I have to get back to work.”
— “The deal was real,” Julian said, stepping up onto the stage. He was inches away now; she could smell his cologne—sandalwood and rain. “I said if you sang, I’d marry you.”
The crowd went quiet, leaning in to catch the billionaire’s next move. Eleanor looked him in the eye.
— “And we both know, Mr. Sterling, that wealthy men make promises they never intend to keep.”
She turned and ran. She didn’t walk; she bolted off the stage, through the service doors, and into the kitchen, leaving Julian Sterling standing alone in the spotlight. He stared at the empty space where she had been, looking more alive than he had in years.
— “Find her,” Julian said to his bodyguard, who appeared at his side.
— “Sir?”
— “Find out who she is,” Julian ordered in a dark voice. “And have her in my office tomorrow morning. I don’t care if she quits. Find her.”
Eleanor Vance didn’t stop running until her lungs burned and the glittering skyline was replaced by the gray apartment buildings of the outskirts. She fumbled for her keys; her hands were shaking so hard she dropped them twice before she could open the door to Apartment 4B.
She slammed the door, leaned against it, and slid to the floor. The cheap laminate was cold against her skin, but it couldn’t cool the fire in her veins. She had sung. After three years of silence, after three years of burying Eleanor Vance—the prodigy, the rising star, the girl who was supposed to be the next great prima donna.
She had sung in front of half of high society, and worse, she had sung for Julian Sterling.
— “Eleanor, is that you?” a soft, weak voice called from the bedroom.
Eleanor closed her eyes, gathering her strength. She stood up, smoothed her stained apron, and walked into the small room.
In the bed, surrounded by pill bottles and a humming dialysis machine, lay her younger brother, Leo. He was pale, his skin looking translucent under the harsh lamp light, but his eyes were bright.
— “Hey, Leo,” Eleanor whispered, forcing a smile. “I’m home.”
— “You’re early,” Leo said, coughing slightly. “Did Mark let you off?”
— “Something like that,” Eleanor lied. She sat on the edge of the bed, brushing hair from his forehead. “I… I quit.”
Leo’s eyes widened.
— “Eleanor, the rent, my treatments…”
— “I’ll find another job tomorrow,” she promised fiercely. “I’ll scrub toilets if I have to. Don’t worry about the money. I’m going to get you that transplant, Leo. I promise.”
Leo looked at her, seeing through the brave face.
— “You look different. You look like… like you used to. Before Mom died. Before the scandal.”
Eleanor turned away. The scandal. The night her life fell apart. The night her voice failed during a performance at the Conservatory because someone had spiked her water, destroying her debut and her scholarship in one stroke. The rumors that followed—drugs, instability—had been planted by a rival.
She had lost everything: her reputation, her funding, and then her mother, who died of a heart attack brought on by the stress of their debts. She had sworn never to sing again. Singing was dangerous; singing ruined lives.
— “Go to sleep, Leo,” she kissed his forehead. “I have some things to figure out.”
On the other side of town, in the penthouse of Sterling Tower, the atmosphere was much less domestic. Julian Sterling stood looking out at the city lights, a glass of scotch in his hand. The penthouse was cold, modern, and empty—much like his life.
— “Sir, I have the file,” a voice said.
Arthur, Julian’s head of security and personal investigator, placed a thin folder on the glass table.
Julian turned around.
— “That was fast.”
— “She wasn’t hard to find once we ran facial recognition against the state databases,” Arthur said. “Her name is Eleanor Vance, twenty-four. She was a waitress at The Obsidian Room. Lives in a low-income district with her younger brother, Leo, who has end-stage renal failure.”
Julian picked up the folder and opened it.
— “No criminal record?”
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