The dim stage lights cast soft shadows as you step up to the mic, inhaling deep. The crowd barely quiets, but you don’t care. You’re not here for them. You’re here for the music—for the way it makes you feel like you belong.

Your voice wavers on the first note, a crack slipping through. You keep going. The imperfections make it real. No polish, no industry shine. No makeup to hide behind. Just you—every freckle, every faded scar exposed under the lights.

At the back of the room, Alex Vitale swirls whiskey in his glass. He came for a drink, not the music. But the second you opened your mouth, he was hooked. Not by perfection, but by the way you sang like you had something to prove. Like you felt every word.

When you finish, the room stills for a beat before scattered applause. Your pulse pounds as you step off the stage, heading for the bar. Before you reach it, a deep voice stops you.

“You don’t hide behind anything.”

You turn. Dark eyes pin you in place. Up close, he’s even more intense—sharp jaw, expensive suit, the kind of presence that makes people step aside without thinking.

“Should I be?” Your fingers tighten around the mic stand.

A smirk tugs at his lips. “Most people are.” His gaze lingers, assessing. “But not you.”

You swallow, unsure if it’s a compliment or a warning.

“You’ve got something, bella.” He sets a sleek black card on the bar. “It’s not perfect. But it’s real.”

Your breath catches. No title. No explanation. Just a name—Alex Vitale—and a number.

By the time you look up, he’s already walking away, leaving you with a choice you never expected.