“They're all about to discover something beautiful,” he interrupted gently. He stopped in front of me, close enough that I could see the warmth in his hazel-brown eyes. “You've been singing your whole life, Jasmine. This is just another audience. Bigger, yes. But the music is the same.”
I wanted to believe him. Wanted to absorb some of his confidence through proximity alone. “What if I forget the words? What if my voice cracks?”
“Then we'll adapt.” His hand found my shoulder and squeezed reassuringly. “I'll be right there with you, following your lead. Trust yourself the way I trust you.”
He held my gaze for another moment, letting his certainty settle over me like a blanket, then moved toward the stage entrance. I watched him walk away, watched his posture straighten as he prepared to take his position at the grand piano that waited in a pool of spotlight. Even from behind the curtain, I could see the instrument's glossy surface reflecting the chandeliers' light.
Footsteps behind me made me turn. Theo materialized from the shadows, his considerable frame somehow managing not to seem threatening despite filling the narrow corridor. His leather scent wrapped around me, familiar and grounding, and when his hand found my shoulder, I felt some more of the tension drain from my muscles.
“Breathe, honey,” he breathed, his scarred face gentle in the dim light. “In through your nose, out through your mouth. Like you're singing.”
I obeyed, pulling air in slowly, feeling my diaphragm expand. The technique was automatic after years of practice, my body remembering even when my mind was in chaos.
“Better,” Theo murmured. His hand squeezed once, firm and reassuring, before releasing. “You're going to be amazing. We all know it. Now you just need to go out there and show them.”
Beyond the curtain, I heard Kade's voice giving instructions to someone—the sound technician, probably. His oak scent drifted back to where I stood, mixing with Theo's leather and the lingering traces of Lucian's rosewood. The combination created something that smelled like safety, like home, and I breathed it in deeply.
Theo stepped back, giving me space but not leaving. His presence was a solid weight at my back, protection without pressure.
The house lights dimmed, and my heart kicked up immediately, pounding so hard I thought everyone backstage must be able to hear it. This was it. This was actually happening.
A voice came through the sound system, smooth and professional, announcing my name. The words seemed to echo in the sudden hush that fell over the ballroom, carrying a weight I hadn't expected. Someone important was introducing me, saying things about my talent and potential that made my face burn with embarrassment and something that might have been pride.
I took one more breath, squared my shoulders, and stepped toward the gap in the curtains.
The stage stretched before me, vast and exposed beneath lights so bright they made my eyes water. The grand piano sat to one side, and Lucian was already there, his hands poised over the keys, waiting. The audience was a sea of faces rendered indistinct by the glare, but I could feel their attention like a physical thing pressing against my skin.
I released my fists, nails leaving crescents on the palms, and walked onto the stage. My legs felt like they belonged to someone else. The gown's hem whispered against the polished floor, and my knees were shaking so badly I was surprised I didn't collapse. But I kept moving, one step after another, until I reached my mark at the microphone.
The spotlight hit me full force. Heat bloomed across my face and shoulders, making sweat prick along my hairline. The light was so intense I couldn't see past the first few rows, couldn't make out individual faces in the darkness beyond. Maybe that was better. Maybe not knowing exactly who was watching would make this easier.
Lucian started to play. The delicate opening notes drifted through, and I recognized the introduction we'd practiced a hundred times in the studio. My cue was coming. Four bars. Three. Two.
I opened my mouth and sang.
The first note came out wrong. Too soft, wavering at the edges, betraying every ounce of fear that coursed through my veins. I heard it immediately, felt it falter in the air, and panic spiked hot and sharp in my chest.
But Lucian didn't falter. His piano continued, steady and sure, carrying the melody when my voice couldn't. The notes he played seemed to wrap around mine, supporting them, lifting them, and I felt something in my chest ease fractionally.
I pulled in another breath, deeper this time, engaging my diaphragm properly. The second phrase came through stronger. Still not perfect, still carrying traces of nervousness, but more solid. More real.
The audience had gone completely silent. Not the restless silence of people waiting to be impressed, but something deeper. Attentive. Present. They were actually listening.
My voice found its footing on the third phrase. The notes came cleaner now, more controlled, and I felt my muscle memory taking over. This was what I knew. This was what I'd been doing since I was old enough to remember—singing to survive, singing to feel close to my mother, singing because it was the one thing I could do that felt like flying.
The expensive perfume in the air was overwhelming, a dozen distinct scents mixing into something cloying and heavy. But beneath it, I caught traces of my Alphas—oak, leather, rosewood, and I smiled inside.
My song built toward the bridge, the part where my voice would have to climb higher, push harder. I'd practiced this section until my throat ached, working with Kade to perfect thetechnique, to make sure I could hit the note without straining. But practice and performance were different animals, and fear threatened to close my throat as the moment approached.
Lucian's eyes found mine across the stage. He nodded once, and his hands moved with absolute confidence across the keys. Trust me, the gesture said. Trust yourself.
I did.
The climactic note rose from somewhere deep in my chest, carrying with it every emotion I'd been holding back. Fear, yes. But also hope. Gratitude. The tentative belief that maybe, possibly, I deserved to be here. The note soared through the air, filling the space, and I felt it resonate in my bones.
Something shifted inside me. Not gradually, not gently, but with a sudden clarity that made my eyes sting with tears I refused to let fall. This was where I belonged. Not hiding in alleys, not singing for coins, not pretending to be smaller than I was to survive. Here. On this stage. Using my voice not just to exist but to create something that made people lean forward in their seats.
The last phrases flowed more easily, my voice wrapping around the melody with a confidence I hadn't known I possessed. The audience remained silent, rapt, and I let myself feel the power of it.
