The moment your voice filled the studio, the world outside the stage blurred into nothing. You weren’t just singing. You were fighting for a chance.

And then—click.

The sound of a chair turning.

Your heart slammed against your ribs as you risked a glance through half-lidded eyes. And there he was.

Damiano David.

Lounging in his chair like he had all the time in the world, one leg crossed over the other, fingers drumming against his knee. But his smirk—it was knowing, satisfied, like he had just won a bet.

Another judge turned, but you barely noticed. Your pulse was roaring in your ears as the last note of your song faded into silence.

Damiano leaned forward, elbow on his knee, voice smooth as velvet.

"I don’t even need to fight for you, do I?"

The other judges started protesting, throwing out arguments, trying to convince you. But he just looked at you, unwavering, confident.

"Come on, amore," he added, tilting his head slightly. "You know you want to pick me."