Prologue

Angie

The humming was instinctive—a melody that crept from my lips as naturally as breathing. This late at night, the myriad of offices in the downtown Los Angeles skyscraper stood open and dark like empty caverns, all silent now except for the hum of my solitary presence.

My mop swished over the polished floor, its rhythmic sloshing almost musical. I had always found something soothing about cleaning—about restoring order to chaos, about making things shine. It was a humble job, but it paid the bills and kept me under the radar, far away from the life I used to dream of as a child—a life filled with music, stages, and lights. But those dreams were dangerous, and danger was something I couldn't afford to entertain…Not anymore.

As I worked, I allowed myself the small luxury of humming. I lost myself in the tune, a song I'd once written. Melancholy notes filled the empty space, each one a word unspoken, a wish unfulfilled.

My phone buzzed, shattering the quiet and the reverie. I fished it out of my pocket, expecting perhaps a reminder for a bill due or a spam message—something mundane. Instead, the screen displayed an email notification from my lawyer. My heart skipped a beat; this could only be news about him…My ex.

Tentatively, I opened the message, my hands trembling slightly. The words leaped out at me: "Parole Denied." A wave of relief crashed over me so fiercely that I leaned against the cool marble wall for support as tears filled my eyes. Thank God. He wasn't getting out. Not yet. I was still safe.

I let out the breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding and looked up, directing my gaze toward the high ceiling adorned with modern fixtures in sleek metal that seemed to mock me with their mirrored opulence. For a moment, everything else fell away—the fear, the scar that marked my face and my past, the weight of the janitorial cart filled with cleaners and cloths and I smiled as grateful tears slowly dripped down my cheeks.

A smile for freedom, however temporary it was. A smile because tonight, unlike so many other nights, the shadows held no power over me. A smile because, for the first time in a long while, I felt the flicker of something like hope.

"Thank you," I whispered to whoever was listening—maybe it was to the universe, maybe to the God I wasn't sure I believed in any more. Maybe it was just to me, a note of gratitude for enduring, for surviving.

"Angelica Bennett," I said to the empty room, trying out the full version of my name. I couldn't recall anyone ever calling me Angelica before and wondered why my parents had given me the name. They'd died in a car accident right after I graduated from high school, and I'd never thought to ask them. Angelica sounded so glamorous, like it belonged to a different person, someone who was nothing like me…Angie. Angelica might be the name etched on a dusty birth certificate, but Angie was just another woman who cleaned up when things got messy. Or tried to, anyway.

No longer weighed down by dread for the immediate future, I continued my work, pushing the cart down the hall. My movements had a newfound lightness, and I let that feeling seep into every corner of the darkened office suite as I tidied and sanitized, bringing some semblance of order to my little, controlled world, knowing I could breathe a little easier when I turned out the lights and locked up behind me.

"Today, Angie is just fine," I assured myself, and in that moment, it was enough.

***

As I continued moving through my usual routine, the message from my lawyer echoed in my mind and I swished the rag over the surface of the huge blonde mahogany table in the conference room with fanciful flourishes. Glancing around the expansive space of the glass-walled room, I confirmed my solitude, and without another thought, I surrendered to the impulse that had been building within me.

"Take your broken wings and learn to fly," I sang, my voice rising effortlessly, filling the emptiness with rich, warm tones. The lyrics of the old favorite felt fitting, like an anthem for the newfound spaciousness within my chest. My heart and lungs swelled with every note, each word a step away from the shackles of my past that had kept me chained in fear. Here, in this after-hours sanctuary, I wasn't just Angie the cleaning lady—I was Angie, the woman with a voice.

"Blackbird flies, into the light of the dark black night," I belted out, the song growing stronger. The scar on my cheek tingled, a stark reminder of why I usually hid behind a mask of silence, and I reached up to trace it with my fingertips, continuing to sing despite its presence.

The notes cascaded around me, and I reveled in the pure joy of singing without fear or judgment.

As the last verse carried me forward, I left the conference room, rounding a corner into the hallway and abruptly stopped, my breath hitching. There, standing before me, was a man I guessed to be in his mid to late forties. His dark hair was slicked back, and he was one of those men who looked like he always had a five o'clock shadow. The top several buttons of his shiny white shirt were open, revealing a gold chain that gleamed against his tanned skin. There was an air of casual defiance about him against the backdrop of corporate sterility as he leaned against the frame of a doorway, watching me with slightly parted lips and wide eyes, like someone who's stumbled upon an unexpected treasure.

"Sorry," I blurted out, embarrassment heating my cheeks. I clutched the mop handle like a lifeline, suddenly aware of my disheveled appearance in jeans and a ratty t-shirt, with my unwashed blonde hair piled on top of my head in a messy bun. This was me, Angie, unadorned and exposed, with only a scar and a song to define me in this moment.

The man didn't move, didn't speak, his gaze locked onto mine as if he were trying to reconcile the incongruity of a janitor filling the hallowed halls with music in the wee hours of the night.

The silence stretched between us. I should have been terrified, should have been searching for an escape route, but something about his presence, the way he looked at me, not through me, held me captive.

"Ahem," he cleared his throat, breaking the spell, leaving a trail of awkward energy in its wake. "That was...unexpected."

His voice, deep and resonant, hinted at a strength and confidence that both intimidated and intrigued me. Would he reprimand me? Complain to my supervisor? He stood there, an embodiment of all the things I'd learned to distrust—privilege, power, and the male gaze—but I couldn't deny the odd flicker of connection that sparked in the air between us.

"I'm sorry, I know I shouldn't be…" I started, but he raised a hand, and I fell silent.

"Unexpected doesn't mean unwelcome," he said, and something about the softness in his eyes had me believing him.

I swallowed hard, unsure how to navigate this strange encounter. "I…I didn't think anyone was here."

"Your voice," he said. "It's beautiful."

"Thank you," I stammered.

"What's your name?" he asked, stepping closer. The spicy scent of his cologne mingled with the antiseptic tang of cleaning supplies.

"Angie." My reply was barely louder than a whisper.

"Angie," he repeated, and there was something about the way he said it—a reverence, a promise—that made my breath catch.

"Look, I don't want any trouble," I said, the edge of panic returning. "I'll just go back to mopping…"

"Trouble?" He tilted his head back, raising an eyebrow. "Why would you be in trouble? For having talent?"

"Because I'm not supposed to be singing," I pointed out, feeling the absurdity of the situation settle around us like dust after a storm. "I'm supposed to be cleaning."

"Ah," he said, a knowing glint in his eye. "But sometimes, we find beauty in the most unexpected places. And when we do, we must acknowledge it."

"Is that what you do?" I asked, my curiosity piqued despite myself. "Acknowledge beauty?"

He smiled cryptically. "Tell me, Angie, have you ever considered doing something more with that voice of yours?"

"More?" I laughed, the sound hollow even to my own ears. "Like what? Singing in the shower is one thing. But beyond these walls?" I shook my head. "No, that's just a pipe dream. "

"Actually," he said, still smiling, "sometimes dreams have a way of becoming reality."

The air seemed charged with electricity, with the impossible potential of his words. My heart hammered with the thrill of it, and I sensed that whether I wanted it or not, this encounter would be pivotal in my life.

"Angie," he repeated, louder this time, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through the cavernous room, echoing off the polished marble floors and high ceilings. "I'm going to make you a star."