Golden Melody (Editing)

Chapter 140

Chapter 140 – Xymph’s Last Symphony

Miexha’s point of view

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I stared at the tiny baby swaddled in light blue, peacefully asleep in my arms.

His chubby cheeks. His pouty lips. That unmissable Dom face.

Honestly, do I even contribute to this gene pool, or am I just a high-functioning 3D printer for Jayson’s DNA?

We named him Xiejay. Our little prince.
From Jamie to Shellie to Xiejay… all three looked like resized photocopies of my husband.

Jamie sat beside me on the couch, legs crossed, inspecting her baby brother.

“I can’t dress up a boy, Mommy,” she sighed dramatically.
“No ribbons, no cute bows. Still… he’s kinda cute. I guess I’ll keep him.”

I ruffled her soft curls. “Thanks, best big sister.”

“Obviously,” she replied, with that confident flip of her curls only seven-year-old divas can pull off.

Meanwhile, Jayson’s parents had fully entered their grandparent renaissance.
His father strutted around like he was commanding a baby battalion, arms full of supplies. His mother? Smiling proudly, glowing like she gave birth to all three of my children herself.

“You rest. We’re not old yet,” Ashel declared. “One more baby is nothing.”

“Focus on your public service,” Jayson’s mother added. Then she glanced at me… meaningfully. “And your other duties, dear.”

I blinked.

Wait.

No.

I turned toward Jayson, narrowing my eyes.
“You better not be getting any ideas.”

His innocent politician grin was way too shiny to trust.
“Me? Ideas? I’m deeply respectful of your recovery period.”

“Mmmhmm,” I muttered, adjusting Xiejay in my arms. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And still not done,” he murmured with a smirk, planting a kiss on my temple.

“Jayson.” I gave him The Look.
“I just pushed a human being out of me. I need three months before you so much as breathe near me romantically.”

“Four months,” he offered, hands up. “Minimum. I insist. Very concerned husband.”
Then he added, too smoothly, “Let’s say… after your summer concert. Once you sing again, you’ll be fully healed.”

I groaned.
“You and your twelve princesses fantasy again?”

He beamed. “Long-term Dom family expansion. It’s tradition.”

“Jayson,” I said, flatly, “if you keep cloning yourself in my uterus, I’m going to start charging rent.”

He pulled me into a hug, chuckling. “Fair. But you make perfect babies. How could I not want more?”

Ugh. This dangerously sweet, dangerously hot man.

Still… as his fingers gently traced circles on my arm and our newborn breathed softly against my chest, I melted. Again.

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Summer.

The lights hit my face like a long-lost kiss. The crowd roared, screaming my name — Littlelune — like I hadn’t been gone for two years, buried in diapers, lullabies, and my husband’s “Dom Dynasty” plans.

The stage was mine again.

This was it.
Our final concert.
The last time Xymph would take this stage as one.

My bandmates rushed out behind me like overgrown kids on a school field trip.

“Finally! We got her back!” Sonata cried, bear-hugging me.

Bluechord fanned himself dramatically.
“Do you know how many times we tried to kidnap you from that mansion?”

Musika rolled her eyes. “Your husband almost sued us for trespassing.”

I laughed, tears catching at the corners of my eyes.
“Sorry! Babies are clingy. And… so is my husband.”

Echojam grinned.
“You say babies like Jayson isn’t the biggest one in the house.”

Everyone cackled. Nightingale wiped away a tear.

“You’re the youngest among us,” she whispered.
“And yet, you’ve got the biggest tribe.”

I looked out into the crowd. The lights. The love. The life.

This concert wasn’t just an ending. It was a full circle.
Because tonight — tonight was goodbye to Xymph.

Bluechord and Musika were getting married.
Echojam had just finished med school (I told Jayson she’ll probably end up being his doctor).
Nightingale had her first starring role in a major film.
Sonata finally opened his dream music shop.

And me?

I’d keep singing. As Littlelune.
And soon, I’d be teaching music at Wayne Academy — the very place that started it all.

But tonight… tonight was ours.

As we performed, I scanned the sea of waving lights, neon signs, and teary-eyed fans. My gaze landed on the empty front-row seat.
The one I always reserved.
For Zatariel.
Even after all these years… I still kept it.

The crowd blurred around the edges as my voice moved on autopilot, every note carrying a thousand memories I tried not to cry through.

In my mind, he was right there.

He wasn’t there when I made it big.

He didn’t get to see the world tours, the albums, the stage lights.

But before he died… he made me promise.

“Live a long life. Be happy. You hear me? I am your number one fan. So keep singing.”

So I did.

I kept singing.

For him.
For us.
For every memory stitched into the spaces between lyrics.

My voice cracked—just for a moment—as I whispered into the mic between songs:

“I’m still not done, Riel,” I whispered under my breath, a small smile playing on my lips. “There’s more to come.”

We sang like it was our first and last breath.
Every note, every harmony, every beat was electric. The audience sang with us—crying, laughing, waving their ridiculous colorful bucket hats, the symbol of Xymph. We made millions wear these hats worldwide. Ten years. Ten beautiful, ridiculous, perfect years.

At the after-party, we sat in a circle surrounded by old tour photos flashing on the giant screen.
Someone posted an old clip of our first-ever mall performance when we were 14. Our awkward dance moves, cheap microphones, and giant hats made us all burst into laughter and tears at the same time.

“We didn’t expect it would grow this far,” Bluechord said his voice cracking.

“We’re not disbanded,” Sonata quickly added,
“we’re just… growing up.”

“We’ll still jam together, idiots.” Musika smiled through her tears.

“We’ll always be family,” Nightingale said, raising her glass.

I wiped my cheeks, looking at my chaotic bandmates.
I will missed them.