and white. Cullen watched Avery and Zoe walking. He watched Hamlin approach. He watched the shove.

And then he watched Avery.

He rewound it. He watched it again. The catch of the wrist. The pivot. The strike. The lack of hesitation. Her face was a blur, but her body language was clear. It was cold. It was efficient.

This was not the woman who had cried in his bed yesterday morning. This was not the chaotic, desperate girl the tabloids loved to hate.

"She moves like she's trained," Cullen muttered. A spark of intrigue lit up in his chest, hot and sudden.

"Hamlin says his wrist is sprained. He wants her arrested," Liam said.

Cullen felt a surge of irritation. Not at Avery. But at the idea of Hamlin Ward-a parasite with a trust fund-touching something that Cullen had... interacted with.

"Hamlin is a waste of space," Cullen decided. He pushed the tablet away. "Make it go away."

Liam raised an eyebrow. "You want to help her? After the stunt she pulled this morning with the money?"

Cullen's jaw tightened. He could still see the crumpled bills on his nightstand. "That pathetic display was an insult. I won't allow a debt, no matter how small or symbolic, to stand between us. Erase it. It's about closing the books on my terms, not hers."

Liam suppressed a smirk. He knew better than to argue with Cullen when he was lying to himself. "Understood. I'll find a scapegoat. Maybe a 'slip and fall' witness. Or I'll just buy Hamlin a new car."

"And Liam," Cullen added. He stared at the freeze-frame on the tablet. Avery standing over Hamlin, looking like a queen of the underworld. "Find out where she is. She's not at her apartment."

"Already on it," Liam said, turning to leave.

Cullen was left alone with the silence. He touched the screen, tracing the outline of Avery's figure.

His phone buzzed on the desk. A text from Cheslie.

I'm so worried about Avery. Have you seen her? She's not answering me.

For the first time in years, seeing Cheslie's name didn't bring a sense of comfort. It brought a wave of annoyance.

He ignored the text. He closed the tablet.

He stood up, restless. The office felt too small. The air was too recycled. He needed a drink. A real drink.

He grabbed his suit jacket.

"Driver," he spoke into his intercom. "Take me to the Blue Velvet."

Fate, it seemed, was moving the pieces together on the board.

The Blue Velvet was a sanctuary of shadows. The lighting was low, amber-hued, designed to make everyone look beautiful and secretive.

Avery spotted him immediately. Arnoldo Young. He was sitting in a corner booth, wearing a fedora that would have looked ridiculous on anyone else. He was nursing a bourbon, looking bored out of his mind.

On the small stage, the current pianist was finishing a rendition of "Misty." It was technically proficient, but soulless. The applause was polite, tepid.

"Stay here," Avery whispered to Zoe. "Order a drink. Look mysterious."

Avery walked to the bar. She pulled a fifty-dollar bill from her clutch-one of the crisp new bills from the emergency stash in her safe, a world away from the crumpled ones she'd thrown at Cullen. She slid it across the mahogany to the bartender.

"Tell the band leader I'm a friend of the owner," she lied, her voice confident. "I just want to play one song."

The bartender looked at the fifty, then at her dress. He shrugged. "It's open mic night anyway, honey. Go ahead. Just don't clear the room."

Avery walked to the stage. The Steinway grand piano sat there like a beast waiting to be tamed. She sat down on the bench. It was still warm from the previous player.

She adjusted the height. The spotlight hit her face, blinding her to the audience. That was good. She didn't want to see them.

She closed her eyes. She reached into the deep well of memories-the original Avery's pain, the rejection, the fear of the last twenty-four hours. And her own past life, the years of discipline, the music she had lost.

She placed her hands on the keys.

She didn't play a standard. She played an improvisation in D minor.

It started slow, a single, haunting melody that sounded like rain against a windowpane. Then, her left hand joined in, adding a heavy, dissonant bass line that rumbled in the chest.

Her fingers flew. The tempo increased. It became a storm. It was angry. It was desperate. It was a musical suicide note turned into a battle cry.

The chatter in the room died. The clinking of glasses stopped.

Arnoldo Young sat up in his booth. His glass froze halfway to his mouth. He squinted at the stage, trying to see who was making that sound.

Zoe watched from the bar, her hand covering her mouth. Tears pricked her eyes. She had known Avery for years. She had never known this.

Avery poured everything into the keys. The betrayal. The cold apartment. The look in Cullen's eyes.

She transitioned into a softer, resolving melody. A final, lingering question.

She hit the last chord. She let the pedal hold the note until it faded into absolute silence.

For three seconds, nobody moved. The silence was heavy, electric.

Then, a single pair of hands started clapping. Slow. Rhythmic.

Arnoldo Young.

The rest of the room joined in. The applause swelled, genuine and thunderous. It wasn't polite. It was impressed.

Avery stood up. She offered a slight, professional bow. Her legs felt shaky, but she locked her knees.

She stepped off the stage, intending to head back to Zoe.

Arnoldo intercepted her path. He moved fast for a man who looked half-asleep.

"Who are you?" he demanded. His eyes were intense, searching her face.

"Avery Hall," she said. She didn't look down. She reclaimed her name.

Arnoldo frowned. Recognition flickered. "The tabloid girl? The one who throws drinks?" He shook his head. "No. You play like an old soul. You play like you've died twice."

"Don't believe everything you read, Mr. Young," she replied smoothly.

As they spoke, the heavy metal doors of the club opened.

Cullen Hunter walked in. He stopped dead. He saw Avery. He saw Arnoldo standing inches from her, looking at her with fascination.

Cullen's hand clenched at his side. The jealousy hit him before he could name it.

"Sit," Arnoldo said, gesturing to his booth. It wasn't a request. "I'm casting for Midnight Rain. You have the sorrow I need. I can see it in your posture."

Avery sat. She accepted a glass of water from a waiter. Her hands were steady now. "I'm an actress, Mr. Young. Not just a pianist."

"We'll see," Arnoldo said. "Talk to me about noir. Why do the women always die?"

"Because the men writing them are afraid of women who survive," Avery said instantly.

Arnoldo smiled. It was a wolfish grin. "Good answer."

Up on the VIP balcony, Cullen Hunter watched. He gripped the brass railing until his knuckles turned white. He watched Avery smile at Arnoldo-a small, genuine smile. She had never smiled at him like that. Not once.

"Why is she here?" Cullen muttered. The whiskey in his glass remained untouched. He felt a burning irritation in his chest. He wanted to go down there and drag her out. He wanted to know what they were talking about.

Suddenly, the door downstairs slammed open with a force that rattled the frames.

A commotion.

Ernest Hall stormed in. He was red-faced, sweating in his tailored suit. Behind him trailed Hamlin Ward, his wrist wrapped in an overly dramatic bandage, which he cradled as if it were a broken limb. He looked smug and pathetic.

Someone must have posted a picture, Avery thought. A blurry shot of 'the Hall disgrace' playing piano in a dark club would be irresistible clickbait.

Ernest scanned the room. He spotted Avery in the booth with Arnoldo. He marched over, knocking into a waiter without apologizing.

"You disgrace!" Ernest shouted. His voice cracked. The jazz band stopped playing.

Avery sighed. She put down her water glass. She didn't stand up. "Hello, brother."

Ernest reached out and grabbed her arm, trying to yank her out of the booth. "You're playing piano in a dive bar? Have you no shame? The family name is in tatters because of you!"

"It's a jazz club, Ernest. A respectable one," Avery said, her voice cold. "And get your hand off me."

Arnoldo stood up. He wasn't a big man, but he had presence. "Let go of her."

Ernest sneered at him. "Stay out of this. This is family business."

"She is an artist, and she is my guest," Arnoldo said. He didn't blink.

Hamlin stepped forward, emboldened by Ernest's rage. He pointed his good hand at Avery. "She assaulted me earlier! She's dangerous! I want her arrested!"

The crowd began to whisper. Assault? Her? The skinny girl in the black dress?

Avery laughed. It was a sharp, mocking sound. "You're still crying about that, Hamlin?"

Ernest looked confused. "Assault? What is he talking about?"

"She's crazy, Ernest! She nearly broke my arm! She's on drugs again!" Hamlin whined. He moved closer to Avery, his face twisting into a mask of hate.

From the balcony, Cullen saw Hamlin step into Avery's space. He saw Hamlin raise his hand, as if to grab her again.

Cullen's patience snapped. The glass in his hand threatened to shatter.

He put the drink down on the railing. He moved toward the stairs. He didn't hurry. He moved with the terrifying inevitability of a landslide.

Avery prepared to stand up. She shifted her weight, ready to fight.

But then a shadow fell over the table. A scent of sandalwood and cold air cut through the smell of whiskey.

The entire club went silent as Cullen Hunter descended the final step and walked onto the floor.

"Is there a problem here?"

Cullen's voice was low. Deadly smooth.

Ernest froze. His grip on Avery's arm loosened instantly. Even Ernest Hall feared Cullen Hunter.

"Cullen..." Ernest stammered. "This... this is private. Family matter."

Cullen stopped next to the booth. He didn't look at Ernest. He looked at Avery. He checked her for injuries with a single, sweeping glance.

"It becomes my business," Cullen said, turning his cold eyes to Ernest, "when you disrupt my evening."