They say the devil makes music. But the worst ones write love songs. I was never meant to be the girl with the microphone. I was the one behind the piano—controlled, quiet, and forgettable until Black Halo went viral. Until fame dug its claws in. Until the label painted my lips red and told me to smile for the camera. Then came Zion Cross. The new drummer. A stranger with haunted eyes, blood on his hands, and rhythms that made my body forget the rules. He doesn’t play like the others. He plays like he’s unraveling. Like he’s starving. Like I'm the last beautiful thing he’s allowed to touch before he burns. He’s a secret I should bury. I'm a song he wants to break. And when obsession becomes the melody, there’s no going back. Fame is a noose. Love is a loaded gun. And the only way out . . . is through fire.