Lyra Vale hated rooms like this.
Too bright. Too polished. Too full of people pretending they weren't predators.
The corridor behind the main hall smelled faintly of citrus cleaner and expensive cologne. It was where performers were parked after they were finished being useful. Lyra loosened her grip on the microphone stand she'd been told to return, her fingers still buzzing from adrenaline.
"You killed it in there," the producer said again, keeping pace beside her. His smile never touched his eyes. "Crowd loved you."
Crowds loved a lot of things. That didn't mean they stayed.
"Thank you," Lyra replied, already reaching the equipment desk. Her tone was careful—neutral enough to survive.
He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "You don't have representation, do you?"
There it was.
Lyra placed the microphone down, straightened, and finally looked at him. "I have a voice. That's usually what you mean."
His smile tightened. "Funny. I like funny. Listen, this could be big for you. We're talking studio sessions, feature tracks, maybe a screen test. But we'd need to lock something in quickly."
Quickly. Before she asked questions. Before she realized the price.
Lyra nodded once. "I'll think about it."
He slid a card into her hand anyway, fingers brushing her palm longer than necessary. "Don't think too long."
She waited until he walked away before exhaling.
Her phone vibrated immediately.
Unknown Number.
She didn't answer.
Instead, she slipped into the restroom, locked herself into the farthest stall, and sat down hard on the lid. Her heart was still racing—not from nerves, but from something worse.
Anger.
Not at the producer. He was predictable.
At the man she hadn't meant to notice.
She hadn't known his name, but she knew his type. The way the room bent around him. The way people waited for his reaction before deciding how they felt.
Their eyes had met for maybe a second.
It had felt like a challenge.
Lyra dragged a hand through her hair, grounding herself. Don't be stupid, she told herself. Men like that didn't see women like her. And if they did, it was never for the right reasons.
Her phone vibrated again.
Unknown Number.
This time, she answered. "Hello?"
"You left before I could thank you."
The voice was calm. Controlled. Annoyingly composed.
Lyra's spine went straight. "I'm not sure who this is."
A pause—brief, deliberate. "Aurelian Cross."
She almost laughed. Almost.
Of course.
The name landed with weight. Even people outside his industry knew it. Billionaire. CEO. Headlines wrapped in steel and silence.
"I didn't realize I needed your thanks," she said coolly.
"You didn't," he replied. "I wanted to give it anyway."
She stood, pushing open the stall door. Her reflection in the mirror looked exactly how she felt—defiant, tired, and not impressed. "Then consider yourself successful."
"You're avoiding me," Aurelian said.
"Congratulations. You've noticed something obvious."
Another pause. She imagined him somewhere quiet and expensive, holding a phone like it was a negotiation table.
"You sang like someone who doesn't intend to survive quietly," he said. "That deserves acknowledgment."
Lyra's jaw tightened. Compliments from men like him always came with hooks.
"I sang because I was told to," she said. "Goodnight, Mr. Cross."
She hung up before he could respond.
For a moment, the restroom was silent except for her breathing.
Then her phone buzzed again.
She stared at it. Let it buzz. Let it stop.
Outside the restroom, the summit continued to glitter and grind. Deals were being sealed. Futures rewritten.
Aurelian Cross stood near the glass wall overlooking Lake Geneva, phone lowered, expression unreadable.
"Did she accept?" his assistant asked quietly.
"No," Aurelian said.
That earned a raised brow. People usually accepted.
He watched as servers cleared empty glasses, as laughter spilled too loudly, as alliances shifted in subtle glances. Across the room, a fashion conglomerate CEO leaned close to a media executive, whispering with intent. Aurelian caught his name—softly spoken, but sharp.
Interesting.
"Run a background," Aurelian added. "Nothing invasive. Just enough."
His assistant hesitated. "On her?"
"Yes."
"And the leak we intercepted earlier?"
Aurelian's gaze hardened. "Handle it."
Tonight had been supposed to be clean. A win. Instead, the air felt…tilted.
Across the city, Lyra exited the venue alone, the cold night biting through her thin coat. The streets were quieter here—money insulated sound.
Her phone rang again.
This time, a different number.
She sighed and answered. "What now?"
A woman's voice crackled through. "Lyra? It's Mara."
Relief loosened her shoulders. "Hey."
"They're talking about you already," Mara said, breathless. "There's a clip online. Not the whole performance—just enough. People are asking who you are."
Lyra stopped walking.
As if summoned by the words, her phone lit up with notifications. Mentions. Messages. Unknown DMs multiplying like flies.
"Is that bad?" Lyra asked softly.
Mara laughed—sharp, nervous. "It's dangerous."
Lyra closed her eyes.
Across town, in a private suite above the casino floor, a man watched the same clip loop silently on a screen. Lyra's face frozen mid-note. Raw. Unfiltered.
"Interesting," the man murmured, swirling amber liquid in a glass. "Very interesting."
Beside him, someone asked, "Do we bury it?"
"No," he said, smiling. "We let it grow."
Back in her tiny apartment, Lyra kicked off her heels and sank onto the couch, exhaustion finally claiming her. The city hummed beyond her window, uncaring.
She opened one message at random.
You were incredible. Don't let them own you.
No name. No signature.
She frowned, then locked her phone and set it face-down.
Tomorrow, she'd wake up and go back to auditions that went nowhere. Back to gigs that barely paid rent.
Tomorrow, the world would still belong to men like Aurelian Cross.
She didn't yet know that tonight had put her on a collision course with him.
Or that somewhere, very quietly, the first moves against him had already been made.