Chapter 2

Adell POV:

The world outside the taxi window was a blur of neon and rain, but inside, I felt a strange, unsettling calm. My tears had dried, leaving a tight, stinging sensation around my eyes. Emiliano's last text, his pathetic attempts to explain himself, to beg, to rationalize, had been ignored. I had blocked his number. I didn't want to hear anything he had to say.

My mother's voice, surprisingly gentle in its firmness, had been a lifeline. "Adell, darling, you know my door is always open. But this time, you come back on my terms. No more chasing after pipe dreams." She hadn't gloated, hadn't said "I told you so." Just a quiet, resolute understanding that spoke volumes.

I remembered scoffing at her years ago when she'd tried to introduce me to Javier Thomas. "He's a doctor, Adell," she'd said. "Stable, intelligent, from a good family. He admired you in college." I' d dismissed him as boring, too predictable. My heart had been set on the chaos, the raw passion of Emiliano's world. I wanted to be the one to save him, to build him up. What a fool I had been.

Now, the idea of stability, of quiet support, sounded like a sanctuary. I needed solid ground, not the shifting sands of a musician's ego.

"I accept your arrangement, Mother," I' d told her, the words feeling surprisingly right. "I'll meet him. I' ll consider anything. Just... get me out of here." The admission of my newly restored hearing had been met with a stunned silence, then a wave of relief from her. It was as if this physical healing was a symbol of my emotional readiness to return.

I wiped the last trace of tears, straightened my shoulders, and took a deep breath. My resolve hardened, a steel rod replacing the fragile glass of my past self. I had thrown away eight years, my hearing, my pride, for a man who saw me as a burden. Never again.

The taxi driver, a kind, elderly man, glanced at me in the rearview mirror. "You alright, miss? You look like you've seen a ghost."

I managed a weak smile. "Just a long night." I looked out the window, the city lights reflecting in my eyes. The old Adell, the one who lived for Emiliano, was gone. Buried under the weight of his betrayal. But the new Adell, she was still a work in progress. And she was going home to New York.

The thought of facing my mother, of admitting my colossal failure, was daunting. But the image of Emiliano' s sneering face, his words echoing in my now-perfectly-functioning ear, fueled a cold anger that overshadowed any embarrassment. He had made me feel small, disposable. I would rise from this, stronger, prouder.

My phone buzzed in my hand. It was my mother. "The jet is waiting at Teterboro. My driver will meet you at LAX." Practical, efficient, and exactly what I needed.

I typed a reply, a single word: "Coming."

The past eight years flashed before my eyes: the laughter, the shared dreams, the cramped apartments, the soaring successes. And then, the slow, insidious erosion of my self-worth, the growing distance, the final, brutal betrayal. It had been a grand, empty promise, built on sand.

Now, a new chapter. One written not in the chaotic, passionate notes of a rock anthem, but in the quiet, steady rhythm of self-respect and genuine love. I just hadn't realized how desperately I craved that quiet rhythm until now.

The plane took off, soaring above the glittering grid of Los Angeles. I looked down, a tiny speck of light in a vast, indifferent world. Emiliano and Keisha, their tawdry affair, their cruel words, now seemed impossibly far away. Like a bad dream I was finally waking from.

This was it. The start of something new. Something real. I just hoped I remembered how to build it this time.

My mother's offer wasn't just about a marriage arrangement; it was a path back to myself, a chance to reclaim the Adell Boone I had buried under layers of devotion and sacrifice. And this time, I would not let anyone diminish me again.

The plane climbed higher, piercing through the clouds. The future was a blank canvas, and I was holding the brush.

Emiliano POV:

The loft felt like a cage, its luxurious emptiness mocking me. Days bled into nights, each one punctuated by the frantic replaying of last night's disaster. Adell's face, pale and tear-stained, flashed before my eyes. Her voice, so quiet yet so firm, saying, "I'm leaving. And I'm not coming back." And then that chilling text message: "It's over. Don't contact me again."

My head pounded. Keisha, still here, flitted around, oblivious to the chasm that had opened beneath my feet. "Emi, honey, did you see the new post about us? Everyone's talking about it!" she chirped, holding up her phone. I barely registered her words. A dull anger simmered within me. She was supposed to be a distraction, a brief escape. Not this. Not the reason Adell left.

I tried calling Adell again. Her number was blocked. My heart sank, a cold, heavy stone. I tried from a different phone, a burner I kept for... other purposes. Still blocked. She was serious. She was really gone.

Panic began to set in, a cold, creeping dread. Adell was more than just my fiancée; she was my anchor. She handled everything, managed my schedule, placated my label when I was difficult, smoothed over my public image. She was the one who remembered my mother's birthday, who made sure my taxes were filed, who reminded me to eat. She was the quiet engine of my chaotic life. And now that engine had stopped.

My manager had called, his voice tight with barely suppressed anger. "Emiliano, what the hell is going on? The wedding announcement was supposed to be a PR goldmine, not a nuclear meltdown! Keisha Duke's posts are everywhere. The 'deaf fiancée' narrative is blowing up online, and not in a good way."

I had yelled back, "It's Adell's fault! She showed up at the club! She threw a glass!"

My manager's response was chilling. "Doesn't matter whose 'fault' it is. The public sees a rock star cheating on his loyal, disabled fiancée. You need to fix this. Now."

Fix this. How? Adell was gone. My world was caving in. The loft, once a symbol of my success, now felt like a mausoleum. Every corner held a memory of her, a silent accusation. The worn armchair where she read, the kitchen she sparingly used but meticulously organized, the small recording nook where she'd listened to my early demos, her head tilted, that soft, knowing smile on her face.

I walked to the closet, pulling out the vintage leather jacket Keisha had been wearing in her viral photos. It smelled faintly of her cheap perfume, a stark contrast to Adell's subtle, elegant scent. I remembered Adell buying it for me, her eyes sparkling. "For my rock star," she' d signed, pressing a kiss to my cheek. The jacket felt heavy, suddenly disgusting. I ripped it off the hanger and threw it into the trash.

I needed to find her. I needed to make her understand. This was a mistake. A moment of weakness. She was my muse. My angel. I couldn' t lose her. Not now, when everything I had built felt so precarious without her.

I picked up my guitar, a custom-made instrument Adell had commissioned for me. My fingers flew across the fretboard, but the notes were discordant, joyless. The music, my lifeblood, felt empty. Without Adell, there was no melody. Only noise.

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