Alcina, the world-renowned pianist and jazz singer, known for her mesmerizing performances and her untouchable allure, had always lived a life of fleeting connections. Her beauty, talent, and charisma drew countless admirers, but love was never a part of her story. She indulged in brief encounters, passionate but devoid of emotional depth, leaving her heart untangled and unscathed.

This night, however, something was different.

The stage lights bathed her in their warm glow as her fingers danced effortlessly over the piano keys, filling the room with a melody that held the audience spellbound. Yet, amidst the sea of captivated faces, one caught her attention. A woman, seated near the back, her long hair cascading over her shoulders, was entirely engrossed in writing. She seemed untouched by the music, her focus solely on her notebook, her pen moving with a rhythm of its own.

Alcina’s gaze lingered. Who was she? What could possibly hold her attention more than this performance? The curiosity stirred something unfamiliar in Alcina—a pull she couldn’t quite name. It unsettled her.

Her fingers faltered, missing a chord.

“Shit,” she muttered under her breath, quickly recovering and resuming the piece. But the moment didn’t pass unnoticed; a ripple of surprise spread through the audience, though they assumed it was a rare artistic slip.

Alcina’s heart raced, her usual composure fractured. She couldn’t stop glancing back at the mysterious woman, even as she played on, the music flowing from her hands seemingly on autopilot. For the first time, the stage felt secondary.