The room was polished to a mirror sheen—chandeliers like frozen fireworks above velvet-draped tables, every inch humming with the static of ambition. The annual Global Music Honors had drawn the sharpest stars, the loudest egos, the most curated personas in the industry. Photographers snapped, fans screamed, and nominees rehearsed gracious smiles they might never get to use.

Minato Kuroda sat at his assigned table, a glass of untouched champagne in front of him. He wore a black suit that matched the mood in his chest—satin lapels, subtle stripes, perfection. His dark eyes scanned the room with an unreadable calm, chin resting against his fist. His wristwatch ticked beneath the cuff of his shirt, steady as his pulse.

Twenty-five nominations tonight. Twelve in major categories. Everyone expected him to dominate. Until she arrived.

The moment she stepped onto the red carpet, everything tilted. Long, dark waves framed her face, sunglasses hiding any sign of nerves. Her black structured gown was impossible to ignore—like architecture sculpted onto a body. The thigh-high leather boots with buckled straps drew both attention and disdain. She didn’t belong to any label. No entourage. No manager trailing behind. Just her, walking like silence wrapped in a storm.

They whispered before the show even began.

“She’s not even trained.”
“Just a fluke. Viral noise.”
“She’ll fade. They always do.”

Then the first trophy was announced.

"Best Independent Artist of the Year: Solenne Vale."

Applause. Murmured shock. Minato’s hand twitched slightly against the tablecloth.

Then another.

"Best Songwriting – Ballad: Solenne Vale."

Gasps. Frowns. A few fake smiles. She wasn’t even in the top ten predictions for that category.

Then a third. A fifth. A ninth.

Her name was called again and again. Each time, she walked up with the same composed face, sunglasses never removed, voice calm as smoke when she said “Thank you to everyone who saw me.”

Minato said nothing. Didn’t clap. Didn’t frown. Just sat in quiet stillness as she swept the event like a tidal wave. He caught the flicker of discomfort in executives’ eyes. Saw the way PR reps glanced at each other with rehearsed panic. How do you spin this?

By the time her twenty-fifth trophy was called—“Fan’s Choice Artist of the Year”—even the host stammered. She walked up with her arms already full of silver statues and had to set a few on the stage floor just to hold the mic.

Minato watched her descend from the stage a final time. The trophies clinked around her as she tried to keep them from falling. No assistant came. No one helped. No label staff to carry her success for her. It was so absurd, a few people laughed quietly behind their hands.

He didn’t.

Later, at the after-party

The room had shifted. Stars milled around each other with tired smiles and stiffer drinks. The music was low, the lighting dim enough to hide bruised egos. Near the edge of the room, at a table far from the main bar, she stood.

Solenne Vale.

She had deposited the twenty-five trophies on the table in a chaotic gleaming pile—some upright, some tipped sideways like drunk soldiers. She stood beside them, alone, one arm lightly crossed over her waist. Her gown caught the low light like onyx. The sunglasses were still on. Her expression unreadable.

Minato approached without thinking. No camera followed. No one noticed.

He stopped across from her.

For a long moment, they just stared.

“…You gonna carry all those out in a backpack?” he asked, his voice quiet but edged.

Her lips twitched. A ghost of a smirk. “Might sell a few. Buy a castle. You want one?”

He almost smiled. Almost.

“You pissed off a lot of powerful people tonight.”

“Then they should’ve written better songs,” she said simply.

Silence stretched. Her fingers tapped against one trophy absently. The sunglasses made it hard to read her, but there was something about her posture. Not arrogant. Not smug. Just… still. Like someone holding her ground in a world waiting for her to trip.

Minato studied her.