Aria changed outfits four times before Mei physically removed the clothing options from her hands.
"You're overthinking this. It's dinner, not a royal wedding." Mei held up the final outfit—dark jeans, a silk blouse in deep emerald, and Aria's favorite leather jacket. "This. Casual but elegant. Real but polished. Very 'I'm a talented musician who cleans up nice but isn't trying too hard.'"
"What if he expects fancy? What if I show up underdressed and embarrass both of us?"
"Then he's an idiot who doesn't deserve you. But babe, he specifically said he wanted real. Trust him." Mei grabbed her shoulders, forcing eye contact. "And more importantly, trust yourself. You're not some naive girl being swept off her feet by a rich guy. You're a brilliant, accomplished woman choosing to spend time with someone who appreciates that. Big difference."
Aria took a breath, nodded, and got dressed. She'd chosen a small Vietnamese restaurant in the East Village—one of her favorites, intimate without being romantic, delicious without being pretentious. The kind of place where you actually talked to your dinner companion instead of performing for surrounding tables.
She arrived five minutes early out of habit, only to find Dominic already there, standing outside in jeans and a simple sweater that probably cost more than her monthly rent but looked effortlessly casual.
He spotted her and his entire face transformed—that smile she was rapidly becoming addicted to.
"You're early," Aria said by way of greeting.
"So are you. Clearly we're both nervous."
"I'm not nervous. I'm strategically punctual."
"I'm terrified," Dominic admitted with disarming honesty. "This is my first real date in three years, and the last one ended with her selling an exclusive interview about my 'emotional unavailability' to a tabloid."
"Well, that's a high bar to clear. I promise not to sell interviews about your personality flaws unless they're really juicy."
He laughed, and some of the tension dissolved. "Deal. Should we...?" He gestured toward the restaurant door.
Inside was exactly as Aria remembered—warm lighting, mismatched furniture, family photos on the walls, and the incredible smell of pho and lemongrass. The owner, Mrs. Nguyen, greeted them with a knowing smile that suggested she'd already assessed the situation and approved.
"Your usual table?" she asked Aria.
"Please."
They were seated in a corner booth that offered privacy without isolation. Menus appeared, though Aria barely needed to look—she'd been coming here for four years and had strong opinions about every dish.
"What do you recommend?" Dominic asked, studying the extensive menu with the focus he probably brought to business proposals.
"Depends. Are you adventurous or do you play it safe with food?"
"I built a company by taking calculated risks. Does that answer your question?"
"Then get the bun bo hue—it's spicy, complex, and most Americans can't handle it. If you can, I'll be impressed."
His eyes gleamed with challenge. "And if I can't?"
"Then I'll judge you mercilessly and probably mention it in every future conversation."
"The stakes have never been higher."
When Mrs. Nguyen returned, Dominic ordered the bun bo hue without hesitation, while Aria got her usual banh xeo. Then they were alone, with nothing between them but possibility and the weight of everything unsaid.
"So," Dominic started, then paused. "I'm realizing I've done this backwards. Usually people go on dates before one of them hires the other for a major professional event."
"Usually people don't text about flower preferences before the first date either. We're clearly not traditional."
"Is that okay? The non-traditional approach?"
Aria considered. Everything about this situation violated the rules she'd built for self-protection—never date clients, never trust rich men, never move too fast, never let your guard down. But sitting across from Dominic in her favorite restaurant, watching him be genuinely nervous about a date, she found she didn't care about the rules.
"It's okay," she said. "Weird, but okay. Though I do have questions."
"Ask anything."
"Why haven't you dated in three years? A guy like you—successful, not hideous, apparently capable of thoughtful conversation—I find it hard to believe you haven't had opportunities."
Dominic's expression grew serious. "After the tabloid incident, I realized I was only attracting people interested in my money or connections. Nobody saw me—they saw Dominic Hawthorne, billionaire CEO, and built relationships with that persona. When I tried to be real, to show vulnerability or doubt or just be human, they were disappointed. Like I was failing to live up to my Forbes profile."
"That sounds lonely."
"It was." He met her eyes. "Until I heard you singing in Washington Square Park and realized I'd forgotten what authentic connection felt like. Your music reminded me that real things still exist, even in a world built on performance and pretense."
The food arrived, saving Aria from having to respond to that devastating honesty. Dominic took his first bite of the soup and his eyes widened—heat, surprise, and then grudging appreciation.
"That's..." He reached for water. "That's incredible. Also possibly lethal."
"But can you handle it?"
"I'm going to finish every drop out of sheer stubbornness."
"Competitive. I'll remember that."
They ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the kind that only came when people were genuinely at ease with each other. Then Dominic set down his spoon.
"My turn for questions. Why street performing? And don't give me the answer about control that you gave on the phone—give me the real reason."
Aria chewed her banh xeo, buying time to formulate an honest answer.
"My dad left when I was seven," she said finally. "No explanation, no goodbye, just gone. My mom worked herself to exhaustion trying to provide for us, and I watched her sacrifice everything—her health, her dreams, her happiness—for stability. She taught me that depending on anyone or anything outside yourself was dangerous. That security came from never needing anyone."
"But music requires vulnerability. It's the opposite of self-sufficiency."
"Exactly. Street performing is my rebellion—against my mother's fear, against the idea that art should serve practicality, against the belief that needing is weakness. When I play, I'm choosing to need—need the audience, need the connection, need to be heard. And every time someone stops to listen or leaves a tip or tells me a song moved them, I'm proving her wrong."
Dominic was quiet for a long moment, his soup forgotten. "Your mother was trying to protect you."
"I know. But her protection was suffocating. She wanted me safe more than she wanted me happy, and I refuse to live that way. I'd rather struggle as myself than succeed as someone I'm not."
"Even if struggling means real hardship? Uncertainty?"
"Even then." Aria met his gaze. "Can you understand that? You come from money, connections, opportunities I've never had. Is my worldview even comprehensible to you?"
"More than you think." Dominic pushed his soup aside, leaning forward. "My father had my entire life planned—boarding school, law degree, partnership at his firm. When I told him I wanted to build tech companies instead, he cut me off completely. No trust fund, no family connections, nothing. Said if I was going to throw away my legacy, I could do it without his resources."
"That's horrible."
"It was also liberating. Suddenly, everything I built was mine—my choices, my risks, my success or failure. Yes, I eventually made it. But I spent three years living in a basement apartment eating ramen, coding until 3 AM, terrified I'd prove him right and fail spectacularly." He smiled without humor. "So yes, Aria, I understand choosing struggle over surrender. It's why I recognized it in you."
Aria's throat tightened. She'd expected him to be unable to relate, to dismiss her experiences as dramatically different from his privileged reality. Instead, he understood in ways that made her feel less alone than she had in years.
"We're both running from something," she said softly. "You from your father's expectations, me from my mother's fears. Is that why this feels so..."
"Inevitable?" Dominic finished. "Maybe. Or maybe we just recognize something real in each other. Something we've both been looking for without knowing it."
Mrs. Nguyen appeared to clear their plates, her knowing smile suggesting she'd been eavesdropping shamelessly. "Dessert? We hOr maybe she was being naive. Maybe rich men collected talented women like art pieces—admired them, displayed them, then moved on to the next fascinating acquisition.
Her phone buzzed again. This time, Dominic.
Dominic: I apologize if I made you uncomfortable earlier. That wasn't my intention. Your professional relationship with my company is completely separate from anything personal, and I want to make that clear. You're performing because you're talented, not because of any potential relationship.
Dominic: Also, I'm apparently terrible at this. Victoria just informed me that confessing interest in an elevator is "categorically inappropriate timing" and I should "develop better social awareness." She's probably right.
Despite everything, Aria smiled. He was self-aware enough to be awkward, which somehow made him more trustworthy than smooth confidence would have.
Aria: Your timing could use work. But I appreciate the honesty. And the clarification about professional vs. personal.
Dominic: So I haven't completely torpedoed my chances?
Aria: Of what? Having me perform well at your gala? That was never in question. I'm professional regardless of personal complications.
Dominic: I meant chances of taking you to dinner after the gala. Somewhere without business contracts or performance pressure. Just two people who enjoy conversation.
Aria stared at the message. This was it—the moment where she either played it safe or took a chance on something that scared her.
Aria: Ask me again after the performance. When the professional relationship is concluded and we're just two people who enjoy conversation.
Dominic: Deal. Though fair warning: I'm going to spend the next two weeks thinking of the perfect place to take you.
Aria: No pressure or anything.
Dominic: Absolutely no pressure. Except that I want to impress you, which means I'm going to overthink everything and probably end up suggesting somewhere either too fancy or too casual, and Victoria will have to intervene again.
Aria: I'm a street performer from Queens. You really don't need to try that hard.
Dominic: Aria, you're a brilliant musician who writes songs that make people feel things they've forgotten how to feel. I absolutely need to try that hard.
She didn't know how to respond to that, so she didn't. Just saved the conversation and headed home, her mind spinning with possibility and terror in equal measure.
The next week passed in a blur of rehearsals, classes, and trying not to obsess over text messages from a man who shouldn't matter this much but somehow did. Dominic checked in every few days—nothing pushy, just casual questions about how preparation was going, sharing funny anecdotes about gala planning disasters, sending her links to music articles he thought she'd enjoy.
It was courting, Aria realized. Old-fashioned, thoughtful courting from a man who could have any woman in Manhattan but seemed genuinely interested in getting to know her mind.
"You're smiling at your phone again," one of her students observed during Thursday's class. "Miss Chen has a boyfriend!"
"I do not have a boyfriend," Aria corrected, fighting a blush. "And you're supposed to be practicing your scales, not monitoring my personal life."
"Is he cute?" another student asked.
"Scales. Now. Or I'm assigning extra music theory homework."
The collective groan was immediate and gratifying.
That evening, Aria finally called her mother. They spoke every few weeks—obligatory check-ins filled with careful conversation that avoided anything meaningful. Her mother still didn't understand the music career, still asked when Aria would "get serious" about finding a real job.
"Hi, Mom."
"Aria! I was just thinking about you. Mrs. Wong's daughter just got promoted to senior analyst at Goldman Sachs. Very impressive salary."
Three sentences in, and they were already at comparisons with successful children who'd made proper career choices. Par for the course.
"That's great for her. Mom, I have some news. I booked a performance at a high-profile corporate event. Twenty thousand dollars for two hours."
Silence. Then: "Twenty thousand? Is this legitimate? You're not involved in anything illegal?"
Aria counted to five before responding. "It's completely legitimate. The client is Dominic Hawthorne, CEO of Hawthorne Ventures. It's a proper contract, legal representation, everything above board."
"Hawthorne Ventures." Her mother's tone shifted to impressed despite herself. "That's a Fortune 500 company. Aria, this is excellent. Maybe it will lead to more corporate work. Stable income, benefits, respectability."
Of course her mother's first thought was stability, not celebration. Not pride in Aria's talent, but relief that she might finally conform to expectations.
"Maybe," Aria said, unwilling to argue. "I just wanted to let you know."
"Will there be important people at this event? You should bring business cards. Network. Make connections. This could be your opportunity to transition into something more sustainable."
"I'll bring cards," Aria promised, though she had no intention of treating the performance as a networking event. "I have to go, Mom. Class prep."
"Okay. And Aria? Wear something professional. First impressions matter."
They always did, in her mother's world. Appearances, respectability, playing by rules designed by people who'd never had to fight for recognition.
After they hung up, Aria felt the familiar weight settle on her shoulders—the expectation that she should be something other than what she was. That her art should serve practicality rather than passion.
Her phone buzzed. Dominic again.
Dominic: Random question: what's your favorite food that you can't afford to eat regularly?
Aria: That's oddly specific. Why?
Dominic: Curiosity. Also possibly research for a hypothetical future dinner invitation. No pressure.
Despite her heavy mood, Aria smiled.
Aria: Fresh sushi. Not the grocery store kind—actual, melt-in-your-mouth, expensive-as-hell sushi from places where they pronounce everything in Japanese.
Dominic: Noted. Second question: favorite flower?
Aria: Are you building a profile on me?
Dominic: Maybe. Is it working?
Aria: Peonies. They're beautiful but brief—only bloom for a few weeks. Reminds me that art is temporary, so you have to appreciate it while it lasts.
Dominic: That's unexpectedly philosophical for a flower preference.
Aria: I'm unexpectedly philosophical for a street performer. It's part of my charm.
Dominic: Part of a long list of charms I'm discovering. Third question: if you could perform anywhere in the world, where would it be?
Aria leaned back on her couch, considering. She could say Carnegie Hall or the Hollywood Bowl—impressive, expected answers. But Dominic had been honest with her, so she gave him honesty back.
Aria: A small venue in Queens. The kind of place where locals gather, where music is community instead of commodity. I know that's not glamorous, but I don't want to perform for people who see entertainment as background noise for networking. I want to perform for people who actually listen.
His response took longer than usual. When it came, it felt heavier than the casual conversation they'd been having.
Dominic: That's why your music resonates, Aria. It's not performed for the industry—it's created for connection. And that's rarer than you realize, especially in my world where everything is transactional.
Aria: Is this your world? Or is it just where you work?
Dominic: I'm still figuring that out. But talking to you makes me think they don't have to be the same thing.
Aria stared at that message for a long time, understanding exactly what he meant. She'd built her life around music, but teaching paid her bills. The joy was in the creating; the survival was in the compromise.
Maybe Dominic understood that better than she'd given him credit for.
Aria: One week until the gala. Are you nervous?
Dominic: Terrified. But not about the event. About whether I can get through hearing you perform without completely losing my professional composure.
Aria: You've heard me practice. You'll survive.
Dominic: Practicing in an empty venue is different from performing to a crowd. When you're in your element, completely immersed in the music... it's captivating. And I'm supposed to make small talk with investors while you're on stage, which seems physically impossible.
Aria: Maybe don't watch then?
Dominic: Aria, I couldn't look away if I tried. That's the problem.
She didn't respond, because there was nothing to say that wouldn't escalate this tension into something neither of them was ready to acknowledge.
But she saved that message, along with all the others, and fell asleep thinking about a man who saw her art as something more than entertainment.
A man who might, possibly, see her as something more than another pretty voice.
And that was the most dangerous thought of all.