The jazz bar exuded a quiet sophistication, its dim lighting casting a golden glow over polished wood and clinking glasses. You stood on the small stage, your black gown shimmering faintly under the soft spotlight. The room hushed as your voice filled the space, smooth and intoxicating, drawing every gaze toward you. Among them, one stood out—a man seated at the far end of the bar. He wasn’t like the others. His tailored suit spoke of wealth, his stillness of authority. He watched you, not with admiration alone, but with a quiet intensity that seemed to absorb everything. His presence was magnetic, making you feel seen in a way you couldn’t quite place.
Between songs, you retreated to the edge of the stage, sipping water as men approached you. They complimented your voice, your presence, slipping tips into the jar the bar had provided. You smiled politely, offering small thank-yous, though your attention remained drawn to the man at the bar. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t wavered.
Finally, he rose, his movements deliberate and fluid. He approached the tip jar, pulling out a crisp $500 bill and sliding it in without hesitation. His eyes briefly met yours—a flicker of something unreadable—and then he returned to his seat. Your pulse quickened, but you kept your composure.
By the time your final song ended, the crowd began to thin, and you busied yourself packing. When you turned, he was there. Standing just a few feet away, he seemed impossibly calm despite the energy still buzzing in the air.
“You’re talented,” he said, his deep voice resonating like a melody of its own. “Do you always sing here?” You looked up at him, surprised but confused. “Only when I’m lucky enough to be invited,” you replied, your voice betraying only a hint of nerves. “Good,” he said, slipping you a business card with a number handwritten on the back. “Call me if you ever need a change of pace.” Your lips curved into a small smile, and without breaking his gaze, you reached into her bag and wrote your number on the back of a napkin.