The Triumph of Single Ladies

That morning, Sasha Smith, a twenty-two years old girl, sat cross-legged on the couch with her eyes fixed on the TV. She was watching Charlotte Holland who stood on a bright stage, speaking to a hall full of cheering women.

Charlotte smiled before she spoke.

"Your life is your own," she said. "Don't wait for someone to choose you. Choose yourself. Build your dream. Stand tall, even when no one believes in you yet."

Sasha leaned forward, almost whispering to herself.

"One day... that will be me. I can feel it."

She took a deep breath, wondering if she could write a song about it.

Behind her, heels clicked on the floor. Her mother, Portia McDonald Smith, dressed in a neat blouse and jacket, walked in holding her handbag and car keys. She stopped when she saw Sasha staring at Charlotte with wide eyes.

She raised an eyebrow, smiling slightly.

"Again? Watching Charlotte first thing in the morning?"

Sasha shrugged, but her face said everything.

"She's amazing, Mom. Look at her. She's so confident."

Portia glanced at the screen. Charlotte was saying:

"Don't let anyone make you smaller. Your dreams are not too big. Your voice matters."

Portia nodded slowly.

"True words," she said. "But remember; confidence starts inside you, not on TV."

Sasha let out a soft laugh.

"Working on it."

Portia walked closer and brushed a stray curl from Sasha's face.

"I'm heading out," she said gently. "I have an interview this morning with Dr. Ava Adams. I'm doing a feature on successful women working in fields men think they own."

Sasha's eyes widened.

"Ava Adams? The brain doctor?"

"Yes."

"You're going to her house?"

Portia nodded.

"She agreed to meet me before she goes to the hospital. Very kind of her."

Sasha looked at Charlotte again on the screen, then back at her mother.

"Do you think Charlotte ever met Ava?"

Portia gave a small smile.

"They run in the same circles. Strong women always find each other."

Sasha bit her lip, thinking.

"Do you think Charlotte would like my music?"

Portia tapped her daughter's shoulder with her keys.

"Charlotte likes any woman who fights for her dream. Now, don't forget your music lessons today."

Sasha nodded quickly.

"I won't. I'm leaving in twenty minutes."

Portia stepped back, checking her watch.

"Good. And Sasha..."

She paused.

"Stop doubting yourself. You have something special."

Sasha's cheeks warmed.

"Thanks, Mom."

Portia turned and headed for the door. Sasha watched her mother move with her usual mix of confidence and strength, the walk of someone who had raised someone alone.

Outside, Portia unlocked her small silver car. She took a deep breath before getting in, smoothing her jacket as if preparing for battle. Then she started the engine and drove off toward Dr. Ava Adams' house, the morning sun catching on her windshield as she turned onto the main road.

Inside a quiet bedroom, Dr. Ava Adams sat beside her husband, Ian, who rested in a wheelchair near the window. Morning light touched his face, but he didn't move much. His right side was weak, almost numb. The left hand twitched slightly on the armrest.

His stroke had been severe; an ischemic stroke on the left side of the brain, the kind that steals speech and movement. He could hear. He could see. But his body no longer listened to him.

Ava placed a soft hand on his shoulder and checked the small pillbox on the bedside table. Her movements were gentle, as both a doctor and a wife.

She opened the box and held out two pills with a glass of water.

"Okay, Ian... time for your morning medicine," she said quietly. "This will help your blood flow. And this one is for the swelling."

Ian's eyes moved toward her face. He couldn't speak, but his lips parted slightly. The frustration was visible, and one could see pain in his eyes.

Ava slid one hand behind his neck and lifted him just enough to help him swallow the pills. He made a small choking sound, then breathed out hard through his nose.

Ava stroked his cheek.

"I know... it's hard," she whispered. "But you're doing well. Better than last week."

Ian blinked slowly, as if trying to say something. The left corner of his mouth twitched, a broken attempt at a smile.

Ava smiled back, though it was tired and sad around the edges.

She checked his legs next, moving them gently to stop stiffness.

She massaged his right arm, the one he couldn't lift on his own.

Ian breathed heavily, eyes following her hands.

"Today is my off-duty," Ava said while working. "I'm glad I can be home with you."

Ian's eyes softened.

Ava brushed his hair away from his forehead.

"But..." she said with a small sigh, "I do have one thing to do today."

Ian blinked, waiting.

"A journalist is coming to interview me," she explained. "Her name is Portia McDonald Smith. She's doing a story about strong women in male-dominated fields."

Ian's eyes widened a little, almost proud.

"She'll be here soon," Ava continued. "So when she arrives, I'll need to leave you alone for a short time. Hanna will be in the hallway. I won't be gone long."

Ian tried to shift his left hand, as if to say he understood.

Ava touched his hand gently.

"It's alright. I'll be back before you know it."

She was about to say more when a knock came from the hallway.

A muffled voice followed.

"Dr. Adams?" It was Hanna, the maid. "There's a woman here... she says her name is Portia Smith. She wants to see you."

Ava looked toward the door, then back at Ian.

"That must be her," she said softly.

She smoothed Ian's blanket and leaned closer.

"I'll go talk to her," she whispered. "You rest, okay?"

Ian's eyes stayed on her, wide and calm but helpless.

Ava gave him one last touch on the cheek.

"I'm right here, Ian. I'll be back soon."

Then she straightened her coat, took a quiet breath, and walked out of the room to meet Portia.

Ava walked down the quiet hallway, smoothing her hair as she moved. She could hear the soft clink of a teacup in the living room; someone trying to sit politely in a stranger's home. When she stepped in, Portia Smith was already on the couch. She was sitting straight with her notebook resting on her lap. She looked up quickly.

"Good morning, Mrs. Smith," Ava said, smiling as she took her seat opposite. "I'm glad you made it."

Portia returned a small smile. "Thank you for seeing me, Dr. Adams."

Hanna stepped in with a tray; glasses, a jug of water, and a small plate of biscuits. She placed it gently on the coffee table and slipped out without a sound.

Ava folded her hands on her lap. "Please, help yourself," she said.

Portia nodded, pouring herself some water. Her fingers shook a little as she lifted the glass. "Thank you."

"Is this space fine for the interview?" Ava asked.

"Yes... yes, it's perfect." Portia reached into her handbag and pulled out a voice recorder, a pen, and a thin folder. She set them neatly before her. "I hope you don't mind if I record."

"Go ahead," Ava said.

Portia clicked the recorder on. "Alright," she murmured, taking a small breath as if steadying herself. "Let's begin." She looked up. "Dr. Adams, how does it feel working in a field that is, well... mostly men?"

Ava's face relaxed into confidence. "It feels normal to me now," she said. "But I won't pretend it was easy. Being one of the few women in neurology meant I had to speak louder, stand straighter, and prove myself twice as much. I learned early that skill beats anyone's expectations."

Portia nodded quickly, jotting something down. "What would you say kept you going?"

Ava gave a soft laugh. "Stubbornness, maybe. And wanting to help people who feel helpless. The brain is complicated. I like complicated things."

Portia's eyes lifted again. "Did anyone ever try to stop you?"

"Oh yes," Ava said plainly. "A professor once told me I should try a 'lighter' specialty. Something more 'feminine.' I told him I wasn't here to decorate the hospital. I was here to work."

Portia let out a breath, almost a laugh, then took another note. "That's... impressive."

A moment passed. Portia hesitated, then asked, "Do you think young women can still face these kinds of challenges today?"

Ava leaned forward lightly. "They do. But they're not alone anymore. That's the difference."

Portia looked down at her page, but her focus wasn't there. Her eyes softened, drifting somewhere far away, and she stopped writing. Her mouth tightened, like someone holding back something deep.

Ava noticed. "Mrs. Smith? Are you alright?"

Portia blinked twice, and looked up again. "Sorry. My mind... went back a bit."

Ava waited gently.

Portia exhaled. "My husband left years ago. Sasha was nine. I... I guess sometimes my mind goes back there when I think about women fighting through things." Her voice cracked for just a moment. She brushed it off quickly, straightened her shoulders. "But let's continue."

Ava nodded respectfully and shifted the conversation. "You're strong to have raised your daughter alone. I admire that."

Portia just nodded, eyes flicking down again.

Ava continued, "I understand hardships too. My husband, Ian, was not always like this. He was active, loud, always walking around fixing something, teasing me for working too much." Her smile faded to sadness. "The stroke came suddenly. One afternoon he said his arm felt heavy. By evening he couldn't speak."

Portia covered her mouth lightly. "That must have been terrible, Doctor."

"It was," Ava admitted. "But he hears me. He understands. And I'm grateful he's still here."

Portia leaned forward. "How do you stay strong for him? For yourself?"

Ava's eyes softened. "You don't choose to be strong. You just keep going. That's all."

They continued... questions about Ava's routine, her work, her hopes for women in science. Ava answered them all with confidence. Portia scribbled and nodded, more relaxed now.

Eventually, she closed her notebook. "That will be all for today," she said, smiling. "Thank you for your time, Dr. Adams. Truly."

Ava stood with her. "It was my pleasure."

Hanna appeared at the doorway as if sensing the moment. Portia gave her a polite nod, then followed Ava toward the front door.

"Have a safe trip back," Ava said.

"I will," Portia replied, stepping outside. She offered one last grateful smile before walking to her car.

Ava watched her drive off down the quiet street. Then she turned and walked back through the hallway toward Ian's room; toward the man she still loved fiercely.

She pushed the door open carefully.

"I'm back," she whispered, and their conversation resumed.

Meanwhile, Sasha reached the front gate of Melody Lane Music School, her backpack hanging loosely from one shoulder. The yard was quiet, just the soft morning wind brushing past the trees.

She stepped under the shade of a big jacaranda tree and set her bag down. For a moment, she closed her eyes. Something sad came to her mind; the same bittersweet she carried for years.

A sad tune slipped out of her mouth, and her voice trembled.

"Dad... where are you now?"

She lowered her eyes as tears started to form.

"Do you ever think of me... or did you forget who I was?"

She hugged her elbows as she continued.

"If I could see you... just once... I'd ask if you're okay.

Mom says she doesn't know where you went.

She doesn't know if you're alive... or gone forever..."

Her voice cracked on the last word. She wiped her cheek with the back of her hand, embarrassed even though she thought she was alone.

Suddenly, someone clapped loudly and Sasha jumped.

A laughing voice followed, full of energy.

"Wow! Now that is a voice that can bring clouds to tears!"

Sasha spun around and saw Alexine Harrison walking toward her, hands in her hoodie pockets, short hair brushing her cheek, kicking a stone with her sneaker. She grinned wide, mischievously.

"Girl," Alexine said, shaking her head. "You sing like an angel who's tired of heaven."

Sasha tried to hide her smile and she waved her hand.

"Oh, stop it, Alexine. You're being silly."

Alexine smirked. "Silly? Me? Never. I'm a serious DJ student. Very serious. I know what I mean just like I mix the beat."

Sasha laughed, though she still looked a little embarrassed. "You sound ridiculous."

"Ridiculous and talented," Alexine said, winking. "But not as talented as you. You keep singing like that, and you'll make the stars shine up in the sky."

Sasha shook her head, trying not to smile. "Please, Alexine... you don't have to say all that."

"I do," Alexine said. "Because it's true. And because if I don't hype you up, who will?" She pointed a thumb toward the school building. "Anyway, let's go. Everyone's already inside. If we take too long, Mr. Gray will start the lesson without us."

Sasha blinked. "Already? I thought we were early."

"Nope," Alexine said. "You were too busy singing sad songs like a tragic movie heroine."

Sasha picked up her bag, rolling her eyes but smiling shyly. "Fine, fine. Let's go before he gives us that long lecture again."

Alexine bumped Sasha's shoulder gently. "That's the spirit. Come on."

They walked toward the classroom side by side; Sasha still thinking about her father, and Alexine humming a beat under her breath.

After some few seconds, they pushed open the door to Studio Room 3, and energetic sounds greeted them; notes from guitars, someone playing the keyboard, someone was on drums, and a few students were humming as they warmed up their voices.

The room itself looked like a place made for young artists:

posters of famous singers on the walls, shelves stacked with beat pads and headphones, colorful lights were around the ceiling, and a big whiteboard covered with music notes from yesterday's lesson. A few amps buzzed in the background. Someone was tuning a guitar near the window. Someone else was adjusting a microphone stand.

The students looked the part too; loose hoodies, chain necklaces, paint on their jeans, hair dyed in strange colors. Some boys tapped rhythms on their desks. A girl with purple braids stretched her fingers for piano warm-up exercises.

Sasha and Alexine slipped into their seats near the middle row.

Alexine immediately pulled out her DJ tools; a small portable controller, two mini turntable pads, and a pair of foldable headphones.

She tapped the pads lightly, testing the beats, bobbing her head as if someone was playing her favorite track.

Then the door opened again.

Dylan Lenard stepped in.

He was tall, lean, with messy brown hair that looked like he had just run his hand through it. There was always a hint of drum dust on his clothes. He wore his usual black wristbands; the ones he used during practice. Everyone knew him as the boy who could make the drums scream, or even worse.

He walked straight toward Alexine.

His serious expression changed when he reached her desk. Without saying a word, he slipped a folded note onto her palm.

Alexine blinked, surprised. "Uh... okay? What's this?" she murmured.

Sasha leaned closer, curious.

Alexine whispered, "Dylan never writes notes. Something's up."

She unfolded the small piece of paper, eager to read what it was all about.

Her eyebrows shot up.

"It says, I have something to show you."

Sasha smiled. "Maybe it's something romantic."

Alexine snorted. "Knowing him? It's probably a new drumstick or something loud enough to break my ears."

Before Sasha could reply, the classroom door opened again.

Mr. Lucas Gray walked in.

He was in his mid-forties, and he carried a bundle of music sheets, a digital tablet, and a long conductor stick under his arm. His glasses slid slightly down his nose as he looked around the room.

"Good morning, class."

"Good morning, Mr. Gray," the students said in unison.

Mr. Gray nodded. "Excellent energy today. I hope you keep it that way."

He set his things on the desk and clapped once. "We're starting a new project."

The room grew quiet.

"This time," he continued, lifting his tablet, "you'll work in groups. Each group will create one full song with vocals, instruments, and DJ elements. And you'll perform it live at the end of the month."

A few students gasped. Someone whispered, "Oh, wow."

Dylan raised his hand. "Sir, can we pick our own group members?"

Mr. Gray smiled. "Yes. But choose wisely. You need balance. A weak team will sink itself."

Another student asked, "Can we mix genres? Like pop with EDM?"

Mr. Gray nodded. "Absolutely. As long as it sounds intentional."

He scanned the room and stopped at Sasha.

"Miss Smith," he said, adjusting his glasses. "As a vocalist, what do you think is the first step your team should take?"

Sasha sat straighter, her fingers brushing her notebook. "We should find a key that fits all parts of the song. Something the instruments can support and the DJ can work with. Once we choose the key, it's easier to shape the melody."

Mr. Gray gave a small approving smile. "Correct. Very good."

A soft ripple of murmurs spread across the room, admiring.

Then he turned to the rest of the class. "And what must you do before mixing beats with live instruments?"

There was silence.

A few students turned their heads around, some shrugged their shoulders.

No one answered.

Then Alexine's hand shot up.

Mr. Gray raised an eyebrow. "Yes, Miss Harrison?"

Alexine said confidently, "We should make a tempo map. If we don't agree on the tempo, the DJ beats won't match the instruments, and the song will sound messy."

Mr. Gray's face lit up. "Exactly. Perfect answer."

A boy at the back whispered, "Whoa... she knew that?"

Another girl nudged her friend and said, "Alexine's smarter than she looks."

The room came alive after that; students chatting, testing instruments, tapping drum rhythms, and adjusting headphone wires. The energy shifted, everyone was excited and they were ready to create something big.

Sasha smiled at Alexine, who smirked proudly.

"See?" Alexine whispered. "We're going to crush this project."

Somewhere else in the city that afternoon, Charlotte Holland, a forty-nine years old woman, sat straight on the sofa in her living room with her glasses on reading a newspaper.

Her eyes froze on a headline:

"POLICE RAID OLD BORDER ROUTE - DRUG CARTEL ACTIVITY LINKED TO A SYNDICATE."

She gripped the newspaper tightly. A small breath escaped her lips. She trembled, as her memories took her back to her late husband, Damian Cruz, who was killed in a car crash seven years ago while running from the police.

She shut her eyes, and the living room faded.

She saw herself at 19, laughing in a summer dress, leaning against Damian's motorcycle. She remembered his wild smile that was too charming for his own good. She thought it was love. She thought she had found her soul mate, the one she was meant to be with.

At 20, she married him.

She could still hear her father, Erick Holland, yelling in the kitchen that night:

"Charlotte, that boy has darkness in him! He lies. He hides things. You will not marry him."

Her mother, Chalice, had cried beside him, speaking in a low voice:

"Please listen to your father... we can see what you don't."

But young Charlotte had lifted her chin, she had already made up her mind.

"You don't understand him! He loves me. I'm going to marry him with or without your approval."

She remembered throwing clothes into a small bag, running out the door, and climbing onto Damian's motorcycle. She never saw the look on her father's face again.

Three months after, she sent a letter saying she had married him.

Erick Holland died with a heart attack, the doctor said.

A year later, Chalice died too with anxiety.

Charlotte had cried on Damian's chest for days.

Damian had only wrapped an arm around her and said:

"What's done is done. Let's focus on each other."

She believed it.

She wanted to believe him.

Soon after, Maverick was born, her beautiful boy and her bundle of joy.

When Maverick was three, Charlotte saw Damian beating a man in their kitchen. She saw guns in the basement, money in black suitcases, and strange men coming and going at night. When she asked him about it, Damian would always say it was business.

Then he began using her.

He made her carry sealed packets in her clothes, hide cash for him, lie to police, and worst of all... swallow drugs when they needed to cross a checkpoint.

It burned her throat.

It made her sick for days.

But she did it because she still loved him... or maybe because she was too afraid.

Then she became pregnant again.

Damian didn't care, not even for a second.

One night, when she told him she wasn't strong enough to swallow anything, he grabbed her by the arm, and his face was twisted with anger.

"You think I'm with you for love? You're here to work. That's it. Now do your job."

His words made her remember her father's words, maybe he saw something she couldn't. Right there, she knew she had to leave or she'd die.

One hot afternoon, the house smelled of oil and gunpowder. Damian turned his back to pick up the drug packets from the table. Charlotte saw a metal bar leaning against the wall... something the men used to fix car tires.

She swallowed hard knowing it was time, and she grabbed it.

She swung with her all strength and hit Damian in the head. He dropped with a grunt and lay unconscious on the floor. She gasped, tears rushing down her face. But she forced herself to kneel beside him. She slid her hand into his pocket, fingers trembling, and took the car keys.

Then she looked for Maverick.

He was outside... only four years old, holding a small wooden pistol while two of Damian's men showed him how to aim.

Her heart skipped a beat, she knew she couldn't take him.

Not with armed men surrounding her little boy. Her stomach twisted. She placed a hand over it, over the child growing inside her.

She whispered, to herself:

"I'm sorry, baby... I'll come back someday."

She felt like she was tearing in two, as she was leaving Maverick behind. She returned inside, grabbed Damian's wallet, wiped her face, and walked out with calm steps, forcing a small smile.

"Going out?" one of the men asked, raising a brow.

Charlotte waved lightly.

"Just for a short drive," she said.

She got in the car, closed the door and she started the engine.

Her hands shook on the steering wheel, but she didn't look back.

It was a memory she had carried for twenty-six years, something she would never forget. She folded the newspaper slowly. She had rebuilt everything; her identity, her life, and tomorrow, her daughter Channel, the child she carried during that escape, would graduate from college. She had told her the story, and she had let her grow with the surname of Holland, as she had nothing to do with the 'Cruz' family, though Damian was Channel's biological father.

Charlotte smiled, for the woman she had become and the hardships she went through. She couldn't forget the son she had left behind, Maverick, and she wondered if he was still alive with all these years that had passed.

She was about to stand and went through her email when the door opened with a soft creak.

Channel stepped in, carrying her handbag. Her face lit up with surprise.

"Mom? You're home early." Channel blinked, almost laughing. "I thought you'd still be at the office."

Charlotte lowered the newspaper, smiling.

"I came home to rest a bit. And tomorrow is a big day, remember?" She gave her daughter a proud look. "My girl is graduating."

Channel smiled, a little proud.

"Yeah... I still can't believe it's tomorrow."

Charlotte patted the seat beside her, and Channel walked closer and sat next to her. Charlotte reached out and touched her daughter's hand gently.

"And after you graduate, you can start working with me," Charlotte said. "I've already prepared a position for you in one of the companies. You'll learn fast. You're smart."

Channel leaned in and hugged her tightly. She tried to laugh, tried to sound excited.

"Mom... thank you really. That means everything to me."

But Charlotte felt her daughter's shoulders trembling. Channel's smile was fake. Her eyes darted away. Something was wrong.

Charlotte pulled back a little.

"Channel? What is it? Did something happen?"

Channel held her breath, she rubbed her palms on her jeans.

"Mom... I don't know how to say this, but..." She swallowed. "Something I heard yesterday at Seven Skies... I can't stop thinking about it."

Charlotte's face grew still.

"Go on," she said.

Channel looked down at her hands.

"I heard some guys talking... and they said Maverick Cruz is back in the city."

Charlotte froze.

Channel continued, her voice trembled:

"And... and they said he's looking for a woman with the surname Holland."

Charlotte felt like she had stopped breathing. For a moment, she didn't blink, she was scared.

"He's... looking for me?" she whispered.

Channel looked down, searching for the right words to say.

"Mom, I don't know what it means. I don't know if it's good or bad. What if he's like Damian? What if he wants something else? What if he's dangerous?"

She paused before she continued.

"Why now? Why did he come back? What does he want? Does he even know the truth? What if he's angry you left?"

Charlotte reached out and held her daughter's cheek gently, trying to calm her down.

She spoke calmly, even though her heart was beating fast.

"Listen, sweetheart..." She took a slow breath. "If Maverick is back... then maybe he's finally looking for his real family. Maybe he wants answers. Maybe he wants peace."

Channel shook her head slightly.

"Or maybe he wants revenge. Maybe he became like Damian. Mom, you know what that world is like."

Charlotte nodded.

"If he became a criminal... then it's my fault," she said quietly. "I left him behind. I did what I had to do to save myself and protect the child I was carrying."

She took a deep breath.

"But he's still my son. And he's your brother. If he's looking for us... I won't run from him, I already run from his father."

Channel studied her mother's face and sighed.

"I understand... I think."

Then she added: "I just don't know what he wants from us."

Charlotte squeezed her hand.

"We'll face it when it comes. For now, focus on your graduation. Be proud of yourself. Be strong. You might need that strength soon."

Channel nodded slowly.

Inside, she was asking herself questions she couldn't speak aloud:

What does my brother look like now?

What is he capable of?

And why is he searching for us after all these years?

She stood up.

"I'll go get ready for tomorrow," she said quietly.

"Alright, darling," Charlotte replied.

Channel walked out of the room.

When the door closed, Charlotte let out a long breath she had been holding. She looked back at the newspaper but couldn't focus on the words.

She whispered to herself:

"Maverick... my son... after all these years..."

Her hands trembled slightly as she folded the paper.

"Please... let this be a new beginning... not another war."

She leaned back on the couch, her eyes full of old memories she wished she could forget.

Back at Melody Lane Music School, Mr. Gray clapped his hands once.

"Alright, that's it for today," he said, smiling at the class. Lines of tired but excited students looked up from their instruments. "Remember, music isn't about being perfect. It's about being honest. Practice your scales, listen with your heart, and don't be late tomorrow."

He gave them a playful glare at the last sentence, making a few students laugh. Then he packed his sheet music, took his tablet and walked out. The students followed, chattering as they filed through the door.

Sasha walked out with her notebook hugged to her chest. She spotted Alexine adjusting her headphones and rushed to catch up.

"Hey, wait!" Sasha said breathlessly.

Alexine turned, smiling. "You okay? Mr. Gray almost made you play solo today."

Sasha groaned. "Don't remind me. I swear he wants to see me panic."

"Or he knows you're good," Alexine teased. "Come on, you hit the notes fine."

Sasha shrugged, but her small smile gave her away. They walked side by side down the sidewalk, talking about chords, melody lines, and how Mr. Gray always made everything sound ten times harder than it was.

At the bakery corner, they split ways.

"See you tomorrow!" Sasha waved.

"Yep! Don't forget to practice!" Alexine called back.

She walked alone now, music playing through her headphones. She was halfway down Oak Street when she heard someone calling her name.

"Alexine! Wait... Alexine!"

She turned, confused, until she saw Dylan sprinting toward her, waving a folded paper in the air.

He stopped in front of her, breathing hard.

"You walk too fast," he complained, pushing back his messy hair.

She raised an eyebrow. "Or you run too slow."

He grinned, then handed her a note. "I wanted to show you something."

She unfolded it, expecting homework. Instead, her eyes widened.

It was a printed poster: Singing Auditions - This Saturday at Seven Skies Club. Winner gets a prize and becomes the club's weekend singer.

"What's this?" she asked, looking up.

"That's what I wanted you to see," Dylan said, excited. "I thought you should try."

Her mouth opened slightly. For a second, she looked excited, then her smile faded.

"Dylan... I don't sing," she said quietly. "I do DJ stuff. I mix tracks. I'm not..." she shook her head, "I'm not a singer."

"You can be," he said without hesitation. "Singing isn't some magical, impossible thing. You have rhythm. You can rhyme. You can do it."

"No," she insisted. "Sasha should do this. She sings better. She actually sings."

"But I want you to try," he said. "Alexine, you're capable of anything. Don't sell yourself short."

She crossed her arms, half annoyed. "You're being ridiculous."

"Maybe," he said, smiling, "but I'm still right."

She sighed. She knew from his stubborn face that arguing was useless.

"Fine. I'll think about it," she muttered.

"Good." He looked proud, like he'd won a battle.

As they continued walking, Dylan asked suddenly, "So... your parents cool with you being into music? Or did they want something else for you?"

Alexine laughed. "My dad? He wanted me to be a detective like him. He was so sure of it. Then he found out I liked music more, and he... well, he was disappointed." She shrugged with a sad smile. "But my mom? She runs a restaurant. She told me to follow my heart. Says she's fine if I become the first female DJ in the city."

"That's actually really cool," Dylan said, eyes shining with encouragement. "And you will be. But... don't forget the auditions on Saturday."

She groaned. "I won't forget. Trust me."

They reached the store where their paths split.

"See you tomorrow," Dylan said, giving her a small wave.

"Yeah. Bye," she replied before heading off.

Walking home alone again, she held the poster in both hands.

Her eyebrows pulled together, and she bit her bottom lip.

"I have to tell Sasha," she whispered to herself. "She'll win this thing. She has to."

The wind picked up, rustling the paper. Alexine folded it carefully and kept walking a little faster, already planning how to tell her best friend about the auditions.

Later that evening at Seven Skies Club, Julian Styles sat alone at a small corner table. His drink sat untouched. His eyes kept scanning the room; front door, bar counter, tables, dance floor... over and over, like a man waiting on a ghost. His foot tapped under the table, not to the rhythm of the music, but out of impatience.

His phone buzzed.

Julian lifted it quickly, as if expecting the message.

Message:

Have you seen her?

He typed back quickly.

Julian:

No sign of her. Either she's not coming, or she left early again. She was here yesterday with friends... didn't stay long. She walked out alone.

He sent it. He leaned back in his chair, eyes drifting to the door again.

There was another buzz.

This time, a photo came with the message, and it was Channel Holland, smiling in the picture with her curls dropping on her shoulders.

Message:

Don't forget the face. She's Channel Holland. In case you forget. Contact me the second she walks in. My men are ready.