The house felt different when Aaliyah returned.
Too quiet.
Too aware of everything that was missing.
Sunlight filtered through the curtains of the Roman apartment, touching the walls where laughter used to echo, where plans had once lived. The loss sat in the air—not loud, not dramatic—but heavy. Permanent.
Aaliyah moved slowly at first, her body still recovering, her heart already hardened by the truth she couldn't escape.
The baby was gone.
And the world had not stopped.
Damiano watched her from a distance, unsure how close he was allowed to be anymore. He wanted to reach for her, to apologize again, to break all over her shoulder—but Aaliyah didn't give him that space.
She was standing.
Breathing.
Surviving.
And that terrified him more than her tears ever could.
In the room down the hall, Estrella sat on the edge of her bed, knees pulled to her chest. Thomas was there with her, quiet but present, his shoulder brushing hers, grounding her without asking questions.
Since everything happened—her disappearance, the hospital, the truth beginning to surface—the distance between them had vanished.
Not in a reckless way.
In a way that felt inevitable.
Estrella leaned her head against his shoulder, and this time, Thomas didn't hesitate. He wrapped an arm around her, firm, protective.
"I thought I broke everything," she whispered.
"You didn't," he replied immediately. "You were already standing in the middle of the fire."
She looked up at him, eyes red, vulnerable.
"And you stayed."
Thomas swallowed.
"I'm not going anywhere."
That was the moment it changed.
Not a kiss.
Not a confession.
Just two hearts deciding to stop pretending this was temporary.
The world outside was not as gentle.
Headlines had turned sharp, cruel, invasive.
"Aaliyah's Tragedy: Career Over?"
"Another Collapse Behind the Spotlight?"
"A Pattern of Chaos Follows the Star."
Victoria slammed her phone down on the table.
"They don't get to define this," she said firmly.
Aaliyah didn't even look up.
"They won't."
She was already dressed in black. Hair pulled back. Face calm.
Too calm.
Damiano frowned.
"Ali… you don't have to do this yet."
She turned to him then, finally.
"No," she said quietly. "I have to."
The stage in Rome had never looked brighter.
Lights cut through the darkness as the crowd roared, unaware of the weight Aaliyah carried inside her chest. The band stood ready. The music waited.
And then she walked out.
No tears.
No apology.
No visible cracks.
Just power.
She sang like someone who had lost everything and refused to be buried with it. Her voice didn't tremble—it commanded. Every note said the same thing:
You don't get to see me bleed.
Backstage, Damiano watched with something breaking open in his chest.
She wasn't hiding anymore.
She was transforming.
Later that night, when the noise faded and the house returned to silence, Aaliyah sat beside Estrella.
No walls.
No lies.
"I wanted to protect you," Aaliyah said softly.
"I know," Estrella replied. Her voice shook. "But I needed the truth."
Aaliyah nodded.
"So did I."
They sat together, grief shared but not destructive. For the first time, Estrella didn't feel like a secret. And Aaliyah didn't feel like she had failed as a mother.
Just human.
Just real.
From the hallway, Thomas watched Estrella laugh softly at something Aaliyah said.
And for the first time since all of this began, he smiled.
Because even after the fire—
Some things survived.
And some… were only just beginning.