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Cultivating a new career away from the band she’d once loved performing with, heading behind the scenes and out of the limelight had been what she’d needed then. Writing and producing for some of the biggest-selling artists and keeping well away from prying eyes and newspaper headlines, until her manager Francine had introduced her to her now-agent, Marty Daniels, and a decade later, she’d gone out on her own.

And she’d played the game. Given the press access when needed, but it never stopped them prying and spying, trying to get the inside scoop on the one thing she wanted to remain private: her love life.

She’d had a lot of success in the UK and Europe: number-one albums, and had even had a small role in a couple of films, but acting wasn’t for her in the long run. She loved performing her music. Moving away from the pop scene of her youth into classical had been the making of her. Marty had beenright about that. She’d scored an opera alongside one of the world's most renowned tenors. Composed film scores and theme tunes, and in five years she had turned herself into one of the most familiar household names in the country, if not the world. So why didn’t it feel enough?

Many in the world of show business knew Alexandra Montgomery, but the world knew her as Sasha, the lucky one. Solar Flare’s fortunate one. The one who escaped unharmed. And she agreed; she was fortunate. Her career had soared, unlike every other surviving member of the band who had drifted off into obscurity. She was destined for this life. She’d known that since she was a child, pushed by her mother towards greatness. Now though, there were far more moments when she envied them all and their quiet, private lives.

But lucky?

She wasn’t so sure.

A lifetime of panic attacks had been her curse. Untimely, unavoidable, and frightening, she’d done her best to keep her condition quiet; she didn’t want the sympathy or the intrusion the press would bring, rehashing it all in the papers again.

That was not something she wanted to deal with ever again.

Picking up her phone, she opened it to reveal a text message from a number she didn’t recognise.

Unknown Number: Did you get it?

Alexandra rubbed her forehead.Who was this?There were only a select few people who had this number. Any press-related problems, work concerns etc. all went via Francine Carlson, a loud American who got things done, didn’t botherSashaevery two minutes, and was more loyal than a Basset hound. Technically her manager, but pretty much her personal assistant and best friend all rolled into one. Without her, Alex would be lost. She knew that much. There had been many times in her career when she’d have been spiralling out of control without Francine there to hold it all together. So, it wouldn’t be a leak from her.

Maybe it was a journalist, who had somehow bribed someone into giving them the number and was now trying to get a reaction from her. Well, she wasn’t falling for it. Deleting the texts, she put the phone down and went to make a coffee. More thunder shuddered above the house, making her jump a little, and her eyes were drawn back out through the nearest window to a stormy sea. This was summer on the English south coast, and tomorrow it would be sunshine and heat, but not today.

“Alexa, play something from my soothing playlist,” she said aloud for the smart speaker to pick up.

“Alright, playing ‘Moonlight Sonata…’” The words drifted away, and soon enough the gentle and arpeggiated movement from Beethoven began to fill all of the rooms. An inbuilt speaker system broadcast music to every corner of her home, or any number of them depending on how she set it up. Only when she had guests staying did she limit it. She closed her eyes and let herself enjoy the soothing melody while the fancy new coffee maker brewed her a drink.

By the time she picked up her phone again, there were several more messages.

Unknown Number: Have I upset you?

Unknown Number: This isn’t funny!

Unknown Number: Why aren’t you replying, it’s worrying me.

“For god's sake,” Alex muttered to herself, hitting the reply button. Patience was not a virtue she’d been blessed with, especially with people, but politeness was instilled like a tattoo.

Alex: Sorry, I think you have the wrong number.

She hit send and thought nothing more of it. The message was clear; the other person would realise what they had done, and no more unknown number texts would arrive.

Buzz.

Unknown Number: Oh, very funny. You’re just going to bin me off?

Alex: Yes because, I’ve no idea who you are!

Unknown Number: That is the rudest thing I’ve ever heard.

Alex: I’m sure it isn’t, and yet, it still remains the same response.

She should put the phone down; that was the best solution. Just block the number and forget about it, but she didn’t. And she had no idea why; only a deep sense of awareness that she shouldn’t. An intuition she had learned to rely on, one that had kept her alive and uninjured when it told her to put her seatbelt on all those years ago.

Unknown Number: Who is this?

Alex: I thought you knew who it was?

Unknown Number: Why are you being like this? I thought we had something meaningful the other night.