Morning sunlight spilled across the penthouse windows, cutting through the pale haze of dawn. The city outside was already waking—honking cars, the hum of conversation and the steady rhythm of life below. Inside, Noah Rolston sat at the long marble dining table, a cup of coffee in one hand and his phone in the other.
It had been several days since he had first discovered Mirabelle's videos. What had started as curiosity had quietly turned into habit. Every morning before meetings, rehearsals, or interviews, he searched her name. He told himself it was for creative inspiration—research on emerging artists and vocal trends—but he knew that was a lie.
Now, her voice had become part of his routine.
He scrolled through a new video as his coffee cooled beside him. Mirabelle stood beneath the shade of a tree, sunlight breaking into soft patterns across her face. She was laughing with a few regulars—a woman holding shopping bags, a man in a barista's apron, and two teenagers sharing a drink. She chatted with them as she tuned her guitar, her voice light and easy. When she began to sing, her voice seemed to breathe life into the air, warm and unrestrained.
Noah's chest tightened. He couldn't remember the last time they had spoken, texted, or even seen each other. They were supposed to be engaged, yet they lived like strangers.
He set the phone down and stared out at the skyline, trying to make sense of it. Just over a year ago, Mirabelle had been everywhere in his life, but now there was nothing—no calls, no messages, not even an obligatory congratulatory note when EON made its debut. He checked his phone again, scrolling through old messages just to be sure, but there were no missed calls, no unread texts, and no emails—it was as if, the moment his career had taken off, she had quietly erased herself from his life.
A strange discomfort prickled in his chest. He wasn't sure if it was guilt, confusion—or something else entirely.
Finally, he exhaled and pressed the intercom button. "Nigel, come in."
Moments later, his assistant entered, tablet in hand. "Good morning, sir."
"I need you to do a background check." Noah said, trying to sound casual. "On Mir—on Belle. Just a standard check. I want to know what she's been doing recently."
Nigel blinked but nodded. He didn't ask questions. "Understood. I'll compile everything."
The report arrived three days later.
Nigel placed a sleek black folder on Noah's desk. "As requested, sir. Mirabelle Terania—also known as Belle—has maintained minimal public exposure aside from her performances. She still oversees several major divisions within the Terania Group, primarily in creative and marketing sectors. Her performance metrics are excellent—projects completed ahead of schedule, staff retention high. She's well-respected within the company."
He scrolled through his tablet as he spoke. "In her personal time, she continues to perform locally. Her schedule is consistent but unpublicized. I've included photographs from recent appearances. They're all candid—taken by fans."
Noah opened the folder. Each photo struck him harder than he expected. In one, she stood beneath an umbrella on a rainy afternoon, laughing as water splashed over her shoes. Her hair was loose and damp, a few strands clinging to her cheek. Her eyes were bright, her expression unguarded.
In another, she sat on a curb between sets, sipping coffee from a paper cup, surrounded by the same friends he'd seen in her videos. She looked alive—not dazzling or staged, but at ease. She carried such quiet grace.
"She's done very well for herself," Nigel said evenly. "Balanced, productive, independent—and apparently beloved by her community."
Noah kept flipping through the photos, a faint, unbidden smile tugging at his lips as the thought crossed his mind—she was beautiful. He leaned back, running a finger along the edge of one photograph. It was strange. He didn't know why he had never noticed before. She had always been there, but this version of her was different—stronger and undeniably happier.
Nigel glanced at his tablet again. "There's one more thing, sir. It seems she attends every major EON concert. Records confirm her ticket purchases under an alias. She blends into the crowd—never uses her family's name, never calls attention to herself. But she's always there."
Noah's head lifted. "Every concert?"
"Yes. Even the international ones. According to fan threads, she's well-known among EON fans as a loyal supporter. Some say she's one of your biggest admirers—especially of you. There are even compilation videos of her reactions during shows. People love how emotional she gets."
He handed Noah the tablet. The thumbnail showed Mirabelle in a concert crowd, her hair braided loosely, eyes bright as she clapped along to the rhythm. The title read: "Belle's Adorable Reactions to EON's Live Performances!"
Noah hesitated, then pressed play.
There she was—singing along, cheering, even tearing up during one of their slower songs. She looked so genuinely moved that it caught him off guard.
Scrolling further, he found another video: "Belle Reacts to EON's 'Eclipse Theory' Music Video!" In it, she sat at a café table with a friend, watching the screen intently. Her cheeks flushed when his face appeared during the chorus. He's so focused," she said, smiling. "You can tell he's layering emotion through structure—the modulation in the bridge mirrors the lyrics perfectly. It's incredible how they built that sound—it's so deliberate, so thoughtful."
Noah blinked, surprised by the depth of her words. She spoke about his music with a clarity and precision that only true musicians possessed. She wasn't just a fan—she understood the craft. He had almost forgotten that Mirabelle had graduated at the top of her class in one of the country's most prestigious music academies. Back then, he had assumed she enrolled only to follow in his footsteps, a gesture of devotion rather than ambition. Yet hearing her now—analyzing his work with such precision— It struck him that even if she had chosen the path for him, she had still walked it with genuine discipline and intent.
He watched another clip—her clapping with unrestrained joy when EON won the Harmonia Rising Star award, then laughing shyly as fans teased her in the comments for blushing.
Somewhere between the laughter and her quiet praise, something warm unfurled in his chest. Pride. He wasn't sure why, but it filled him all the same—a quiet, glowing satisfaction that this woman, this grounded and radiant version of Mirabelle, was his.
"She's changed in so many ways," he thought as he closed the tablet, "but she's still as supportive as ever." The realization settled over him quietly—she was, simply, remarkable.
He turned toward the window, the city gleaming beneath him. He thought of her laughter in those videos, her soft voice singing beneath open skies and her eyes shining in a crowd of strangers as she cheered for him. And as he sat there, surrounded by everything he had built—success, wealth and acclaim—Noah Rolston realized something quietly profound:
For all his triumphs, he had never missed anyone the way he suddenly missed her.