Angel-Voiced Girl

It was another Wednesday night, and the weather was far from pleasant. March in Paris was bitterly cold—the kind of cold that cut straight to the bone. As usual, Fan Muer made his way to New York Story Bar, for tonight was his scheduled performance on the viola.

Alicia Banderas, however, was in a terrible mood—just as gloomy as the Parisian sky. Her concert was set to take place in just two days, yet the entire accompanying band had been inexplicably replaced at the last minute. Worse still, their replacements were nothing more than second-rate musicians. The decision left her furious at her company's blatant disregard for her artistry. At a time when she should have been immersed in final rehearsals, she instead found herself listening to a mechanical, lifeless performance—one so devoid of emotion that any desire to rehearse drained from her entirely.

"Mira, cancel today's rehearsal!" Alicia snapped as she called her manager, Mira Pérez, who was waiting in the rehearsal hall.

"But Alicia, the concert is the day after tomorrow. If we don't rehearse now, we might not have enough time!" Mira, though equally frustrated with the company's last-minute decision, still did her best to remain professional and persuade her client.

"I said no! If they refuse to replace the band, I'd rather sing a cappella!" Alicia's face hardened, her delicate features clouded with rage as she slammed the phone down with a resounding thud. Tears welled up in her eyes, blurring her vision. She had poured her heart and soul into this tour, choosing Paris as her grand opening—only for disaster to strike before the journey had even begun. This tour was meant to be her triumphant return, a chance to reclaim her former glory. And yet, the very company that should have supported her had pulled this stunt, leaving her stranded in an impossible situation.

Canceling the concert was out of the question. But going forward with it under these conditions? It would be nothing short of career suicide. Alicia was utterly distraught.

Ring! Ring!

The shrill chime of the telephone cut through her turbulent thoughts. Infuriated, Alicia snatched up the receiver and snapped, her voice sharp with frustration, "How many times do I have to say it? No band change, no rehearsal!"

"Oh, Alicia, why the temper? Who dared to offend our diva this time? Just say the word, and I'll have them fired—haha!"

The voice on the other end dripped with amusement, laced with an unmistakable schadenfreude.

"Mr. González, is there something you actually need? If not, I'm hanging up," Alicia Banderas replied, her expression twisting into one of pure irritation.

The man on the other end—Vita González—was the only son of the chairman of Manfu Entertainment and a board member himself. In Spain, he was infamous as a notorious playboy, known for his entanglements with countless female singers and actresses under the company's wing.

Alicia Banderas had once been the brightest star in Manfu Entertainment's roster, her voice as pure and ethereal as a celestial hymn. Her unwavering dedication to her craft, coupled with her pristine public image, had earned her a devoted global following. Fans revered her as the angelic songstress, the undisputed queen of the industry. But the music world was fickle—new talents emerged constantly, and evolving trends swept across the industry at a relentless pace. Alicia's classic, emotionally rich singing style soon found itself overshadowed by the ever-shifting tides of pop culture. Without a chart-topping hit in recent years, the company had naturally shifted its focus toward cultivating fresh talent. Slowly but surely, the once-dazzling Alicia Banderas had faded from the limelight.

Yet, to Vita González, she was more than just a fallen star—she was a conquest yet to be won. Enchanted by her beauty and unattainable allure, he had spared no effort in his pursuit. He sent extravagant bouquets, dazzling diamonds, luxury cars, even sprawling mansions. But Alicia had rejected every single one without hesitation, fueling González's frustration.

His wounded ego soon turned to quiet vengeance. Using his influence, he gradually curtailed Alicia's promotional campaigns, subtly limiting the resources allocated to her music production. Over time, his machinations bore fruit—the company's backing weakened, and Alicia's star dimmed. It was no coincidence that her decline had begun three years ago; behind the scenes, Vita González had been orchestrating her downfall all along.

"Now, now, Alicia, no need to be so hasty. I heard your concert is the day after tomorrow. You must be thrilled with your new accompanists—aren't you? Hahaha!"

Vita González's laughter rang with cruel amusement, every note dripping with malice.

"So it was you—you bastard!" Alicia Banderas finally pieced it together. The mastermind behind this sabotage was none other than Vita González himself. Rage boiled over, and for the first time, an expletive slipped from her lips—proof of just how much this concert meant to her and how deep her hatred for him ran.

"Hahaha! Oh, Alicia, don't be so upset," Vita continued, his voice smug and self-satisfied. "I nearly forgot to mention—your original band? They're in the UK right now, rehearsing for Manfu Entertainment's next big star, the new queen of the music world—Clara López! Hahaha!"

Another bout of triumphant laughter erupted from the receiver, and then, another voice—a woman's, sweet yet laced with glee at Alicia's misfortune.

"Sorry, Alicia. Don't take it too hard. Do your best, okay?"

Alicia Banderas slammed the phone down. Her delicate face, flushed with fury, was soon streaked with tears she could no longer hold back.

"Is it really this hard to just be a singer?" she whispered, her voice trembling. "Must I really bow to their rules to stay on top?"

But the sorrow didn't last. Within moments, she inhaled deeply, wiped away her tears, and lifted her chin. The defiant gleam in her eyes sharpened.

"I, Alicia Banderas, will never surrender. I will never be like them—laughing along with the filth. I'd rather give up singing altogether than sell my soul!"

There was no reversing the damage. The replacement band was set, and the company had left her no room to maneuver.

"I need air. I need to calm down. Get a grip, Alicia Banderas!" she murmured to herself.

She grabbed her handbag, pulled on a woolen hat, and wrapped a thick scarf snugly around her neck, leaving only her bright, determined eyes exposed to the night.

Paris after dark was bitterly cold. The wind howled through the streets, cutting through coats and scarves alike, yet people trudged on as if embracing the punishment. Alicia stepped into the night, letting the biting air sting her skin, letting the chill sink deep into her bones. Oddly enough, it was comforting—almost liberating.

And somehow, in that relentless, unforgiving cold, she found her strength again.

Alicia Banderas was staying at the Four Seasons Hotel George V, a legendary establishment that once claimed the title of the world's finest under the patronage of an Arabian prince. Even now, it remained one of the most prestigious hotels in Paris.

She wandered aimlessly through the streets, heedless of traffic, until she found herself by the banks of the Seine, where bars lined the waterfront. Just as she was about to turn back, a melody floated through the night air—light and enchanting, delicate yet filled with quiet allure.

"The Dream of Viola and Piano!" Alicia gasped softly, her face lighting up with surprise. She had never expected to hear her favorite piece here, in the heart of Paris—let alone played with such breathtaking beauty, so dreamlike, so perfect. As if drawn by an unseen force, she stepped forward and pushed open the door of New York Story, the bar from which the music poured.

The moment she entered, her gaze landed on a young man sitting at the center of the stage—not particularly striking in appearance, yet his fingers danced nimbly across the viola strings, weaving magic into the air.

Inside, the music resonated even more clearly, its haunting familiarity stirring something deep within her. Mesmerized, Alicia slipped into a dimly lit corner, careful to remain unnoticed. The bar was sparsely populated—perhaps due to the biting cold outside—but those present were utterly captivated by the performance, their attention riveted on the musician. No one spared a glance for the newest arrival, and even if they had, they might not have recognized Alicia Banderas, wrapped tightly in her scarf and woolen hat.

While the crowd remained oblivious, the musician—Vanmur—did notice her. There was something about this woman—an air of quiet melancholy, a certain freshness in her demeanor that set her apart. But it was her eyes, gleaming with emotion as she listened, that truly caught his attention.

Perhaps it was the rarity of finding someone who understood this music, or perhaps it was the subtle sorrow she carried, but Vanmur found himself playing differently. He wove in more variations, more improvisations, allowing his viola to soar with effortless elegance. The melody turned lighter, livelier, painting a picture of a young girl's dreamlike journey through life. The audience sat spellbound, lost in the reverie his music conjured.

As the final note faded, silence lingered for a heartbeat—then, like a tidal wave, applause crashed over the room. Alicia, entirely swept away, forgot herself, forgot her troubles, forgot who she was. She clapped with all her might, her heart pounding with exhilaration.

Perhaps it was the sight of such an entranced beauty that sent a surge of adrenaline through Vanmur, or perhaps he simply wanted to banish the lingering sadness in her eyes. Either way, he did something unexpected. Instead of stepping off the stage for a brief respite as he usually did, he changed gears entirely.

The sharp, electrifying strains of an Alpine pop-inspired viola piece filled the air. Wild, bold, and untamed, the sound struck straight to the soul. The audience barely had time to catch their breath before they were swept up again, their hearts pounding to the rhythm of his impassioned playing. The sweeping glissandos, the dazzling improvisations—everything about it was reckless, flamboyant, utterly free.

The mood of the room transformed. The weight of the world, the constraints of reality—none of it mattered anymore. The music roared, and for a brief, intoxicating moment, every soul present was wholly, helplessly, in its thrall.

Alicia Banderas let herself be carried away by Vanmour's viola, momentarily forgetting her troubles and escaping the harsh realities of life. Though the music had long since ceased, she remained in her dimly lit corner, lingering in the echoes of the melodies that had struck the depths of her soul. It was not until the late hours of the night that she finally drained her cocktail glass and, with quiet resignation, took her leave.

Outside, along the Seine, snowflakes had begun to drift down unnoticed. The world was slowly dissolving into a vast ocean of white.

Alicia trudged through the falling snow, her small, rigid frame exuding a quiet solitude, a helplessness that seemed almost fragile. Yet, as Vanmour watched her retreating figure, he sensed something deeper—an unyielding spirit, a resilience hidden beneath the lonely silhouette.

Suddenly, she stumbled in the swirling wind and snow. But almost immediately, she forced herself upright, pressing forward with a slight limp. Something within Vanmour stirred. A sudden, instinctive urge to help her, to protect her, rose within him. Without hesitation, he quickened his pace and caught up to her.

"Would you like me to walk you home?" His voice carried a warmth of genuine concern.

Alicia, caught off guard, turned around to meet a pair of eyes filled with kindness.

"The viola player from the bar?" she gasped softly, surprised to see him standing there.

"Yes," Vanmour nodded with a gentle smile before continuing, "Paris is generally safe, but it's still not the best idea for a young woman to be out alone this late at night. Especially in weather like this—it won't be easy to find a taxi at this hour."

Since becoming a top star, Alicia had learned to avoid the public eye, to keep her distance from enthusiastic fans, always slipping away before anyone could get too close—anything to prevent unnecessary attention and commotion. If not for the crushing weight of her emotions tonight, she would never have dared to venture out alone. On any other night, if it had been anyone else, she would have instinctively turned and walked away.

But Vanmour's music had touched her deeply. Perhaps it was his melodies, laced with an inexplicable warmth, or maybe it was the quiet sincerity in his voice. Whatever the reason, an unexpected sense of trust blossomed within her. Blushing slightly, she nodded, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Thank you."

Walking beside this unfamiliar man, Alicia Banderas caught the faint scent of Vanmour, a presence so near that her heartbeat quickened uncontrollably. A flush crept up her delicate face. Her hands clasped together, then loosened, unsure of where to place her arms. A strange current seemed to run through her fingertips. And somewhere deep within, an unfamiliar sense of security settled over her—so much so that, for the first time in days, the burdens of Paris no longer occupied her thoughts.

Vanmour, accustomed to the bold and uninhibited ways of women in the bar, was surprised by Alicia's unease. A flicker of tenderness stirred within him. From the moment he first saw her, his keen instincts had picked up on the sorrow she carried, carefully concealed beneath a composed exterior. And yet, beneath that fragile, delicate frame, he could also see the quiet strength, the unyielding will she bore.

"I'm Vanmour, a waiter and viola player at New York Story Bar. What's your name?" he asked, hoping to ease the tension in the woman walking beside him.

"What? Your viola playing is that good, and you still work as a waiter?" Alicia blurted out in disbelief, momentarily forgetting the unease and awkwardness that had plagued her just moments before.

"I was originally just a waiter. The bar's usual violist had to take leave, so I'm filling in for a while," Vanmour replied matter-of-factly. To him, there was no real distinction between the two roles—both were simply professions, nothing more.

"You still haven't told me your name," he reminded her, pulling her from her thoughts.

For reasons she couldn't quite explain, Alicia hesitated only briefly before speaking her true name.

"Alicia Banderas."