The wind slapped Ellie's face like an icy hand on the rooftop of a sixteenth-floor building in Los Angeles.
Below her, the city lights stretched endlessly, like a graveyard of forgotten dreams. Every light was someone's hope. Every building, a promise.
And Ellie Harper, thirty-five years old, was a woman who had fulfilled none of those promises. Invisible. Forgotten.
The empty pill bottle trembled in her hand. Xanax. The kind her doctor had said to use "only on really bad days."
She had swallowed them all in the last two hours.
"Today's my death day. It can't get worse than this," she thought bitterly, smiling through the sting.
She stepped closer to the edge. The gravel beneath her shoes crackled like a suspense scene about to reach its climax. She looked down.
Her head spun. Her stomach churned, though she couldn't tell if it was from the pills or the height.
It was ironic, really choosing such a high place to die, given her fear of heights.
She pulled her phone from her jacket pocket.
Just one last time. She just wanted to look one last time.
Instagram opened. Her last post: a thirty-second clip of her singing "Hallelujah." She'd shared it seven hours ago.
Twelve likes. Four comments.
The usual.
The first comment read: "Nice voice but your face doesn't even fit in the frame lol" followed by a big pink pig emoji.
She knew society didn't like fat women. But she was exhausted by how everything somehow came back to her size.
The second comment: "Fix your face before your voice, fatty."
"If I could fix it, I wouldn't be here," she muttered, with a broken smile.
The third comment: "Nobody asked for this."
The fourth one was from her mother: "Delete this embarrassment before someone sees it!"
It was posted five minutes ago.
Her mother had always been ashamed of her and maybe she was right. A famous size-zero model like Halley Cortez shouldn't have a daughter like her.
That was what society and her mother believed.
Ellie dropped the phone. The screen went black.
No one will even notice, she thought.
She closed her eyes. Tears streamed down her cheeks.
The wind pierced her skin.
She lifted one foot.
She was ready. The nightmare was about to end.
"Before you jump," said a calm, British-accented voice, "how about singing one last song?"
Ellie froze. Her heart pounded in her chest.
For a second, she thought it was the voice of an angel or maybe a demon. Wasn't suicide supposed to be a sin?
Then the voice came again, from behind her this time. Slowly, she turned.
By the rooftop door stood a man in a perfectly tailored dark suit.
His hair was a striking mix of silver and black.
He looked mid-forties handsome enough to be a model.
In his hands, two coffee cups.
His face showed no fear, no concern.
Just… curiosity.
"Who are you?" Ellie whispered, her lips trembling with a mix of fear and confusion.
The man stepped closer measured, confident steps.
He stopped three meters from her and held out one of the cups.
"My name's James Valentine," he said. "And you're Ellie Harper. Or by your birth name, Emily Eleanor Harper. Two years at Berklee College of Music. You dropped out when your mother got sick. Over the past seven years, you've sent seven hundred and forty-three demo submissions to record labels."
Ellie's breath caught.
"How... how do you know that?"
"You didn't get a single reply," James continued as if she hadn't spoken. "You've got three hundred and twenty-four followers on Spotify. One thousand two hundred on YouTube. Nine thousand on Instagram mostly bots. Your real engagement rate is zero point three percent."
"You're… following me?" Her voice trembled.
James smiled a strange, sorrowful smile.
"I've spent six months looking for someone like you. Someone with the biggest gap between talent and visibility.
And here you are on a rooftop. Perfect timing, though I suppose I'm a little late."
"Perfect?" Ellie snapped. "I'm about to die, and you think this is perfect?"
"No," James said, his tone cool. "I think it's tragic that someone this talented lost to the system.
But the timing is perfect. Because right now, you have nothing left to lose. And that makes you… priceless."
Ellie said nothing.
There was something in his eyes a calculation.
A plan.
A sly smile that said he was dangerous, yet oddly understanding.
He held the cup out to her.
"Colombian blend. Two sugars. Oat milk. The same coffee you buy every morning at Café Liberté."
Ellie looked at the cup. Then at him. Then at the cup again.
She really did love that coffee. One last sip before dying, she thought.
She reached out and took it.
When his fingers brushed hers, warmth spread through her skin.
He was real. This was real.
Not a hallucination.
She took a step back from the edge.
"You're… insane," she said.
With a roguish grin, he replied, "Frequently accused. Never proven."
He took a sip of his coffee, glancing at the city skyline.
"You know what I see when I look at you?"
"A fat failure," Ellie said bitterly.
"I see a weapon."
Ellie flinched. She'd been called everything from pig to waste of space but never that.
"What?"
James turned to her. Their eyes met.
And in that moment, Ellie saw the exhaustion behind his gaze an anger too, sharp but restrained.
"The music industry is built on lies," he said. "Perfect bodies. Auto-tuned voices. Manufactured personalities. Everything fake. Everything calculated.
And you…"
He took another step closer.
"You are what they fear most. Real."
Ellie laughed, a dry, bitter sound.
"Real? I'm nothing. Invisible. Nobody even looks at me."
"Because you've been playing their game," James said. Then his expression shifted something almost like excitement.
"Tomorrow, you'll play mine.
If you've got the guts."
He pulled a sleek black card from his pocket. Silver letters gleamed in the rooftop light:
James Valentine – Talent Manager.
"Tomorrow morning. Nine a.m. At your apartment. Be ready. You finally have a chance to stop being invisible."
Ellie looked at the card. She knew that name. James Valentine the legendary talent manager.
He made stars. And destroyed them.
Rumor had it the list of careers he'd ruined was longer than the ones he'd launched.
They called him the Devil.
"You're…" Ellie swallowed hard. "You're the guy who ended Mandy Reeves' career. And Jake Morrison's "
"Destroyed them?" A shadow crossed James's face. "Or freed them from their illusions? Perspective, Miss Harper."
"Why me?" Her voice was barely audible. "Why choose me?"
This time, his smile was almost gentle.
"Because you don't believe in conspiracies. Because you don't fit into their mold.
And because…"
He paused. Looked straight into her eyes.
"I heard your voice. Three months ago. Open mic night, that small bar in Santa Monica. You sang Someone Like You. Eleven out of twelve people ignored you.
But I..."
He went quiet.
"I heard you. Twenty years in this business, and it was the first time I'd felt something real in a song."
Ellie's chest tightened. She remembered that night, how humiliated she'd felt when no one had clapped.
"But no one " she whispered.
"No one listened. Because they didn't see you. People decide in the first three seconds whether someone fits their mold. You didn't.
So they looked away.
But they'll see you now. I promise."
He placed the card in her hand.
"Tomorrow at nine. I'll be at your door. With a team.
Your life changes then.
Just promise me one thing: trust me for one month. Thirty days.
If after thirty days you still want to die…"
He shrugged.
"No one will stop you.
But give me a chance.
Give yourself a chance."
Ellie looked at the card. Then at the city. Then at James.
"This doesn't make sense," she said. "You're a stranger. And I..."
"You have nothing to lose," James interrupted softly. "That's your greatest advantage."
Silence settled between them. The wind howled. The coffee rippled in her cup.
Her heart was still pounding.
Who was this man? What did he really want from her?
It felt surreal, like something out of a fairytale.
What was it called again? Ah, yes! Cinderella.
Only this time, her fairy godmother was infuriatingly handsome.
She looked at him again. That smirk. Those sharp eyes.
If this was her guardian angel, he was sinfully good-looking.
And then… she made a choice.
"Fine," she said. Her voice was steadier now. "One month."
James nodded.
"Perfect. Now step away from the edge and go home. Did you take sleeping pills?"
She hesitated.
"Xanax."
"How many?"
"All of them."
James's eyebrows shot up. "Bloody hell." He pulled out his phone.
"I'm calling emergency services."
"No!" Ellie panicked. "I..."
"I can't have my next star dead by morning," James said sharply. "The ambulance will be here in ten minutes. They'll pump your stomach, run a psych eval. Call your mother, tell her to stay with you.
Otherwise, when my team shows up tomorrow, you'll be in no condition to open the door."
He lifted the phone to his ear.
"Yes, hi. There's a woman on the rooftop, sixteenth floor. Overdose. She's still conscious."
The world tilted. Ellie's legs gave out. She sank to the ground.
James crouched beside her, still on the call, and draped his jacket over her shoulders.
"Breathe," he said gently. "Deep breaths. Your life starts tomorrow. But first, you have to survive tonight."
In the distance, sirens wailed.
Ellie looked up.
James's face glowed under the city lights, mysterious, dangerous… and, somehow, safe.
"Why?" she whispered. "Why are you doing this?"
James smiled a sad, weary smile.
"Because once upon a time, I stood on that edge too.
And no one stopped me."
The sirens grew louder.
And that night, on that rooftop, Ellie Harper's old life ended.
Her new one was about to begin.