The revised contract arrived at 6:47 AM, because apparently, Dominic's assistant was either a robot or running on espresso and spite. Aria forwarded it to the entertainment lawyer Marcus had recommended, then spent her morning teaching a group of teenagers why basic music theory actually mattered (spoiler: they weren't convinced).
By afternoon, she'd received the lawyer's verdict: the contract was solid, her modifications were properly implemented, and she'd be an idiot not to sign.
So she did.
Within an hour, Victoria had emailed back confirming receipt, along with a detailed schedule for the gala and a request for Aria's measurements for "appropriate performance attire."
We'll provide wardrobe options for your approval, the email read. Mr. Hawthorne believes your personal style should be reflected in your performance presentation.
Aria blinked at the screen. Even his assistant's emails sounded like him—thoughtful, considerate, with just enough formality to maintain professional boundaries.
She sent her measurements with the caveat that she preferred pants to dresses and nothing too revealing. Then she did what any reasonable person would do when faced with performing for three hundred wealthy strangers: she panicked.
"I need new strings," she announced, bursting into Marcus's office between classes. "And I should probably get my guitar professionally set up. Oh god, what if my amp dies in the middle of a song? Should I rent a backup? Do fancy galas even have the right equipment for acoustic-electric setups?"
Marcus looked up from his paperwork with practiced calm. "Breathe, Aria."
"I can't breathe. I'm performing in front of tech billionaires in three weeks and I don't even have a complete setlist!"
"Yes, you do. You have thirty original songs and a repertoire of covers that could fill six hours. You're spiraling because you're scared, not because you're unprepared."
Damn him for being right.
Aria collapsed into the chair across from him. "What if I freeze? What if my voice cracks? What if they hate my style and I humiliate myself in front of people who could actually help my career?"
"Then you'll survive, learn, and move forward. Same as every other performer who's ever taken a risk." He set down his pen. "But Aria, you won't freeze. You've performed through rain, snow, aggressive drunks, and that guy who tried to freestyle rap over your ballads. A fancy room full of rich people in uncomfortable shoes is nothing."
She wanted to believe him. But performing on the street was different—low stakes, anonymous crowds, easy escape routes. This was high-profile, high-pressure, with her name attached to the success or failure.
"I need to practice," she said abruptly. "Like, really practice. Can I use the studio after hours?"
"It's yours whenever you need it. But Aria?" Marcus waited until she met his eyes. "Don't practice until you're perfect. Practice until you're confident. There's a difference."
Over the next two weeks, Aria practically lived in the music school's small recording studio. She refined her setlist, polished arrangements, and recorded herself obsessively to catch every flat note or awkward transition. "Fractured Light"—the song Dominic had specifically requested—went through six revisions before she was satisfied.
She also Googled him. Extensively.
Dominic Hawthorne had founded Hawthorne Ventures at twenty-eight with money from his first tech startup sale. Within five years, he'd built a portfolio of investments in AI, renewable energy, and biotech that made him one of the youngest billionaires in America. He was thirty-five now, unmarried, and famously private despite his public business profile.
The articles painted him as brilliant but ruthless—a man who could identify a company's potential in minutes and dismantle failing businesses without sentiment. Several profiles mentioned his "emotional distance" and "inability to form lasting personal connections."
But they also mentioned his anonymous philanthropy, his company's industry-leading parental leave policies, and his habit of promoting from within rather than hiring Ivy League MBAs.
The picture that emerged was complicated—neither saint nor villain, but something more human and therefore more interesting.
"You're stalking him," Mei observed one night, peering over Aria's shoulder at her laptop.
"Research. I'm researching my client."
"You've read seventeen articles, watched twelve interviews, and you're currently on his company's LinkedIn page. That's stalking."
Aria closed the laptop guiltily. "I need to understand who I'm performing for."
"You need to stop overthinking and trust your instincts." Mei dropped onto the couch beside her. "Speaking of which, what are you wearing?"
"Victoria sent options." Aria pulled up the email on her phone, showing Mei the attached photos. "They're all designer, which is terrifying because if I spill something I'll owe more than my student loans."
Mei scrolled through the options—elegant jumpsuits, tailored trouser suits, one floor-length gown that somehow looked both classic and edgy.
"This one." She pointed to a black silk jumpsuit with subtle beading across the shoulders. "It's sophisticated but still you. And you can actually move in it."
Aria had to admit, it was perfect. She emailed Victoria her choice, then spent the evening alternating between productive practice and unproductive anxiety spirals.
Her phone buzzed around 10 PM. A text from an unknown number, except she knew exactly who it was.
Unknown Number: Victoria tells me you've been using the studio every night until midnight. Don't burn out before the performance.
She saved the number as "Dominic" before responding.
Aria: How do you know what time I leave? Are you tracking me?
Dominic: Your music school's Instagram. Your boss posts "late night dedication" photos of students. You're in the background of tonight's post, completely unaware you're being documented.
Aria pulled up the school's Instagram and groaned. Sure enough, Marcus had posted a photo of three students working on a group project, and she was visible through the studio window, guitar in hand, completely focused.
Aria: Remind me to discuss social media boundaries with my boss.
Dominic: Or you could take a break. Overpreparation leads to overthinking. Trust your talent.
Aria: Easy for you to say. You're not the one performing.
Dominic: No, but I do pitch investors on ideas that could make or break my company. Same principle—preparation matters, but confidence matters more. And you have both.
Aria stared at the message, something warm blooming in her chest. He was checking on her. Not as a client monitoring his investment, but as someone genuinely concerned about her wellbeing.
Aria: Fine. I'm going home. But if I freeze on stage, I'm blaming you.
Dominic: Deal. Though for the record, I've never seen you freeze. Even when confronted by a strange billionaire in a park, you had perfect composure.
Aria: I was terrified.
Dominic: Could have fooled me. That's called confidence, Aria. You just don't recognize it in yourself yet.
Aria: And you know this after one park encounter and some phone calls?
Dominic: I know this because I've watched every video of you performing that's online. You have 127 videos across YouTube, Instagram, and TikTok. I've seen them all.
Aria's breath caught. That was... intense. Also kind of flattering? Also potentially concerning?
Aria: That's either really supportive or really creepy.
Dominic: Can it be both? I'm doing due diligence on a business investment while also enjoying genuinely remarkable music.
Aria: You're complicated, Dominic Hawthorne.
Dominic: You have no idea. Now go home, get sleep, and I'll see you at the venue walkthrough next week. Victoria will send details.
Aria: There's a venue walkthrough?
Dominic: Of course. You need to test acoustics, lighting, equipment. I'm not throwing you on stage blind.
Of course he wasn't. Because despite his ruthless business reputation, Dominic seemed genuinely invested in making sure she succeeded.
Aria: Thank you. For all of this.
Dominic: Thank you for taking the chance. Sleep well, Aria.
She stared at the messages long after the conversation ended, trying to reconcile the intimidating billionaire from Google with the thoughtful man texting her at 10 PM about self-care and confidence.
Mei appeared in the doorway, raising an eyebrow. "That smile better be about your music and not about Mr. Tall, Dark, and Billionaire."
"It's about the music," Aria lied.
"Uh-huh. And I'm the Queen of England. Babe, just be careful. Rich men are used to getting what they want, and right now, he wants you."
"He wants my music," Aria corrected.
"Sure. Keep telling yourself that." Mei disappeared back into her room, leaving Aria alone with her phone and thoughts that were becoming increasingly dangerous.
Because Mei was right—she was starting to like Dominic Hawthorne. Not his money or his power, but the man beneath it. The one who understood stubborn artistic integrity, who checked on her wellbeing, who had watched 127 videos of her performances like he was trying to memorize every note.
That was dangerous territory. The kind that led to broken hearts and complicated situations.
But as Aria finally headed to bed, she couldn't quite bring herself to care about the danger.
For the first time in years, she felt seen. Really, truly seen.
And that was worth almost any risk.