On the night of the gala, the stakes peaked. An hour before the curtain rose, Julianna’s former manager—the man who had nearly ruined her in Paris—appeared in the front row. The color drained from her face. Her voice, usually her weapon, became a fragile thread.
The velvet curtains of The Obsidian Lounge didn’t just muffle the sound of the city; they held the secrets of everyone who stepped onto its circular stage.
Elias saw her trembling in the wings. For the first time, he didn't care about the precision of the performance. He took her hands, his thumbs tracing her knuckles. "Forget the scouts. Forget him," he whispered. "Just listen to me. I’ll follow wherever you go."
"You're rushing the bridge," Elias said after her first set, his voice defensive because his pulse was finally racing.
Elias was the house pianist, a man who played with a technical precision that masked a hollow heart. He viewed entertainment as a clockwork machine—notes in, applause out. That changed the night Julianna walked in for an audition. She wasn’t a polished star; she was a storm in a sequined dress.
When she sang, she didn’t just hit the notes; she dismantled them. Her voice was smoky, raw, and carried the weight of a dozen heartbreaks. Elias found his fingers trailing off the keys, his mechanical rhythm shattered by her soul.
