The morning sunlight reflected off the glass panels of EON's penthouse studio, casting golden streaks across the long conference table. Laptops lay open, coffee cups sat half-empty, and the faint hum of the city below pulsed through the windows like distant applause. Noah sat at the head of the table, his sleeves rolled to the elbows, his eyes sharp as ever.
Nigel, his assistant, entered briskly with a folder tucked under one arm and a tablet in hand. "Sir," he began, "I've completed the research for potential small-artist collaborations. I've narrowed it down to ten based on reach, style compatibility, and trend analytics. These are the most promising."
He placed the tablet in front of Noah, who immediately began scrolling through the profiles with precision. Each candidate had been filtered through layers of data, their talent measured in numbers and engagement graphs.
Nigel continued, "At the top, we have Elena Dune, a coastal country artist who performs at seaside venues. She's been featured in two viral travel documentaries, and her following overlaps with our target demographic—youth, wanderlust, and lifestyle content. She's projected to generate the strongest crossover engagement."
Noah nodded, reviewing the analytics beside her name. "She's consistent," he said. "Her voice blends well with acoustic sets. This one has long-term potential."
He didn't stop there. True to habit, he examined each profile in turn—folk duos, indie rappers, an electronic violinist who performed in subway tunnels. His focus was fast, methodical, and detached. He had learned early that success belonged to the disciplined, not the sentimental.
When he reached the tenth profile, however, his scrolling slowed. A small square image filled the screen: a woman sitting on a stool outside a café, a guitar balanced across her lap. Her head was tilted slightly as she sang, a soft smile curving her lips. The lighting was natural—sunlight, not stage lights. The name below the image read simply: Belle.
Noah frowned slightly. "This one," he said. "Who is she?"
Nigel leaned forward, checking the tablet. "Oh—Belle. She's a local performer. Sings outside cafés and small plazas. No major media presence. The name she uses is just 'Belle.' She placed tenth because, while her following is substantial, she refuses large collaborations. She prefers intimate venues and minimal exposure. Performing with EON would make her go viral instantly, but that's the opposite of her brand."
"She's popular, though?" Noah asked, still studying the image.
"Very," Nigel confirmed. "Her fans record her performances and post them online. She doesn't manage the accounts herself, but there's an entire network of pages dedicated to her. Her videos get thousands of views a day."
Noah's eyes narrowed. He zoomed in slightly, drawn to the familiar elegance in her smile, the calm poise in her posture. Something in him stilled. "This isn't just anyone," he murmured.
"Sir?" Nigel asked.
"This is Mirabelle Terania," Noah said quietly.
Nigel froze, then leaned closer. "That's—" He stopped mid-sentence, his eyes widening. "Oh. You're right. I didn't realize. She used a nickname, and none of the data flagged her connection to the Terania family. I didn't check further since she ranked low on engagement probability." He straightened, clearly flustered. "My apologies, sir. If I'd known—"
Noah waved off the apology, his gaze still fixed on the photo. Mirabelle—Belle—looked different. There was no trace of the poised heiress who used to orbit him, no trace of the absorbed smile or polished confidence. She looked unguarded and at peace.
"So she sings publicly now," he said quietly, more to himself than to Nigel.
"Yes," Nigel replied. "Quite successfully, it seems. Though unofficially. Her audience treats her like a hidden gem. It's actually remarkable—she's become so well-known without deliberate branding."
Noah leaned back in his chair, thoughtful. "And you said she refuses collaborations?"
"Correct," Nigel said. "Her fans love that about her. It's part of her charm. The algorithm only ranked her because of audience growth and engagement levels, but she's considered unreliable for partnerships. She values authenticity over exposure."
Noah's gaze lingered on the image one last time before he locked the tablet. "Then she's not a fit for this project," he said evenly. His voice was controlled, almost too steady. "We'll go with the country artist. She's the logical choice."
Nigel nodded, relieved to return to business. "Understood. I'll contact Elena Dune's management and start the paperwork."
When Nigel left, the room fell quiet. Noah remained seated, staring out at the vast skyline beyond the glass.
He hadn't seen Mirabelle in almost a year. She had always been there before—quiet, persistent, and hovering at the edge of his life like a melody he could never forget. He couldn't remember when she had stopped appearing, only the silence that followed. He remembered her laughter echoing through the Terania estate, her habit of showing up to every project with unshakable optimism. And then, one day, she was simply gone.
He had assumed it was maturity, or boredom, or perhaps confidence in their official engagement. But seeing her now—performing in cafés and plazas, singing for strangers—stirred something unexpected in him. A quiet thought surfaced—what did she feel when she sang like that? She looked genuinely happy in the photo.
He breathed in slowly, a faint trace of wonder in his tone. She's living her life, he thought.
He picked up his pen and returned to his notes, though his eyes wandered now and then to the locked tablet on the table.