The rain hadn't stopped since dawn. Ariella stood by the window of her cramped apartment, watching streaks of water slide down the glass like they were trying to escape too. Her headphones dangled around her neck, the hum of a half-finished beat still echoing in her ears. Music was her escape—but lately, it felt like a betrayal.
Her mother had forbidden it. Explicitly.
"Music is the curse of our bloodline," Naomi used to say. "It brings ruin. Fame doesn't feed you—scandal eats you alive."
But Ariella couldn't help it. She was born with melody in her bones and rhythm in her fingertips.
And today, despite everything, she was going to sing.
"Name?"
"Ariella Gray."
The man behind the mic stand gave her a once-over. Not judgmental, just detached. Rehearsal hall judges had seen it all—wannabes, stars, train wrecks.
"You're on third."
Ariella took a deep breath and stepped inside the Verve Lounge rehearsal space. Gilded lighting. High ceilings. Velvet acoustics. And a tension so thick it threatened to choke her.
She didn't belong here. Not with secondhand boots and a discount thrift coat. But her voice did. Her voice always had.
The other singers milled around—some warming up, others rehearsing complicated runs. Most of them had been doing this since childhood, coached, polished, pruned like bonsai trees for the spotlight.
Ariella? She had a YouTube channel no one knew about, and a voice trained in secret bedrooms and stolen nights.
She tightened her grip on her lyric sheet. Her hands were sweating.
The performance started awkwardly.
The mic was too low. The feedback screeched. She missed her cue. Someone in the back whispered.
But then—
She closed her eyes.
She let the first note stretch out like silk. Let the pain in her chest guide her pitch. Let every repressed song her mother had silenced pour out of her like a confession.
The room stilled.
By the second chorus, every head had turned. Even the distracted producer in the corner had put down his phone.
When she finished, the silence was deafening.
Then—claps. Not thunderous, but honest.
"Who's your vocal coach?" someone asked.
"No one," she said.
"Then who trained you?"
Ariella smiled faintly. "Heartbreak."
Later that evening, she slipped through the back exit. The rain had eased into a light drizzle. She felt alive. Terrified. Liberated.
And then—
"Hey."
She turned.
A boy, maybe her age, leaned against a blacked-out SUV. Tousled hair, lazy grin, phone in hand like he owned the street. Something about him screamed pedigree, but he wore it like it was a curse.
"You've got guts," he said. "Singing that kind of soul in a place built for plastic."
She blinked. "Do I know you?"
"Not yet." He tossed her a card. "Come to SoundLab Studios next Thursday. No promises, but... you deserve a shot."
Ariella looked down at the card.
LaRoche Entertainment
Her heart stopped.
No.
It couldn't be.
Not them.
Not him.
She crumpled the card in her hand—but not enough to throw it away.
Back home, Naomi was waiting.
"Where were you?"
Ariella froze. Her mother was seated, arms crossed, the TV playing in the background. On screen: a clip from the Verve Lounge rehearsal. Her. Singing.
"You're trending," Naomi said quietly. Not proud. Not angry. Just... scared.
Ariella swallowed hard.
"I told you not to sing."
"And I told you I had to."
Naomi rose slowly. "Do you know what the LaRoche name did to us?"
Ariella stared.
And in that moment, the silence told her everything she needed to know.