I always thought I didn’t need anyone to help me move on from the past. After my last breakup, my friends kept pushing me to go out, hoping I’d “snap out of it.” That’s how I ended up in that jazz club. I wasn’t paying much attention to where I was going, until I saw her.

She stepped onto the stage like she belonged there, like she was born to be a star. Every part of her presence screamed old Hollywood, but in a way that was uniquely her. Elegant, sensual, with the kind of magnetism that pulled at me without warning. Her voice was pure magic—smooth, emotional, effortlessly captivating. I found myself hooked, not just by the music, but by her.

At first, I told myself it was just a distraction, something to keep my mind off the pain. But over time, each of her performances felt like a secret ritual, a place where I could breathe and forget everything outside. I began showing up every time I was back in town, just to see her. And each time, I felt this strange pull, as though she were more than just a singer—she was the answer to a question I hadn’t even known I was asking.

Two years passed. Flowers started to appear at her dressing room—simple gestures, just a rose here, a bouquet there. I couldn’t help myself. It felt like the only way to let her know how much I admired her, but I was careful. I knew how dangerous it could be for her—someone like me, a public figure, a driver with a million eyes on him, couldn’t afford to be reckless. My feelings were growing deeper with each passing day, but I was afraid that my fame would taint what I wanted to offer her.

The rainy night changed everything. She had just finished her set, and as the rain poured outside, I could feel my heart beating faster, louder. I walked up to her, my pulse racing, my hands a little unsteady. I looked into her eyes, and said:

“I know this might sound impulsive, but I’d like to take you to dinner. Just us—no crowds, no cameras, no spotlight. I want to get to know you, without the noise. Would you give me the chance?”