The entire restaurant went dead silent. You could have heard a pin drop. Julian Sterling, Chicago’s most eligible billionaire, had just said the most ridiculous thing anyone had ever heard.
He pointed a finger, adorned with a diamond-encrusted cufflink, at the trembling waitress who was covered in spilled wine, and smirked:
— “You want me to forgive your clumsiness? Fine. Sing this Mozart aria perfectly, and I’ll marry you right here, right now.”
The room erupted in cruel laughter. His fiancée grinned. They expected the waitress to run away in tears, but they didn’t know who she really was. They didn’t know that the girl in the cheap uniform was about to open her mouth and bring the most powerful man in the city to his knees. This is the story of Eleanor Vance and the song that changed everything.
“The Obsidian Room” wasn’t just a restaurant; it was a theater of wealth in the heart of the city. And tonight, the audience was particularly ruthless. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling like frozen tears, casting light on politicians, tech moguls, and real estate giants dining on caviar that cost more than a mid-sized sedan.
Eleanor Vance adjusted the collar of her stiff black uniform. It rubbed her neck raw, a constant reminder of her place. Here, she was a ghost, sliding between tables, refilling water glasses, clearing silver plates, and absorbing the casual disdain of the city’s elite.
— “More wine!” a sharp voice demanded.
Eleanor turned, keeping her eyes down.
— “Of course, Ms. Thorne.”
Isabella Thorne sat at the center table, the undisputed queen of the evening. She wore a red silk dress that looked like it had been poured onto her, and a diamond on her finger heavy enough to leave a bruise. Next to her sat the man who bought it—Julian Sterling.
Julian was staring at his phone, looking utterly bored. At thirty-two, he had the sharp, commanding features that graced the covers of business magazines. He was the CEO of Sterling Dynamics, a man who moved markets with a whisper.
Tonight, however, he looked like he’d rather be anywhere else than listening to his fiancée complain about the side dishes.
— “Julian, are you even listening?” Isabella hissed, tapping her manicured nails on the tablecloth. “I said the soprano hired for the wedding is mediocre. I won’t have mediocrity at a Sterling-Thorne wedding. It’s bad for my brand.”
Julian sighed, finally tucking his phone into his tuxedo pocket. His eyes were dark, intelligent, and tired.
— “Isabella, it’s a wedding, not an inauguration. No one is going to critique the singer’s vibrato once they’ve had enough vintage champagne.”
— “I will,” Isabella countered coldly.
Eleanor approached with a bottle of Pinot Noir. Her hands were steady—they were always steady—but her heart was thumping against her ribs. Being this close to Julian Sterling was unnerving. It wasn’t just his wealth; it was the sheer weight of his presence. He seemed to see everything, even when he wasn’t looking.
As Eleanor leaned in to pour, a busboy rushed past, bumping her shoulder hard. Everything happened in slow motion: the bottle slipped, the dark red wine arched through the air, and splashed directly onto Isabella’s pristine red dress.
The collective gasp from the surrounding tables sucked the air out of the room.
— “You clumsy brat!” Isabella shrieked, jumping to her feet. Her chair screeched against the marble. “Look what you’ve done! This is custom couture!”
Eleanor went pale.
— “I…”
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