The studio was quiet now.
Kabir and Tara's band rehersal had wrapped up hours ago, their laughter still faintly echoing in the empty corridors. The lights had dimmed to a softer glow, most of the crew long gone. Only Riva remained, standing alone on the stage that now felt too big, too hollow.
She adjusted her mic for what felt like the tenth time, her fingers fumbling slightly. The new band setup—sleek, expensive, intimidating—was still unfamiliar. The in-ear monitor buzzed with inconsistent sound, the rhythm distant one moment and too sharp the next. She tried again, only for her voice to falter halfway through the verse.
From the judges' panel, Zyan Malik leaned forward, his brow slightly furrowed."Riva, maybe you're not syncing the earpiece properly. Try readjusting the receiver again."
Rajeev Mishra chimed in, concern edging his voice."You're missing the beat, beta. Don't force it—just… listen carefully."
Riva nodded quickly, trying to appear composed, though her voice trembled with strain."I'm trying, sir. It's just not… clear in my ear."
She gave it another go. The sound wavered. The beat was there—but it slipped away like sand through her fingers.
Zyan sighed, exchanging a glance with Rajeev. It was late. They had all been there since morning, and patience—while not yet broken—was stretching thin. Riva could feel it. The unspoken tension. Her shoulders tightened under the weight of expectation, her palms clammy around the mic.
And then…
"You both can leave if you like," Megha Sinha said gently from her seat.
Her voice was calm. Unhurried."I have some production work pending. I'll stay back and help Riva with the rehearsal."
Zyan looked at her, mildly surprised."You're sure, Megha?"
She nodded. Not just politely—confidently."Yes. It won't take long."
Rajeev smiled, standing."You're always so hands-on."
"It's part of the job," she replied, her tone smooth and unreadable.
As the two male judges gathered their things and offered Riva brief, encouraging waves, she returned a nervous smile. But her focus was no longer on the equipment, or even her performance.
It was on the woman walking towards her—Megha Sinha.
Tall, composed, and quietly commanding in her cream blazer and black trousers, Megha moved like the room belonged to her. Her hair was tied in a sleek ponytail, no strand out of place. Everything about her was precise.
Including the way her eyes settled on Riva.
"May I?" she asked, gesturing to the earpiece.
Riva nodded, her throat dry.She lifted her hand to remove it, but her fingers brushed against Megha's.
Just a second.
But it was enough.
A quiet spark jolted through Riva—uninvited, but undeniable. Her breath caught as Megha gently took the earpiece from her, slipping it into her own ear without missing a beat.
She raised the mic to her lips.
"Lower the drum input by twenty percent," she instructed the crew."Bring her vocal to center pan and cut the left delay."
Then—without fanfare, without warm-up—she began to sing.
Just a few lines.
Clear. Smooth. Effortless.
Low and smoky, then rising—gliding perfectly through the chords Riva had struggled with all day. Her voice filled the studio not like a sound, but like a presence. A magnetic pull.
Riva stared.
Something deep in her chest clenched—stunned admiration, a wave of longing, and something she didn't have a name for.
When Megha stopped, she turned back.
"Sound's perfect," she said simply.Then she looked at Riva, studied her."I think you're just not wearing it right."
She stepped closer.
Close enough that Riva could smell her perfume—soft sandalwood with a trace of something darker, something like secrets.
Megha's fingers reached up again, brushing against Riva's cheekbone as she gently adjusted the earpiece.
Her touch was precise. But gentle. Intimate in a way that wasn't supposed to be.
"Tilt it slightly upward," she murmured. Her voice was softer now. Just for Riva."There. Feel the difference?"
Riva couldn't find her voice. But she nodded.
And then she sang.
This time, her voice came out stronger. Steadier. Clear.
She could hear everything now—the rhythm, the harmonies, the heart of the song. The studio didn't feel so cold anymore.
When she finished, she turned, a tentative smile lighting up her face."That worked. Thank you."
Megha's eyes lingered on her for a moment."See? Not as hard as it felt."
There was a pause. The kind that stretches just a second too long.
Riva hesitated, then took a breath."Can I ask you something?"
Megha tilted her head, curious."Of course."
Riva's voice came out in a rush."Why… why do you help me so much?"She looked down briefly, then back up."That day when Tara and I fought, you stood up for me. You've given me tips, stayed back tonight just for me…"Her voice softened."I'm just one contestant. You don't do this with everyone."
For the first time, Megha looked uncertain. Her eyes flickered, lips parting, but no answer came immediately.
When she finally spoke, her voice was quieter. More human.
"I don't know."She looked away for a second, then back at Riva."I just… don't like seeing you struggle. That's all."
Riva blinked, surprised by the honesty."That's all?"
Megha exhaled."Maybe not. But it's the only answer I have right now."
It wasn't a complete answer.But it was real.
Riva smiled faintly, something loosening in her chest."You're really complicated, you know that?"
That sparked a shift in Megha.
She raised an eyebrow."People say that a lot."Then, with a smirk:"But I think I'm very straightforward. Other people are just slow."
Riva let out a soft laugh—surprised at herself for doing it, surprised at how it made Megha's eyes soften again.
Then Megha tilted her head. Her gaze sharpened slightly.
"You're also very complicated, Riva."
Riva looked up, caught off guard."Me?"
Megha gave a slight shrug."Yeah. Most of the time you're like this scared little kitten, always tiptoeing around. But then with your…"She paused, the word deliberate—"friend…"—"you're all bubbly and giggly. Like a different person."
Riva felt her breath catch.
There was a shift. A change in tone. That last word—friend—wasn't neutral. It was edged.
"She seems quite possessive of you," Megha added casually. But her gaze didn't waver.
Tara.
Riva realized instantly. Megha had seen the way Tara mock-flirted with her earlier.
Was Megha actually… jealous?
Riva's heart stuttered. She spoke quickly, her tone light, but urgent.
"Tara? Oh no. We're just friends. She's super dramatic, yeah, but there's nothing between us. Not from her side. And definitely not from mine."
She didn't know why it felt so important to clarify.But she saw it—the way Megha's posture eased. Her arms uncrossed.
Barely a shift. But it was there.
Megha didn't smile. But something in her had relaxed.
She nodded once."Good."
Then, after a pause—her voice low:
"You should focus on the show."
Riva blinked."I… I will."
Megha gave her a long look.
Not stern. Not soft.
Something else.
Then she stepped down from the stage."Goodnight, Riva."
Riva swallowed."Goodnight… Ma'am."
And just like that, Megha walked away—poised, unreadable, her footsteps echoing in the quiet.
Riva stood alone, mic still in hand.
She didn't get the answers she wanted.
But something had shifted.
In her.
In Megha.
It wasn't quite a beginning. Not yet.
But it was something real.
Something worth holding on to.