They didn't give me a second to think.
The moment the word yes left my lips, the entire group sprang into motion like a well-trained pit crew.
"Backstage. Now," Yung Li commanded, his accented voice slicing through the air.
The woman who'd first spoken to me—later I'd learn her name was Mei—practically grabbed my hand and whisked me down a narrow corridor lined with gold-framed posters of past gala stars. Their glamorous faces stared down at me like they were silently judging if I had any right to walk the same halls.
We burst into a dressing room so full of sequins, feathers, and silk that it felt like stepping inside a couture hurricane. Four women immediately descended on me with measuring tapes, makeup brushes, and an almost military precision.
"This one," one of them announced, holding up a gown of deep midnight blue, the fabric shimmering with tiny, hand-stitched crystals.
"No, no," another argued. "The champagne silk—it'll make her glow under the stage lights."
"Glow?" Mei scoffed. "We need her to dazzle."
Before I could speak, they'd already shoved the midnight-blue gown into my arms and spun me toward a curtained screen. "Change. Quickly!"
I obeyed, stepping into the gown. The silk clung to me like it had been stitched onto my body, hugging every curve, the sweetheart neckline daring more than I was comfortable with. I caught sight of myself in the mirror and almost didn't recognize the woman staring back—sleek, poised… almost like an actress about to step onto the red carpet.
The makeup team swept in next. Foundation smoothed over my skin, highlighter traced along my cheekbones until they caught the light like glass, and a bold red gloss painted onto my lips made my reflection look… dangerous.
I stepped out, still adjusting to the alien feeling of the gown. One of the stylists scooped up the pale peach dress I'd been wearing before—the one Jinhai had given.
"Throw this in the discard pile," she said without a thought.
My chest tightened. "Wait—no," I blurted, grabbing the dress from her hands before it vanished into the mountain of forgotten fabric. "That's… important. Someone I will never meet again gave it to me."
The stylist arched a brow but didn't argue. She folded it carefully and set it aside on a velvet chair.
Yung Li appeared in the doorway, his sharp eyes scanning me from head to toe. His lips curled into the smallest hint of a smile, the kind an art dealer might give after finding an unexpected masterpiece.
"We will keep the song from the lift," he said, tapping his temple. "No last-minute surprises. Sing it exactly as you did before. Every note, every pause, every breath. Do you understand?"
"Yes," I said, though my voice wavered.
His gaze softened, just slightly. "You have… something," he murmured, almost to himself. "The audience will see it."
Something. He didn't explain, but the word clung to me like perfume.
Backstage was a different world entirely—low lights, the quiet hum of the sound system, the distant chatter of the crowd beyond the curtain. The muffled thump of music from the previous act made the floor tremble faintly beneath my heels.
Mei pressed a mic into my hand. "Deep breaths," she said. "Don't think about them. Think about the song."
Easy for her to say. My palms were already damp, my throat dry. The thought of hundreds of eyes—judging, weighing, maybe even mocking—was a knot in my stomach I couldn't untangle.
As the crew adjusted the spotlight angles and the stagehands whispered cues, I caught fragments of their conversation.
"She looks like she's done this before."
"Not a single sign of stage fright on her face."
"Star material, that one. You can tell."
If only they knew my knees felt like they might give out at any moment.
Mei squeezed my shoulder. "You'll be brilliant. Just… don't look down."
I nodded, though my heart was pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears. The stage manager lifted two fingers—two minutes.
The curtains shifted slightly, giving me a glimpse of the golden light spilling over the polished wood stage, the sea of tables glittering with crystal glasses, and the silhouettes of the city's most powerful people waiting for the next act. Somewhere in that crowd, I knew my family was watching.
I took one deep breath. Then another.
The stage manager peeked from behind the curtain, headset pressed to his ear. "Miss Lily, you're on in sixty seconds."
Her pulse was a runaway drum in her chest. The smell of stage lights—warm, almost metallic—filled her senses as she was gently guided toward the blinding glow beyond the curtain.
The MC's voice boomed through the grand ballroom:
"And now, ladies and gentlemen, we have a special treat for you tonight… Please welcome, Miss Lily!"
As her heels clicked against the polished wooden stage, the room erupted—not in applause, but in an ocean of murmurs.
"Who is she?"
"Wasn't Shin Ling supposed to perform a musical number tonight?"
"Wow… she's like a doll. So pretty. Is she an actress?"
Some tilted their heads, squinting as though trying to place her. Others pulled out their phones. The low hum of whispers mixed with the crystal clink of champagne flutes.
Somewhere near the front, a man with salt-and-pepper hair froze mid-sentence. Director Han Weiming—one of the most influential filmmakers in the country—let his companion's words fade into the background. Curiosity sharpened his gaze, and he leaned back in his chair, studying her as if she were an unfolding mystery.
Lily's eyes swept over the vast room. Faces blurred together under the golden light—until they didn't.
Halfway across the ballroom, seated at a round table draped in ivory silk, was someone who ripped the air right out of her lungs.
Her ex-boyfriend from school. The last she had seen him at the farewell, kissing that girl like he was starving. And now he was... here,
laughing at something… his arm snug around her stepsister's shoulders.
The metallic taste hit her tongue, sharp and cold. Her mind spun, memories and disbelief tangling in a dizzy knot. Her stepsister leaned into him, that same smug smile Lily had seen a hundred times before.
How could she? How could her sister associate with the same person that had caused her so much pain and humiliation.
The first notes of her backing track began.
She swallowed hard, blinked the haze away, and forced her fingers to loosen their death grip on the microphone.
Running wasn't an option. Not here. Not with every gaze fixed on her like the moment before a storm breaks.
So she straightened her spine, lifted her chin, and sang.
The words spilled from her, soft and trembling at first, like dipping toes into a river she'd longed to touch:
"I stand in the dark, but I'm still reaching for the light…
Every shadow whispers your name in the night.
If love is a fire, then let me burn…
Because in the ashes, I'll find my turn."
With every line, she poured herself out—every betrayal, every dream, every fragile hope stitched into the trembling rise and fall of her voice. Her expressions shifted with the music; a raw smile here, a glimmer of sorrow there. The audience could see it, could feel it—her heart laid bare in front of hundreds of strangers.
Gasps punctuated the room. Phones lifted high. Even the servers paused in the middle of refilling glasses, caught by the sheer gravity of her presence.
By the final note, there was no whispering left—only silence thick enough to hear her own heartbeat.
Behind a glass of wine, Director Han Weiming smiled to himself. He didn't look at the stage manager when he spoke, his eyes never leaving the girl who had just stolen the entire room.
"Get me everything you know about this Lily," he murmured.
A pause.
"She has .....something."