319-321

Chapter 319: Kindred Spirits 

The air felt a little… heated. 

Even without saying a word, Maxim, Cliff, and Ollie could all sense the subtle shift in atmosphere. But the problem was, the few snippets they managed to overhear made absolutely no sense— 

"Creative background"? 

They were seriously discussing the background behind the creation of My Demon? 

What the hell? 

It was such an academic, professional… boring topic—and yet the tension between the two of them felt like it was laced with something else. Was it hormones in the air? 

Wait, maybe they were completely misreading things. Maybe it wasn’t romantic tension—maybe it was hostility. Were the two of them actually sizing each other up? Enemies ready to pounce? Ready to rip each other apart? 

But… was that really in Ronan’s nature? 

Cliff and Ollie exchanged looks, clearly at a loss. Then both turned toward Maxim, who always claimed to be some sort of love guru. But even Maxim didn’t say anything this time—he just made a mysterious face and signaled for them to hold back and keep observing. 

In truth, he didn’t have a clue either. 

And Ronan and Alena? 

Yes, they could sense the eyes darting in their direction. But their focus was entirely on each other. They had no time—no space—to bother with the curious glances around them. It felt like those mosquitoes on a summer night: noticeable, a bit annoying, but ultimately ignorable. 

In response to Ronan’s gentle challenge—"Why don’t you tell me first, what’s your interpretation?"—Alena didn’t shy away. 

"Struggling in the depths of despair," she answered plainly, then paused to consider. "But it’s a tangled mess of emotions. Not just despair—you can feel anger, even a sliver of hope. These feelings should contradict each other, but somehow the melody and lyrics merge perfectly to hold them all." 

As she sank deeper into the conversation, her focus sharpened. Her heart was still beating hard—maybe from nerves—but her thoughts were clear and confident now. The topic shift had worked. 

"Curtis Dean’s new arrangement added this grand sense of scale," she continued. "So the emotions had to stretch across a broader canvas, but also grow more delicate in expression. That’s why I need to understand the contradiction. Can you explain that to me?" 

She turned toward Ronan, her eyes shining. 

In truth, one of the main reasons she’d agreed to this collaboration—this crossover from classical to pop—was because of My Demon. The new arrangement had such depth, space, and complexity, and the emotions within the melody… they resonated with her. Deeply. It was the kind of beauty she found in classical music. 

Now she wanted to understand it better. 

As for Ronan? He was only part of the reason she’d said yes—or so she told herself. 

This time, Ronan didn’t dance around the question. He paused, then said seriously, "Actually, I wrote this song with Ollie on the flight to Washington..." 

No embellishment, no polish. He just laid the story out, piece by piece, like he was giving a talk at a music workshop. His eyes were clear and steady. Alena didn’t interrupt once—she simply listened, with full attention. 

When he finally finished, she still didn’t speak right away. Silence lingered between them for a long breath before she finally said softly, "When the notes begin to flow, the darkness disappears." 

It was hard to tell if she was speaking to him, to herself, or both. 

And then she said, as if murmuring to herself, "Practicing the violin… is exhausting. I love it, yes, but for a long time, I also hated it." 

"I wanted to have weekends like the other kids. I wanted to have a carefree childhood. I wanted to explore interests beyond classical music. I hated the violin, hated myself, hated the family I was born into. I even started to hate my own talent..." 

Her words were quiet, almost casual—but Ronan could sense the weight beneath them. 

Only people who had lived in the dark could truly understand the pain and the obsession behind each stubborn choice. No words could ever fully express it, but in their eyes, in their silences, it flickered and glimmered—just enough to be seen. 

Alena looked up at him, and a gentle smile spread across her lips. 

"But it was music, the notes themselves, that gave me the courage to keep going. Bach, Mozart, Haydn, Schumann... Their melodies had power, had emotion, had life. I could talk to the music, and through it, talk to them. That’s what makes music so magical, so moving. It became my greatest companion." 

That’s why, when she first heard My Demon, she felt it. She understood it. And even more surprisingly—she’d agreed to work on it. 

Within that melody and those lyrics… she felt something that couldn’t be explained with words. A raw, profound emotion. 

And suddenly, she found herself wondering: Who was the person who could create something like this? Who was Ronan? 

The Ronan who stood before her now seemed both familiar and new—layers peeling back to reveal deeper complexities. He wasn’t just that boy from that night. There was more. Much more. And she was drawn in. 

A thousand butterflies fluttered inside her chest. 

"When I stand onstage, I’m the king of the world," Ronan said simply. 

It seemed completely unrelated—but Alena smiled anyway. 

Because she understood. 

It was music that gave them both identity. It was the stage that gave them meaning. That’s why they walked this path. Even though they came from different genres, their emotional journeys weren’t so different. 

My Demon held a secret they both shared—a mutual understanding. 

That’s why Alena had said that pop and classical weren’t so different. Music is music. All it does is carry human emotion. That universal empathy… that is what makes it beautiful and powerful. The genres are just different languages for the same feeling. 

And if it was Ronan, she was willing to cross that boundary. 

Maybe open a little window into the world of pop, just to see what it was like—because anyone who could write a song like My Demon, dark but still shining with light, had to have a special heart. 

Looking at him now—those deep ocean eyes, quietly glowing—Alena knew she’d made the right choice. 

Chapter 320 – Under Pressure 

Ronan could feel Alena’s gaze—focused and intense. Her obsidian-like eyes shimmered faintly, making his own voice instinctively soften and lower. Though the topic was heavy, there was a trace of warmth in his eyes, because they had finally found their path. Even if that road was littered with hardship and setbacks, the journey forward was still filled with joy and hope. 

“Me, Ollie, Maxime, and Cliff—we’re all searching for answers. Whether it’s facing life, difficulties, or demons, we’re just trying to find the right path forward. And the only answer we’ve found—” 

Ronan didn’t get to finish his sentence before Alena picked it up seamlessly, “—is music.” 

Ronan gave a slight nod, and a small smile tugged at the corners of his lips. Their eyes met again, shining with mutual understanding— 

Despair fed into anger, anger into pain, pain into struggle, and within that struggle was a fierce refusal to let go of hope. 

All those tangled emotions came together—bitter and sweet—and words could never fully capture them. Only by truly immersing oneself and listening closely could one discover their own unique answer through the music. 

Alena continued, “So, have you all left that dark place behind?” 

“We’re trying,” Ronan replied with a faint smile, then glanced around. Alena instantly understood what he meant. 

Yes, One Day King had secured a Grammy nomination, and everything seemed to be back on track. But life was never that simple. They were still moving forward—slowly but steadily—hoping their performance on the Grammy stage would become a breakthrough moment. 

In fact, ever since the nominations were announced, One Day King had been under tremendous pressure online— 

An unknown rookie band suddenly topping the list, and not just any band, but a rock group—part of a genre that had declined since the 2000s. Was that really fair? 

Even though “Chasing the Light” and “My Demon” had brought them a surge of fans on social media, it still wasn’t enough. 

The truth was, One Day King basically had no real fan base. To the general public, they’d come out of nowhere. One moment they were in the shadows, and the next, they were in the spotlight thanks to the Grammys—naturally drawing skepticism and criticism. 

Ten years ago, when Norah Jones burst onto the scene, she faced similar doubts. And even after sweeping the four major Grammy awards, she was pulled into a whirlpool of pressure. Every album since her debut faced harsh scrutiny. Though Norah stayed true to herself, she never managed to replicate the success of her first album. 

Now, ten years later—with the rise of social media—those once-muted voices of doubt had become impossible to ignore. One Day King found themselves the center of a storm, bombarded with conspiracy theories and verbal abuse. 

Maxime and Cliff, who were always active online, felt the pressure firsthand. Maxime—who was basically addicted to the internet—had to cut back just to protect his mental health and stay focused on preparing for their Grammy performance. 

For One Day King, the Grammys were a golden opportunity—but also a massive risk. If their performance wasn’t up to par, it could backfire and break the band. And honestly, they weren’t strong enough yet to survive such a blow. 

Hope felt just within reach, but the darkness before dawn was always the heaviest. 

The brighter the spotlight, the darker the shadows around them. With fame came more complicated and weighty troubles—money, survival, status—all tangled up in the pure love for music. 

Only when they stood on stage, singing their hearts out, could they momentarily return to that pure musical world and feel true happiness. 

That Grammy stage now carried far too much meaning. “My Demon” had become a heavy burden of emotion and message. 

From just a few words, Alena could sense the overwhelming complexity of what Ronan felt—because she, too, was going through the same thing. Despite her success in the classical music world, the struggle never really ended. 

Now, she was beginning to truly understand what it meant when people said: The more you have, the more you lose. 

She turned to Ronan again. “So the other song you picked… is ‘Coming Apart’?” 

Ronan only smiled. 

Alena chuckled. “Aren’t you worried the Grammys will be upset?” 

The lyrics of “Coming Apart” were a bit rebellious. The song openly mocked the glitz and glam of life under the spotlight, which made it a strange fit for the Grammy stage—a celebration meant to be joyful and family-friendly. 

In truth, the decision to choose “Coming Apart” had originally been made to match the tone and style of “My Demon,” not to provoke. But unintentionally, it became a sharp commentary on reality. 

Ironically, it was only after the band confirmed they would perform “Coming Apart” that the wave of negative online sentiment began to rise, pushing the band deeper into crisis. Suddenly, the song’s message felt like a direct reflection of their real-life experience—a twist of fate that turned their choice into a stroke of genius. 

Alena had expected Ronan to say something cocky like, “I don’t care.” But to her surprise, he nodded seriously. “Of course I’m worried—terrified, even.” 

That caught Alena off guard, but then she broke into a smile. 

“But I believe the Grammys are mature enough not to pick a fight with us little guys. In the end, it’s just a song,” Ronan said with a completely sincere expression, though his words had a roguish undertone that made people laugh out loud. 

And Alena had been right— 

The Grammys had expressed concerns about One Day King performing “Coming Apart.” They didn’t like the song’s message, worried it might fuel more online backlash and drag the Grammys into the fire, damaging their reputation. 

It was a situation neither side wanted. Ideally, they’d come to a mutual agreement. 

But Atlantic Records rejected the Grammy committee’s request—not only rejected it but also pushed back, arguing that this was the right choice. Given the pressure the band was facing online, this was their chance to respond with courage and authenticity. 

In the end, the Grammys were convinced. 

321. Entwined Gazes 

The Grammys, as prestigious as they are, have evolved far beyond just an "awards show." The interests and influence it carries are tremendous—every decision made, every movement, can send ripples through the industry. That's the true measure of its power. 

"To wear the crown is to bear its weight." 

This applies not just to individuals, but to events too. With its global influence, the Grammys must also shoulder industry responsibilities and uphold its authority, maintaining a consistently professional image. 

It was with this reasoning that Atlantic Records persuaded the Grammys: they shouldn’t cave to online backlash but should instead stay the course. 

In fact, the rise of the online storm only confirmed that the Grammys' strategy was correct. Any change inevitably stirs debate—history proves this time and again. If the Grammys want to stay relevant and visionary, they must endure the blowback that comes with leading change. 

That said, Ronan had no intention of diving into the messy industry politics with Alina, so he opted for a bit of playful banter. 

"But I believe the Grammys are generous enough not to hold a grudge against us little guys. After all, it's just one song." 

And he meant it. No matter how controversial, "Falling Apart" was just a song. Ronan didn’t think a single track could change much, especially coming from a group like One-Day Kings—not Queen, not Michael Jackson. Their influence was minimal. 

So there was no need to take it all too seriously. 

Ronan spread his hands, his expressive eyebrows practically revealing the hidden meaning behind his words. 

Though Alina managed to restrain herself from bursting out laughing, a gentle smile broke through her icy expression. She looked like a snow lotus blooming in the wind—proud and elegant, yet bold enough to bloom in the face of a freezing storm. Ronan couldn’t look away. 

He stared at her, momentarily lost, almost greedy to take in every nuance of her expression, every smile. It wasn’t until she noticed his gaze and looked back that he snapped out of it. He quickly looked away, trying to mask the panic in his eyes. 

Alina had sensed the heat of his stare. She looked up swiftly, trying to find the source—but she was a moment too late. Ronan had already turned his head, leaving her to catch only the outline of his profile. The light traced the sharp lines of his jaw, the strong nose, the full lips, and the thick, dark lashes that cast a faint shadow. Every detail was like a brushstroke from a meticulous artist. 

But Alina wasn't focused on those features. Her attention stayed on his eyes—those long, narrow eyes now cast in shadow, hiding their brilliance, but still glimmering with a quiet intensity that made her breath catch. 

Just then, Frank Ocean’s voice drifted in from the stage rehearsal: 

"Every time I think about you… oh no no no, I’ve been thinking about you all the time, you know? I can’t stop. Do you think about me too? Do you? Do you?" 

His lazy, velvety voice carried the elegance and magnetism of blues, saturated with a subtle sensuality—like the hot, humid air of a Miami summer, sticking to the skin, making sweat slowly slide down, teasing out a gentle itch that couldn’t be explained, only felt, like feathers brushing against the soul. 

The song, Thinking About You, had earned Frank Ocean a Record of the Year nomination. It was also the song he would perform live at the Grammys. 

"Or do you not think so far ahead? ’Cause I’ve been thinking 'bout forever… ohhh…" 

Frank’s voice was like dark chocolate—smooth and mellow with a bittersweet roughness that made the gentle sweetness stand out even more. Each slight quiver in his tone floated delicately into the listener’s ears, compelling them to close their eyes and feel every invisible touch. 

Even without direct contact, you could feel the warmth of a palm just from its proximity. As it slowly moved, it made the skin tremble and tighten with anticipation. Every tiny shiver seemed to ripple through the whole body. 

Because it was a rehearsal, Frank sounded even more relaxed and uninhibited. His voice exuded an unfiltered sensuality, hazy and magnetic. 

And that was when the tension snapped. 

Without thinking, without meaning to, Ronan’s gaze drifted back—right into Alina’s eyes, dark as wet black grapes. 

Their eyes locked. 

In those clear, gleaming eyes, Ronan saw his own reflection—and maybe even the flicker of emotion within it. His heart skipped a beat, his mind screamed to look away, to escape, but his eyes wouldn’t move. 

At the same time, Alina also saw herself reflected in Ronan’s bright gaze. A faint blush rose to her cheeks. She could feel reason pulling her back, but strangely, the space between them seemed to shrink instead. She wasn’t sure what was happening. 

The music swelled: 

"No, I don’t love you—I just think you’re cool. You could kick it with me. I’m selling you my beach house in Idaho. If you don’t think I love you, then those kisses were just 'cause you’re cute, unreachable like a fighter jet I’m not allowed to fly." 

Their breaths grew hotter, intertwining without them realizing it. With each inhale and exhale, they leaned closer. Logic screamed at them to stop, but emotion pulled harder. The rope in the tug-of-war was snapping. 

Panting. 

Faster now. 

The heat of each breath was tangible, the warmth of skin radiating through the space between them. A faint layer of peach fuzz glowed on her cheek under the dim lights, making him swallow without thinking. 

Then his gaze dropped— 

To her lips. Full, red, and glistening—like cherries in season. 

"But I’m lying here alone, and I can’t stop thinking about you…" 

Closer. 

Even closer.