It started subtly.
At first, Noah only checked her social media tags from time to time—out of curiosity, or so he told himself. Over breakfast, between meetings, he would watch short clips of Belle performing somewhere in the city, his expression calm and composed, though it fooled no one but himself.
But soon, curiosity became a habit. And habit, in time, became a necessity.
He convinced himself it was normal. After all, she was family—his fiancée. Keeping an eye on her wasn't strange; if anything, it was responsible. She often performed late, surrounded by strangers, in places where anything could happen. And so, quietly, he made arrangements.
Through EON's private security network, Noah added her name to a protection list—just a "precautionary measure." The guards he assigned were discreet, stationed nearby whenever Belle performed. She already had her own Terania security detail, but Noah's men blended into the background, unseen yet watchful.
He read every report they sent.
Belle performed at Café Oriole again tonight. Turnout moderate. No security incidents. Crowd dispersed peacefully. She stayed thirty minutes afterward to speak with regular patrons. She appeared happy.
That last line always made him pause. He would find himself staring at those words longer than necessary, as though the simple note held a meaning only he could understand.
Some nights, after long hours in the studio, he would lean back in his chair and scroll through fan-recorded videos of her. Her laughter had become so familiar. He noticed the tilt of her head when she hit a note, the slight squint of her eyes when she smiled. He memorized details he didn't need to—details he couldn't stop noticing.
Mirabelle, of course, knew nothing of it.
She sang in parks, cafés, and plazas, surrounded by warmth and color. People adored her for it. She lived a life that felt open, unguarded, and free—everything Noah's life, bound by structure and spotlight, could never be.
Though his schedule left him no time to visit, he found other ways to see her. He watched from the tinted windows of his car when her performance locations were public, from livestreams that fans uploaded within minutes, and from private security feeds that arrived each week in encrypted reports. Every glimpse left him both soothed and restless.
He thought about reaching out more times than he cared to admit. Late at night, after interviews or rehearsals, he would scroll to her name in his contacts and hover over the message box. But each time, he stopped himself.
The last time he had tried, the message hadn't gone through. Message not delivered.
He told himself it was nothing—a network error, perhaps. Maybe her number had changed. There was no reason to think otherwise. Still, he checked occasionally, typing short lines—Are you alright?—only to delete them before sending.
He told himself that he was being patient, that he was being respectful, that he was simply giving her space. But sometimes, when he saw her laughing with friends or singing under the evening sun, something sharp and unexplainable stirred in his chest.
He decided he would wait a little longer—until the right moment came to approach her properly.
In all the years they had lived under the same roof—the mornings at the breakfast table, the quiet afternoons in the halls, the soft echoes of her laughter drifting through the house—Noah realized he had never truly known her. She had always been the one who came to him first: curious and persistent. like sunlight chasing shadow. She had known everything about him—what calmed him, what motivated him, when he was upset—because she had always been watching closely, always offering some small comfort or thoughtful gift.
But he had never really known her. Part of it was circumstance. Throughout their childhood, he had been consumed by study—hours spent at the piano, days lost in composition and practice, his world narrowed to sound and discipline. But there was another reason, one he rarely admitted even to himself: he had never known how to respond to her affection. Her warmth had always been so bright, so steadfast, that he hadn't known where to place it.
She was the Terania heir—born into a world of wealth and prestige—yet she had offered him everything: her time, her attention, her kindness. All her gestures had been genuine, wrapped in sincerity and trust. And he, a foster boy with nothing but borrowed belongings, had accepted them all with quiet confusion. He never knew what to do with a love that grand.
Now, seeing her from afar, he understood what he had missed.
Mirabelle Terania was luminous in ways that had nothing to do with light. It was in her presence—the quiet confidence, the ease with which she laughed, the warmth that lingered in her smile. Onstage, with her guitar beneath the lamplight, she was radiant and free, as if she had finally found herself.
Reports said she still worked tirelessly within the Terania company, reshaping campaigns, mentoring young artists, and bringing new life to creative divisions. Yet when she sang under the soft glow of a streetlamp, she looked utterly at peace.
That balance struck him—the woman who could lead a corporation by day and still find joy performing for strangers by night. She could navigate boardrooms and plazas with the same grace, sipping tea from a paper cup as if both worlds belonged to her.
Every new thing he learned about her only deepened his fascination. He was, quite simply, proud to be engaged to her. The thought of their future suddenly didn't feel like duty—it felt like discovery. He wanted to know her, truly, in every quiet and beautiful way.
So for now, he watched from the unseen edges of her world, patient and quietly nearby. And each time her voice rose through the hum of a crowded square, Noah would close his eyes and imagine, just for a moment, that she was singing to him alone.