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Trifecta

Tomás was still wired, towel slung around his neck, the collar of his shirt loose and damp with sweat. He was laughing with one of the stage crew, something about a broken pedal, when she walked in — like a quiet detonation in heels.

Sophie.

He saw her, and everything else just… paused.

“Look what the devil dragged in,” he grinned, all teeth, eyes gleaming with something that was not just post-show adrenaline.

She smiled “You sounded good.”

“I always do when I don’t know you’re in the room.”

She stepped closer, arms crossed, posture relaxed but dangerous.

“I came to tell you something,” she said.

He raised a brow. “You’re not pregnant again, are you?”

She laughed once, soft, wicked. “Funny you say that.”

His smile faltered, just a bit.

“I was,” she said. “From Helsinki. Your backstage room. You remember it, blackout curtains, cold windows, my legs over your shoulders. That night.”

He blinked. The gleam in his eyes dimmed just for a second.

“But don’t panic. It’s gone. Omar didn’t love the timing, and I was already exhausted. So I ended it.”

“Omar is my fiancè, by the way,” she added, breezily. “He proposed right after the livestream. Ring still smelled like sweat.”

She studied him for a beat. “Asgar signed the papers. No screaming. No tears. I think he’s finally out of whatever spell I had him under.”

Sophie paused for a bit. “Do I get a toast or something?” he asked, voice low, teasing. “Engagement, abortion, divorce — hell of a trifecta.”

She smiled. Not cruel. Just tired in that beautiful, dangerous way. “This was the toast.”

And then she leaned in — close enough to smell his sweat and citrus — and kissed him on the lips, slow and warm, like she was saying goodbye to something neither of them ever quite admitted existed.

Then she pulled back, winked, and walked away, hips swaying like nothing had changed at all.

But he stood there for a long time after. Grinning. Shaken.

Alive.