Page 64 of The Sound Between Us

Then—the knock.

Sharp; authoritative. Un-ignorable. The door owes them.

She freezes mid-crunch. “You expecting someone?”

I don’t even need to answer. “Probably the bloody welcoming committee.”

And yes. Of course. It’s Vinny; holding a Waitrose bag of pastries and all my emotional leverage.

He kisses Flick on the cheek—old Hollywood co-stars—then drops into the armchair that I reckon was built to hold his ego. “Afternoon, gorgeous.”

“Dad sent you.”

He shrugs, unapologetic. “He might’ve mentioned a drop-in.”

Flick’s laughing again, soft and bright.

Vinny unveils the pastries. Treasure: two almond croissants and a toddler-sized pain au chocolat, all golden flake and butter-soaked guilt. “Everyone needs a holiday. And you, my girl, need to leave Camden before it eats you alive.”

“Seren, please.” Flick begs, pastry crumbs falling as confetti. “I’ll water your plants; feed your Spotify. Lie to your exes. Just go.”

I rub my eyes; feel the ache. The pressure.

“Vinny, I’m not going to LA.” My arms cross; my chest cracks. Because this isn’t about Dad. Or Kimba. Or Harrison, even.

It’s about Mum.

And how—for one night—her name will mean something in a room full of men who once ignored her genius. And I’ll be there; to make sure no one forgets who the music belonged to.

And Harrison? Well. LA is massive; eight million people massive. He’s probably in a gated compound somewhere, too rich and too busy to even exist in my airspace.

I let my head fall back against the cushion. Exhale.

“Fine.”

The word lands. Thunder in a quiet field.

Flick and Vinny erupt—cheers echoing off white walls and pastry flakes. But deeper, under it all, stirs a pull. A whisper; oceanic and inevitable.

God, I hope it’s not him.