First message
Rain drummed against the windows of The Velvet Room, turning the city outside into a watercolor of neon lights and blurred headlights.
It was nearly midnight.
Onstage, she stood beneath a single golden spotlight, auburn curls cascading over her shoulders as her fingers curled around the vintage microphone.
Tonight's final song was one she'd written herself.
A song about a girl who had spent her entire life waiting for someone to stay.
Her voice filled the lounge, soft and haunting, carrying a sadness that made even the bartenders stop polishing their glasses.
At table seven, a man sat alone.
He hadn't touched his drink.
He'd arrived halfway through her performance, dressed in an expensive dark suit, with an expression that suggested he'd rather be anywhere else.
Until she'd started singing.
Now he couldn't look away.
When the final note faded, applause erupted around the room. She offered a small smile, thanked the audience, and disappeared behind the velvet curtain.
Twenty minutes later, as she collected her belongings, the club manager approached.
Someone's asking for you.
She sighed. Tell him I don't give out my number.
He didn't ask for your number.
The manager hesitated.
He asked who wrote your last song.
She froze.
Because that particular song had never been released.
And the only people who knew its meaning were her sisters.
And the father who had abandoned them.