— “D minor,” Eleanor said, her voice taking on a strange, resonant strength. “Do they know the part?”
The atmosphere in The Obsidian Room shifted. The awkward silence turned into a heavy, electric anticipation. Julian blinked. He expected her to beg for her job or perhaps stammer an apology. He didn’t expect her to ask about the key.
— “These are musicians from the Philharmonic,” Julian replied slowly. His curiosity was piqued. He gestured to the quartet and the pianist in the corner. “They know it.”
Eleanor nodded. She walked toward the small stage. Her cheap black shoes clicked against the floor—a lonely sound in the vast room.
*”Don’t do it, Eleanor!”* a voice screamed in her head. *”You promised you’d never sing again. You promised you were done with that life. You’re Eleanor Vance, the waitress. You aren’t her anymore.”*
But the humiliation burned in her chest. The way Isabella looked at her—like trash, like something to be scraped off a shoe. It woke a dragon that had been sleeping for three years. And Julian… his joke was cruel. But there was a challenge in his eyes she couldn’t resist. He thought she was nothing.
She approached the grand piano. The pianist, an older man named Henry who often left her decent tips, looked at her with pity.
— “Eleanor, dear, you don’t have to do this. Just go to the back.”
— “D minor, Henry,” Eleanor said. Her hand rested on the piano’s edge, and the trembling stopped. “The tempo is fast. Don’t wait for me; I’ll keep up.”
Henry hesitated, looked at Julian, who gave a sharp nod, and then lowered his fingers to the keys. The aggressive, stormy opening chords rolled through the hall. Isabella crossed her arms, a mocking sneer frozen on her face as she waited for a pathetic squeak. Julian leaned against a pillar, waiting for the joke to end so he could go home.
Eleanor closed her eyes. She took a breath, then opened her mouth. The first note didn’t just come out—it exploded. It was a spear of pure, crystalline sound that pierced the air with shocking power.
*”Der Hölle Rache kocht in meinem Herzen”* (“Hell’s vengeance boils in my heart”).
Julian’s glass froze halfway to his mouth. The sound was massive. This wasn’t the thin voice of an amateur. This was a trained operatic voice: rich, dark, and terrifyingly precise. The German diction was flawless, the emotion a raw, unfiltered rage channeled through perfect technique.
Eleanor was no longer standing like a waitress. Her posture had shifted. Her spine was steel. Her hands were expressive, cutting through the air as she delivered the Queen of the Night’s furious command. Guests at the nearby tables dropped their forks, mouths agape.
Then came the hard part, the legendary staccato high Fs. It was a graveyard for sopranos, the place where even professionals cracked. Eleanor hit the first high note with laser precision. It was perfect. Crystal clear, bell-like, and effortless.
She soared through the arpeggios, her voice dancing with frightening agility. She wasn’t just hitting the notes; she was attacking them. She was pouring three years of mopping floors, three years of exile, and three years of being invisible into a melody that demanded dominance.
A chill ran down Julian Sterling’s spine. The hair on his arms stood up. He had grown up in opera boxes; his grandmother was a patron of the arts. He knew what greatness sounded like. This wasn’t just good—this was world-class. This was impossible.
He looked at the woman he had just mocked. The messy bun, the stained apron, the cheap shoes—it all seemed to vanish. He only saw the power radiating from her throat. She was glowing with a fierce, terrifying beauty.
Isabella Thorne went pale. The sneer was gone, replaced by an expression of absolute horror. She wasn’t looking at a waitress anymore—she was looking at a rival.
Eleanor moved into the final cadence, holding the last note with incredible power, letting the sound ring in the crystal chandeliers until the very air seemed to vibrate. Then, she cut the sound off sharply.
Silence. Absolute, deafening silence. It lasted five seconds, then ten. No one moved. The pianist, Henry, stared at the keys, his hands shaking.
Eleanor stood there, breathing hard, adrenaline coursing through her. The spell broke. The reality of what she had just done crashed over her. She had exposed herself. She looked at Julian. He wasn’t smiling anymore. He wasn’t bored.
He was staring at her with an intensity that made her knees weak. His dark eyes were wide, filled with a mix of shock and something else. Hunger. Slowly, Julian Sterling began to clap. Just him. Slow, rhythmic claps.
Then a man at table four joined in. Then the whole room. Within seconds, the wealthy elite of the city were on their feet, erupting into thunderous applause, forgetting she was the help. Forgetting the spilled wine.
Isabella sat motionless. Her face was a mask of fury. She grabbed Julian’s arm.
— “Stop it! Stop clapping! She’s just a circus act.”
Julian brushed her off without even looking. He started walking toward the stage. He moved like a predator stalking prey.
Eleanor saw him coming. Panic set in. He knew, or he was about to find out.
— “Who are you?” Julian asked as he reached the edge of the stage. His voice was husky, stripped of its usual polish. This wasn’t a waitress singing. “Who are you?”
Eleanor backed away, clutching her apron.
— “I…
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