October wind sliced through Washington Square Park like a knife, but Aria Chen paid no heed to it. Her practiced fingers danced over the guitar strings, her voice floated above the ambient noise of Manhattan's evening rush hour. Street performers were everywhere on the fountain plaza, and she'd boldly claimed her favorite spot by the arch: close enough to grab tourists, far enough from subway musicians to not clash.
"And I would give you everything, every broken piece of me…' The words came straight from her heart, soul, raw and earnest. A small crowd had gathered, some were swaying, others filming. She had learned to look past the cameras. In 2024, everything was content.
Her guitar case was propped open in front of her, littered with crumpled bills and coins. Thirty-seven bucks in so far. Not enough. Never enough.
Aria's phone buzzed from inside her jacket pocket; it was most probably Mei checking up on if she had paid rent. She dismissed that thought and lost herself in her music. This was her therapy, her escape, her defiance against a world that taught starving and surrendering are the two destinies of an artist.
She was twenty-six and refusing either.
"Excuse me, miss." A deep voice interrupted her last note.
Aria's gaze flew open. She had mastered the polite dismissal-art: smile, nod, continue playing. But this man just tossed all survival laws for the street right out of the window.
He was tall, easily six and some over, and dark hair was styled in this careless one-that-screamed-expensive-barber-way. The charcoal suit must have cost more than six months' rent. But it was his eyes that held her in thrall-steel gray, intense, and fixed on her with discomforting severity.
"That was remarkable," he said, conveying great authority even with the simple adjective.
"Thanks." Aria began stuffing away her guitar, her street instincts jarring awake. Rich men in expensive suits didn't compliment street musicians without an agenda. "If you liked it, tips are welcome."
His lips quirked up—not quite a smile, more an acknowledgment of her sass. He brought out his wallet, and Aria thought he would slam a twenty in or maybe a fifty if feeling generous.
Five hundred-dollar bills were placed into her case.
Her fingers froze on the strap of her guitar. "That's - you don't have to-".
He'd taken me by surprise and had an air of smug confidence. "Well, I'm not paying for the performance. I'm making an investment; call it a down payment."
Raising herself straight, this time suspicion had replaced shock. "A down payment for what?" She wanted to know.
"For your talent. I need a performer for an event, private gala, high-profile guests, and great exposure," he said, bringing forth one of his business cards held between index and thumb. "If you are interested."
Reluctantly, she accepted the card. The name embossed there in silver momentarily took her breath away.
Dominic Hawthorne
Founder & CEO
Hawthorne Ventures
Even Aria, who went well out of her way to ignore the business world, knew that name. Five years back, Hawthorne Ventures had set the tech world on its head and turned Dominic Hawthorne into a household name among the Forbes crowd. It was rumored that he had invested in every little bit from AI startups to green energy and all turned to gold in his hands.
And here he was, standing in Washington Square Park, looking at her like she was some riddle he intended to solve.
"Mr. Hawthorne—"
"Dominic," he interrupted. "And you are?"
She hesitated but imagined he could Google her anyway if he wanted. "Aria Chen," she replied.
"Aria." He drew her name out like he was trying it on for size. "Suitable for a musician. Tell me, Aria, what do you really want?"
That caught her completely off guard. Not, 'Are you available?' or 'What's your rate?'—but 'What do you want?' As if he could see through her street performer exterior into the dreams she had buried in a box somewhere deep down inside herself.
"To be taken seriously," she candidly replied before wishing she hadn't. Never show your vulnerability in front of predators, and men like Dominic Hawthorne were apex predators in expensive suits.
Instead of mockery, she saw his expression soften just a bit. "Then let me give you a stage where you cannot be ignored. One night. One performance. Twenty thousand dollars."
Everything in Aria shifted. Twenty thousand dollars? That was six months' worth of tuition for music school. That was the roof repairs she had been postponing. That was breathing room in a city designed to suffocate dreamers.
"What's the catch?" She had grown in Queens, and this is how things always are in the city without strings.
"No catch. You perform for two hours at my company's annual gala. Original songs preferred, but I'll leave the setlist to you. Black-tie event, about three hundred guests, mostly tech executives and investors."
"Why me?" The question burst out before she could stop it. "You could hire anyone. Real musicians with actual careers."
"I could," Dominic agreed. "But I don't want anyone. I want you. I've been watching you perform here for three weeks, and-"
"What's your definition of watching?" Alarm bells clashed in Aria's mind.
He raised a hand. "Not stalking. I work nearby, and I walk through the park most evenings. You're always here, rain or shine, pouring your heart into songs that deserve better than spare change and Instagram clips."
Aria wanted to be offended, but she couldn't find the lie in his words.
"Think about it," Dominic continued, and produced a phone from his inner pocket. "That card has my personal number. The gala's in three weeks. If I don't hear from you in forty-eight hours, I'll assume you're not interested."
He turned to leave, then paused. "For what it's worth, Aria, I don't make investment proposals lightly. I recognize potential when I see it. The question is whether you see it in yourself."
With that, he walked away, leaving Aria standing in the October wind with a guitar case full of hundred-dollar bills and a business card that felt like it weighed a thousand pounds.
All around, life went on in that park for an evening. Street performers played, tourists posed for their photographs, students dashed to late classes. Aria's world narrowed down to two: there, she might play safe in her comfortable struggle or stake a chance on the most dangerous type of man—those who could see through her defenses and thought she was worth twenty thousand dollars.
She gazed down the card again. Dominic Hawthorne. The Titan of Silicon Alley. A man who could buy and sell her whole neighborhood with mere pocket change.
What in the world had she got herself into?
The buzz of her phone once more—this has to be Mei. Aria slung her guitar onto her shoulder, scooped up the money from her guitar case (discerningly separating Dominic's five hundreds from her day's earnings on the streets), and was stumping toward the subway.
She had a time frame of forty-eight hours to determine whether she had the guts to step into the world of Dominic Hawthorne.
The bookies would have bet against her.
Aria was never smart when it came down to protecting herself.