By evening, the internet was ablaze.
The clip of Noah Rolston walking into a crowded street performance and presenting a massive bouquet of roses to a young indie artist named Belle had spread like wildfire across every social platform, fan page, and entertainment outlet in existence. Every angle had been captured. Every word transcribed. Every subtle gesture dissected in microscopic detail.
"You're always asleep. And my messages—"
"Reply when I text you."
Those two lines alone had already become trending audio.
#NoahAndBelle
#EONLeaderRomance
#StreetSingerFiancée
#WhoIsBelle
At first, EON's fandom was split between disbelief and awe.
"There's no way that's real."
"This has to be for a secret project."
"He wouldn't just confess like that in public… right?"
But others—especially those who remembered Noah's on-air engagement confession weeks earlier—connected the dots instantly.
"A childhood friend?"
"The mystery fiancée?"
"It's her. It has to be her."
The revelation detonated across social media. Fans scrambled to find out who Belle was, flooding her pages overnight.
When they did, the discovery stunned them. Belle's accounts weren't glamorous or curated like a celebrity's. Her posts were soft, personal—moments of laughter with friends, snippets of street performances, little captions about sunlight and music. Her voice, already beloved by her modest fanbase, captivated new audiences instantly.
"She sounds like a dream."
"Now I get why he fell for her."
"If this is a PR stunt, it's the best one I've ever seen."
Her comment sections overflowed with hearts, shocked admiration, and declarations of loyalty.
But what truly caught everyone off guard wasn't just her talent—it was her community. Belle's longtime fans stood firm against the chaos. They urged others not to crowd her performances or bombard her with questions.
"Please don't ruin what makes her shows special."
"She sings for people, not for fame."
"If you love Belle, respect her peace."
Even skeptical EON fans began to soften toward her. She wasn't chasing the spotlight. She wasn't pretending. She was simply a girl who loved to sing—and somehow, that girl had captured Noah Rolston's heart.
Then, inevitably, the internet began to dig deeper. Within days, sharp-eyed users connected the dots. Belle wasn't just an indie darling—she was Mirabelle Terania, heiress to the Terania empire and Creative Director of the nation's largest media conglomerate.
Clips and old interviews resurfaced: her calm speeches at galas, her sharp insights during panel discussions, her elegant poise in press photos. The revelation sent shockwaves through the fandom.
"Wait—that's Mirabelle Terania?!"
"No wonder she's so graceful—she's literal royalty."
"So Belle isn't chasing fame… she built it."
And then came the twist that broke the internet entirely: Noah Rolston, the country's beloved prodigy, had once been the Terania family's foster son. Old photos began to circulate—grainy images from piano recitals and garden parties, showing a dark-haired boy standing beside a smiling girl with ribbons in her hair.
"It's childhood-friends-to-lovers in real life!"
"He's loved her all along!"
In a single night, the rumor transformed into legend—a fairytale rewritten in real time.
Even Belle's own fan club was in uproar. Their group chat was pure pandemonium.
"She knew him this whole time?!"
"I can't believe she didn't tell us!"
"She's so humble—I adore her even more now."
Some fans cried, some laughed, others immediately began editing romantic fan videos of Belle's street performances over EON's love songs. Through all the noise, one sentiment echoed everywhere: Belle—sweet, soulful Belle—was impossible not to love.
Across town, Noah sat in the backseat of his car, scrolling through the tidal wave of posts, clips, and comments flooding his phone. He watched the footage of the performance again—her startled gasp, her trembling hands around the roses, the disbelief in her eyes as she whispered his name.
The comment sections made him chuckle softly.
"They look so good together."
"He smiled for real."
"That was pure adoration."
He stopped on a photo someone had taken mid-moment—Belle holding the bouquet, sunlight catching her hair, petals drifting around her like a dream.
Noah's thumb lingered on the image as his expression softened; finally, everyone knew—everyone who had ever wondered, speculated, or imagined her as single, every fan, every admirer, every dreamer—they all knew.
She wasn't free to chase. She wasn't waiting to be found. She was his.