Chapter Twenty-Two
Nyxx
The air in the dressing room crackles with nervous energy. Ana paces back and forth, her ornate gown swishing with each turn. I’m trying to project calm, but my stomach’s doing somersaults—not that I’d admit it.
“You okay, princess?” I ask, catching her hand as she passes, then pressing a kiss to her palm.
She stops, taking a deep breath. “I think so. Just… a lot of emotions. I haven’t heard from my parents, but…” She shrugs, a small smile playing on her lips. “I’m okay with it. Really.”
Pride swells in my chest. The Ana who arrived at the cottage months ago would’ve been devastated. This Ana? She’s ready to take on the world—without her parents, if necessary.
“You’re gonna knock ‘em dead,” I assure her, pulling her in for a quick kiss, then giving her bottom a gentle caress.
A stagehand knocks, calling out the five-minute warning. With one last shared look, we head to the wings.
The Hamlin Theater is a sight to behold.
Once a grand opera house, it’s retained its old-world charm while embracing a grittier, more modern edge.
Ornate gold-leaf decorations frame the stage, while exposed brick walls lend it an industrial feel.
It’s the perfect setting for our genre-bending performance.
As the lights dim, a hush falls over the packed house. I scan the crowd, grinning at the sea of blue-streaked hair mixed with fancy evening wear. Our two worlds, colliding in the best way possible.
The first notes of Ana’s flute float through the air, ethereal and haunting. I join in, our melodies intertwining, telling the story of two people from different worlds finding common ground. The music swells, my band kicking in with a driving beat that sends electricity through the crowd.
We weave through movements that range from delicate and otherworldly to raw and gritty. The audience is with us every step of the way, gasping at unexpected turns, cheering at particularly powerful moments.
Then comes the big reveal. As the music shifts, Ana and I lock eyes.
With a mischievous grin, she reaches down and, in one fluid motion, tears away the lower half of her gown.
The crowd gasps as she’s revealed in ripped jeans, the remaining bodice of her dress creating a look that screams “rocker chick chic.” Her final act of transformation is to pull the pins from her hair, blue streak flashing as the last of her perfect-prim disguise falls away.
On cue, my roadie sprints onstage, tossing me a tuxedo jacket. I shrug it on over my t-shirt and jeans, completing our role reversal.
Ana gracefully steps aside, gesturing to her chair. I sit, adopting the most prim and proper posture I can muster—which, admittedly, isn’t much. But the contrast draws appreciative laughter from the audience.
Then Ana does something that makes my heart swell with pride and love. After kicking off her heels, she assumes my signature one-legged stance, balancing perfectly as she launches into a blistering rock flute solo.
The crowd goes wild. Even my most devoted rats are on their feet, cheering for this classical-turned-rock goddess.
As we play the finale, having switched styles and pushed boundaries, I can feel the energy in the room reaching a fever pitch. We’re not just performing—we’re breaking down walls, showing that music transcends genres and expectations.
The audience’s reception after we play our final notes is thunderous. And looking at Ana, rapturous and so damn proud… well, I couldn’t love her more.
For our encore, Ana and I take the stage. We play a softer, more intimate piece, incorporating melodies from Ana’s impromptu town square performance. It feels as though we’ve come full circle.
As the final notes fade away, the audience again erupts in applause. Ana’s eyes are shining as she takes my hand for our bow. And that’s when I see them—her parents—in the third row.
I recognize them immediately from the photos I’ve seen online—her father’s distinguished silver hair, her mother’s impeccable posture.
They’re not whooping and hollering like the rats around them, but they’re applauding.
There’s a look on their faces that seems to be a mix of surprise and grudging admiration.
I squeeze Ana’s hand, nodding subtly toward her parents.
She follows my gaze, her breath catching.
Her fingers twitch in mine, but her chin lifts.
That small act of courage hits harder than any chord I’ve ever played.
For a moment, I worry their presence might overwhelm her.
But she smiles at them. Perhaps this is the first step in their journey from being overbearing to providing the kind of support and respect she deserves.
Now’s not the time for family drama, though. Ana turns to me, her smile brighter than ever.
“We did it,” she mouths over the continued applause.
“No, princess,” I correct her, pulling her close. “You did it. You found your voice, your style. You showed the world who Ana really is.”
“We’ll fight later about who gets the lion’s share of the praise, rock star. For now, let’s soak this in.”
As we take another bow, I’m filled with an overwhelming sense of joy and possibility. We’ve created something magical here—not just in our music, but in ourselves. And this? This is just the beginning.
Whatever comes next, I know one thing for certain: with Ana by my side, every day will be an adventure filled with love. And I can’t wait to see where the music takes us next.
Backstage, the noise still echoing, Ana freezes. Her parents stand near the curtain, out of place among the amps and tangled cables. Her mother’s pearls out of place in the glare of the work lights.
Her father clears his throat first. “You were remarkable.” The words sound rusty, like they haven’t been used in years.
Her mother nods, eyes glossy. “We didn’t understand before. We thought you were… running away. But what you’ve built—what you’ve become—it’s extraordinary.”
Ana’s voice wavers, but she holds her ground. “I didn’t expect you to come.”
“We almost didn’t,” her father admits. “But I’m glad we did.” He glances toward me—no judgment there, only the wary curiosity of a man realizing his daughter is happier now.
Her mother reaches out, hesitating before resting a hand on Ana’s arm. “We may not understand this world of yours,” she says softly, “but we’re proud of you.”
Ana’s throat works around a trembling laugh. “Thank you. That means more than you know.”
They exchange a brief, awkward hug—small, real, imperfect. The start of something that might one day be easy.
When they leave, Ana exhales a breath she’s been holding for years. I lace my fingers through hers, and she squeezes once, eyes bright with unshed tears. “That was enough,” she whispers. “That was everything.”
The hum of voices fades. Someone calls Ana’s name, but she ignores it and pulls me toward the quiet.
Backstage smells like sweat and roses as the crowd spills into the night like champagne foaming over a rim. Outside the dressing-room side door, the alley air is cool and blessedly quiet.
I lean into the railing, still vibrating with leftover notes. When Ana joins me, moonlight silvers her bare shoulders, stealing my breath. I step in behind her, gathering her hair to one side and pressing my mouth to that spot on her neck guaranteed to make her shiver.
“You were brilliant,” I murmur against her skin. “Like watching a city turn its lights on.”
“And you were the spark that lit it,” she whispers back.
We stand like this for a while—her breath slow and even, my pulse still running on stage tempo—until the world narrows to two truths: her parents came, and they clapped. It shouldn’t matter as much as it does. It matters less than she feared.
“Thank you for finding me,” she says softly. “Not just my music. Me.”
“You found you,” I tell her. “I just held the flashlight.”
Her kiss isn’t a victory lap; it’s a vow—slow, deep, and a little shaky in the best way.
Her hands clutch my shirt, and my palms slide along the denim warmth of her thighs until every thought dissolves into rhythm.
I taste citrus and adrenaline and the first sweet bite of a future we’ve built note by note.
Cheers from the alley float up like confetti. Someone yells, “We love you, rats forever!” and I laugh into her mouth.
“Encore?” I ask, eyebrows waggling.
“Greedy,” she scolds, though she’s already tugging me back inside.
“Five minutes,” I promise.
“We’ll see.”
We don’t make it five. We make it unforgettable.
Later, she sprawls across the couch, her performance top half-unzipped like a secret, skin still glowing from the stage lights. Reaching for a pen, she scrawls a title across a crumpled program: Dirty Duet: Movements I–III.
“Our story?” I ask.
“Our score,” she murmurs, smiling.
“Same thing.”
Outside, the applause has long faded, but the echo of our music—our love—still thrums beneath my skin, steady as a heartbeat.