At precisely 7 PM, Aria's phone rang. She'd spent the afternoon reviewing the contract with Marcus, making notes on sections that needed clarification, and attempting to calm the butterflies rioting in her stomach.
"Hi, Dominic."
"Aria. Thank you for making time." His voice carried that same focused intensity she remembered from the park. "I understand you have questions about the contract."
"Several." She pulled up her notes. "The first-refusal clause—if another company wants to book me and you decline, does that block me from taking their offer?"
"No. It just means we get to see the offer first and match it if we choose. If we pass, you're free to accept. Think of it as... a courtesy heads-up between business partners."
"But we're not partners. I'm a contractor."
"Semantics. If this performance goes well, I'd like to build an ongoing professional relationship. The clause protects that possibility."
Aria chewed her lip. "What if I want to modify it? Limit it to direct competitors only, not all corporate events?"
A pause. She could almost hear him thinking.
"That's reasonable," he said finally. "How about this: first refusal applies only to tech industry events. Everything else is yours to book freely. Does that work?"
She hadn't expected him to agree so easily. "Yes. That works."
"What else?"
"The image rights section. It says you can use photos and videos for promotional materials 'in perpetuity.' That's... forever. What if I don't want my face plastered on your website for the next decade?"
"Fair point. We can limit it to two years, with your approval required for any use beyond standard event photography. You'd have final say on what gets published where."
Aria glanced at her notes. He was agreeing to everything, which either meant her requests were reasonable or he was really desperate for her to perform. She suspected the former, but years of survival instinct demanded she push one more boundary.
"I want creative control guaranteed in writing. Not just verbal agreement—an actual clause stating that the setlist, arrangement, and performance style are entirely my decision."
"Done. Anything else?"
"Why are you being so accommodating?" The question escaped before she could stop it. "Most people would've told me to take it or leave it by now."
"Most people are idiots," Dominic replied bluntly. "I'm hiring you for your talent and your voice. If I wanted to control every aspect of the performance, I'd hire a covers band and hand them a playlist. I'm paying premium price because I want Aria Chen, unfiltered and authentic. Contract language should reflect that."
Something warm unfurled in Aria's chest—recognition, maybe, or validation. He understood. Or at least, he was saying the right things to make her believe he understood.
"Okay," she said. "Those are my main concerns. If you can modify the contract to reflect what we just discussed, I'll have my lawyer review it and sign."
"I'll have Victoria make the changes tonight. You'll have a revised version by morning." He paused. "Aria, can I ask you something?"
Her pulse jumped. "Sure."
"Why street performing? You're clearly talented enough for venues, labels, proper representation. Why make it harder than it needs to be?"
The personal question caught her off guard. She considered deflecting, giving him the sanitized version she told strangers at parties. But something about his tone—genuine curiosity without judgment—made her answer honestly.
"Control," she said. "I grew up watching my mom work three jobs to keep us afloat after my dad left. She was brilliant—accounting degree, fluent in Mandarin and English—but she still got paid less, promoted slower, respected least. So when I told her I wanted to pursue music, she forbade it. Said I needed something stable, something that couldn't be taken away."
"But you did it anyway."
"I did it anyway. Got a music education degree to appease her, but I've never stopped writing, performing, creating. Street performing lets me do music on my terms. No label controlling my sound, no manager taking eighty percent, no producer telling me to smile more and be less political in my lyrics."
"At the cost of stability."
"At the cost of comfort," Aria corrected. "There's a difference. I'm not stable financially, but I'm stable in myself. I know who I am and what I stand for. Can't put a price on that."
Silence stretched between them—not awkward, but weighted with understanding.
"My father wanted me to be a lawyer," Dominic said finally. "Third-generation attorney, carry on the family legacy, all that dynasty bullshit. I barely graduated college before I told him I was building a tech company instead. He said I'd fail within a year, lose my trust fund, come crawling back."
"Let me guess—you didn't."
"I didn't. Built Hawthorne Ventures from nothing, proved every doubter wrong, became exactly the kind of success story that makes people think they know me. But the truth is, I'm still chasing that validation. Still trying to prove I made the right choice, that I'm more than my father's disappointment."
The vulnerability in his admission made Aria's breath catch. This wasn't the polished billionaire from Bloomberg interviews or Forbes covers. This was a man who understood the weight of choosing your own path.
"Why are you telling me this?" she asked softly.
"Because you asked why I'm being accommodating. The answer is: I recognize myself in you. That stubborn refusal to compromise your vision even when it would be easier. I respect that. And I'm not interested in breaking it."
Aria's grip tightened on her phone. This was dangerous territory—connection, understanding, the foundation of trust. She'd built her life on walls and suspicion, and Dominic was systematically dismantling her defenses without even trying.
"I should go," she said abruptly. "I have an early class tomorrow."
"Of course." Was that disappointment in his voice? "I'll make sure you have the revised contract by morning. And Aria?"
"Yes?"
"I'm looking forward to hearing you perform. Not as an investor or a client—just as someone who loves music and recognizes real artistry when he hears it."
The line went dead, leaving Aria staring at her phone like it might explain what the hell just happened.
"So?" Mei appeared in the doorway, holding two beers. "How'd the call go?"
"He agreed to everything. Modified the contract, guaranteed creative control, even got personal about why he respects my choices."
"And you're freaking out because...?"
"Because he's too good to be true!" Aria took one of the beers gratefully. "Nobody is this understanding, this accommodating, this... human. Especially not billionaires with reputations for ruthless business practices."
Mei settled onto the couch beside her. "Or maybe he's exactly what he seems: a successful guy who appreciates talent and isn't threatened by strong women. Why is that so hard to believe?"
"Because the last time I trusted someone who seemed too good to be true, I ended up in a situationship with a producer who stole my songs and passed them off as his own."
"That was three years ago, and he was a narcissistic asshole. This guy is offering you a contract with negotiated terms and legal protections." Mei squeezed her shoulder. "I know trust is hard for you. But babe, sometimes the universe sends good things to good people. Maybe it's your turn."
Aria leaned her head on her friend's shoulder, exhaustion suddenly overwhelming her. "What if I'm not ready for this?"
"Then you fake it until you are. That's literally what confidence is—pretending you know what you're doing until you actually do."
Despite everything, Aria laughed. "When did you get so wise?"
"I've always been wise. You just never listen to me."
They sat in comfortable silence, drinking their beers and watching terrible reality TV. But Aria's mind kept drifting back to Dominic's words: I recognize myself in you.
Maybe that was the real danger. Not that he wanted to use her or control her, but that he saw her—really saw her—in ways she didn't even see herself.
And that terrified her more than any contract clause or billionaire agenda ever could.