The night of the gala arrived with all the subtlety of a freight train. Aria woke at 6 AM, despite the performance not starting until 8 PM, her mind already racing through setlists and potential disasters.
"You're spiraling," Mei announced from the kitchen, shoving a coffee into Aria's hands. "Stop it."
"I'm not spiraling. I'm preparing."
"You've prepared for two weeks. Now you're just torturing yourself." Mei pulled out her phone. "We're going to brunch, then I'm taking you to get your hair done—don't argue, it's my treat—and then we're going to day-drink just enough that you're relaxed but not sloppy."
"That's a very specific amount of drinking."
"I have three older sisters. I've calibrated the perfect pre-event buzz." Mei grabbed her jacket. "Move it, Songbird. Today is your Cinderella moment, except you're not cleaning anyone's fireplace and Prince Charming is a tech billionaire with communication issues."
They spent the day in determined distraction—brunch at their favorite diner, hair styling at a salon that made Aria feel simultaneously fancy and like an imposter, mimosas that hit the sweet spot between calm and confident. By the time Aria returned to her apartment to change, she felt ready.
The jumpsuit Victoria had sent fit perfectly—black silk that moved like water, with delicate beading across the shoulders that caught the light. Aria barely recognized herself in the mirror. She looked sophisticated, professional, like someone who performed at billionaire galas regularly.
"Damn," Mei breathed from the doorway. "Dominic's going to have a stroke."
"That's not the goal. The goal is to perform well and advance my career."
"Sure. And the goal of fireworks is just colored fire, not romance and spectacle." Mei hugged her carefully, mindful of the outfit. "Go be brilliant, babe. You've got this."
The car Victoria had arranged arrived at 6:30—a sleek black sedan that felt absurdly luxurious compared to Aria's usual subway commute. She clutched her guitar case the entire ride, running through lyrics in her head, trying not to think about three hundred wealthy strangers judging her every note.
Trying not to think about Dominic watching from the audience, seeing her laid bare through her music.
The venue was transformed. The same space she'd practiced in now glowed with strategic lighting, elegant floral arrangements, and clusters of well-dressed guests already mingling with champagne flutes. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, Manhattan sparkled below like scattered diamonds.
"Miss Chen." Victoria appeared with her usual efficiency. "You're early. Excellent. Hair and makeup are# THE TYCOON'S RELUCTANT SONGBIRD