Page 55 of The Spark

Taraj chuckled, watching the scene unfold. "Damn, my guy. You got it like that?" Shaking his head, he headed back to the sound booth.

I ignored both of them, focusing on the soundboard. "Tasha, what do you need?"

She smirked, biting her bottom lip. "I think you already know."

I was about to shut that shit down—until I heard another voice. Hers.

"Amir."

I turned so fast I almost knocked my water bottle off the table.

Amaya stood in the doorway, holding a takeout bag, her face unreadable, but her eyes flickered between me and Tasha—and I knew she saw exactly what was happening.

Tasha didn’t step back. If anything, she lingered on purpose. Testing. Pushing. Trying to see if she could shake something loose.

And Amaya didn’t react. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t give her the satisfaction. Instead, she stepped forward, all poise, all confidence, and placed the bag in front of me. "Figured you’d be hungry."

Tasha laughed under her breath. "Damn. You got her bringing you food now?"

Amaya turned her head just slightly. "Problem?"

Tasha’s smirk faltered, but she recovered quick. "Nah. Just funny, that’s all."

Amaya ignored her, eyes locking on mine. "I gotta go, but I’ll see you later?"

I nodded. "Yeah. You will."

She gave me a slow once-over, lips twitching like she wanted to say more, then turned and walked out.

Tasha made a low sound in her throat. "Hmph. That was cute."

I cut her a look. "Tasha, I ain’t got time for this shit.”

"Yeah, yeah. I get it."

Did she? Because I sure as hell did.

I was off the market and I didn’t want anyone else but Amaya.

23

One minute, I was sketching ideas for Taraj Ferrell’s album cover, wondering if it would go anywhere. The next, I was swept into something bigger. Something I’d always dreamed of—but now that it was happening, I felt like I was floating outside my body, watching it all unfold.

Taraj’s team didn’t just like my concept. They loved it.

The label was talking press coverage. Mentions of a major music publication—something that would spotlight the visual language of the album, and me along with it.

More opportunities followed. Independent artists dropped into my inbox. A poet I admired asked if I’d illustrate her book cover. It should’ve felt like everything I ever wanted was finally arriving.

But the high didn’t stick.

Because even in the glow of it all, I missed him.

Amir had been buried in the studio—grinding. Working late. Sleeping less. I knew this was his moment too. I told myself not to be the woman who demanded more than he could give.

Still, I felt it. The shift.

The unraveling was subtle—thread by thread, tension replacing tenderness.

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