216-218

Chapter 216: A Convenient Turn of Events 

Alena Bayeva. 

One of the most outstanding and top-tier violinists in the world today. Although she just turned twenty-six this year, she has already achieved global fame and established an impressive career in violin performance. Her professional reputation is widely admired, and she has firmly cemented her status in the music industry. 

Born into a traditional Russian musical family, Alena took her first violin lesson at the age of five. By the time she was just fourteen, she was already demonstrating a talent that rivaled the world’s best. In the year 2000, she stunned the world by winning first prize in the under-thirty category at the Warsaw International Violin Solo Competition, making a dazzling debut and officially beginning her extraordinary journey. 

Since then, Alena has racked up countless awards in international violin competitions, both big and small. Unlike the tragic story of a prodigy who burns out too soon, her talents have only deepened and matured with age. Her growing understanding of melody and interpretation has infused her performances with emotional depth and resonance, winning the hearts of classical music lovers all over the world. 

Today, Alena is a highly sought-after soloist, frequently collaborating with top-tier orchestras and conductors. She regularly performs with the Russian National Academic Symphony Orchestra, the London Symphony Orchestra, the New York Philharmonic, the Mariinsky Orchestra, and many others. She’s also a frequent guest at numerous international festivals across Europe, enjoying widespread popularity among younger audiences. 

Without a doubt, Alena is a superstar in the world of classical music—a brilliant talent with top-level skills who continues to evolve and grow. 

This week, the New York Philharmonic is hosting the final summer concert at Carnegie Hall, and Alena has been invited as the special guest solo violinist, offering a spectacular musical feast for classical music fans in New York. 

“Wow.” 

To be honest, Ronan had already picked up some clues last night and mentally prepared himself. But seeing it with his own eyes now still brought a wave of shock and amazement that crashed through him like a tidal wave. The admiration rose up from deep within. 

Though he had suspected that Alena wasn’t just some random person, her actual identity was still astonishing. Now, Ronan could completely understand the proud and stubborn aura she naturally exuded—it wasn’t pretentious. She was simply on another level. 

Thinking it over, Ronan casually checked the ticket availability for tomorrow night’s performance at Carnegie Hall— 

As expected, all tickets were long sold out. 

Price-wise, they weren’t outrageous—$70 for the cheapest and $1,200 for the most expensive. That’s pretty standard for classical orchestra concerts. What was truly surprising, though, was that both of Alena’s performances had sold out six months in advance. Now, ticket prices on the black market had skyrocketed to $6,000, and there still weren’t enough to meet the demand. 

Of course, people who buy tickets for orchestra concerts are usually not the type to resell them casually. 

“I waited a whole year, and now I’ve missed it—my Alena Bayeva!” 

“I don’t care! I’m already preparing to fly to London—Alena’s fall concert will be with the London Symphony Orchestra!” 

“Oh my God! Does anyone have an extra ticket? I’m literally begging on my knees!” 

Even just skimming the comments on the ticket website, you could still feel the desperation and frustration pouring out of the latest messages. It came through loud and clear, even through a phone screen. 

Wow! 

Unconsciously, Ronan's mind flashed back to the face he saw last night, comparing it to the ID photo on the website. 

It wasn’t about whether she looked better or worse—just a difference in vibe. In the official photo, Alena wore a faint smile. Her round face had a touch of sweetness, and her big eyes sparkled like a clear spring. She looked so young, like a university student who hadn’t graduated yet. 

But last night’s Alena… she was cool and proud, like a fleeting flower or a serene lotus. So, which one was the real her? 

“Ronan?” 

Oli’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts. Ronan reflexively turned off his phone screen and looked up to meet Oli’s eyes. “Hm?” 

“Your food’s here.” Oli looked at Ronan’s meal with curiosity. “What did you get?” 

Ronan pushed his wandering thoughts aside. Classical music was a world completely foreign to him—one he’d never had any contact with until now. He had never even listened to a full classical piece, let alone attended an orchestra performance. So last night’s chance encounter was likely just that—an unexpected one-off event. 

“This is my food. Don’t even think about it,” Ronan said, waving Oli away as if shooing a fly. 

“Jeez, I’m just looking.” Oli protested, though he kept muttering, “How did I miss that earlier?” 

At that moment, Maxim finally snapped out of his daze and rushed over, grabbing a huge chunk of beef from Oli’s plate and stuffing it into his mouth. 

“Maxim!” Oli’s wail echoed dramatically across the room. 

… 

That afternoon and evening dragged on endlessly, like the final sprint of a marathon—often the hardest and most intense part. That’s how the band felt now. After the initial excitement and euphoria had passed, anxiety and uncertainty crept in, making it impossible to relax. 

Perhaps Ronan was the only exception. Not only had he successfully written down the inspiration from the night before and completed the song, but he also fell into a dreamless sleep and woke up feeling refreshed. After washing up, he discovered that even Oli—usually the last one to get out of bed—was already up. His eyes were dark-circled and lifeless, like he hadn’t slept at all. 

Stepping out of the room, Ronan immediately spotted two more “pandas.” Looking ahead, then to his right, he couldn’t help but burst into laughter. “Hey! Bai Yun! Gao Gao! Come meet your long-lost cousin, Little Gift!” 

Bai Yun and Gao Gao were two pandas that came from China to the U.S. in 1996 as part of a joint panda conservation research program. They had been living at the San Diego Zoo ever since and were beloved by the American public. Little Gift was their offspring, born right there in San Diego. 

Cliff and Oli just looked at him, speechless. Meanwhile, Maxim had a horrified look on his face. Without a word, he turned around and fled back into his room, the door creaking dramatically behind him. 

Chapter 217: The Record Company 

“…Are you sure this is the place? Why does it look so…” Cliff couldn’t hide his anxiety. He kept talking non-stop out of nervousness, completely lacking his usual calm and composure. 

“Like a hotel?” Alice picked up where Cliff left off, though he hadn’t finished his sentence. She nodded slightly. “If it looks similar, then that means it’s the right place. This is Atlantic Records’ tradition.” 

Alice then gave a brief explanation. “When Atlantic Records was first founded, their office was in the Ritz Hotel in Manhattan. Later, because the rent became too expensive, they moved to the Jefferson Hotel. Even after Warner acquired them, the old office in the Jefferson Hotel has been preserved and turned into a sort of museum attraction.” 

No wonder! 

They had followed the address to the destination, only to find themselves in a hotel lobby, making them question if they had come to the wrong place. But now it all made sense. 

Cliff turned to Alice, visibly surprised. He hadn’t expected her to know such obscure historical tidbits. 

Alice lifted her chin slightly, a trace of pride flashing in her eyes. Know thyself and thy enemy, and you’ll never lose a battle. It had been worth staying up last night to cram some background knowledge. Still, the thought of taking on the role of the band’s manager made her a little nervous again, and her expression grew focused. 

The lobby was spacious and bright, filled with warm, soft amber lighting. Dark red carpet, peacock blue furniture, deep brown counters, and a tall grandfather clock—stepping inside felt like traveling back to the 1930s. Even the air seemed to move slower, as if all you needed was a double-breasted suit, a dark brown wool bowler hat, and a newspaper smelling of ink to return to the past. 

Their footsteps were muffled by the carpet, and the quiet atmosphere only added to the tension. Maxime and Ollie didn’t dare to look around too much, afraid that any careless movement might cause trouble. Gradually, even their body language turned stiff and awkward. 

“Good afternoon. We have a 3 PM appointment with Mr. Ahmet Ertegun—One Day King Band.” 

Alice hadn’t brought her camera today—though she really, really wanted to. But since she had to play the role of a proper manager, and Atlantic Records probably wouldn’t allow filming anyway, she resisted the temptation. For now, she focused on her responsibilities and stepped forward to handle the communication. 

“Three o’clock, One Day King…” The receptionist quickly pulled up the appointment schedule on her computer and nodded. “Yes, Mr. Ertegun is expecting you. However, he just entered a meeting, which might take a little while. He’s asked that you first meet Mr. Dean in the creative studio on the third floor.” 

Alice didn’t immediately agree. She checked her watch—2:40 PM. The band had arrived quite early to avoid being late. 

It might come off as overly eager and put them at a disadvantage in negotiations, but it was simply the truth. No matter how hard they tried to hide it, they couldn’t deny their lack of leverage. So, it was better to be honest and arrive early to show respect. 

So, Ahmet being in a meeting now was entirely believable. 

But— 

“Sorry, Mr. Dean wasn’t mentioned in our appointment schedule. May I ask what his position is, and why we need to meet with him separately?” Alice showed her careful attention and didn’t follow blindly. 

“Mr. Curtis Dean, our senior producer,” the receptionist answered with a polite smile. “As for the details, I’m afraid I don’t know. But you can head up to the third floor—the signs will guide you to the creative studio. Mr. Dean should be able to explain.” 

Alice lifted her chin slightly, thinking for a moment before asking again, “Where is Mr. Ertegun’s office? And do you know when the meeting might end?” 

“Mr. Ertegun’s office is on the fifth floor, but he’s likely in a meeting on the fourth floor right now. As for when it’ll end, I’m sorry, I really can’t say.” The receptionist continued to smile politely. Her warm and open demeanor made it easy to trust her—even her “I don’t know” seemed genuine. 

Alice didn’t push further. She thanked the receptionist and turned toward the elevators with Ronan and the others. 

Ronan hung back a moment, flashing a smile at the receptionist. “If you had a traditional pen and paper on the desk, it would fit the ambiance even better. Or maybe a typewriter? The computer kind of stands out. It doesn’t quite match your gloves and scarf.” 

He paused and added with a smile, “I love your gloves and scarf, by the way. Very tasteful.” Her outfit matched the vintage decor perfectly, with elegant details that revealed a refined retro flair. Ronan’s compliment was genuine. 

The receptionist blinked in surprise, then couldn’t help but chuckle. She nodded slightly at Ronan. “Thanks for the suggestion. I’ll be sure to pass it along.” Then, just as Ronan was about to walk away, she added, “Mr. Dean is very professional. He’s our top sound engineer and producer, though he focuses more on production nowadays than recording.” 

“Oh.” Ronan was clearly surprised—that was unexpected. A smile crept across his face, and he lifted an eyebrow slightly. “Thanks.” 

The receptionist raised her right hand and waved lightly, mouthing the words, Good luck. 

Ronan turned and quickly caught up with Alice and the others, stepping into the elevator. Feeling their curious gazes, he shook his head. “Nothing serious—just got a sudden burst of inspiration. Also, we found out that Mr. Dean is a pro.” 

Which meant Curtis Dean wasn’t in charge of management. 

“A live audition?” Alice offered a possible reason. “But I thought Ahmet had already seen your performance at the concert and evaluated your skills. It’s because he believed in you that he wants to sign you. Why would there be another audition now?” 

Everyone exchanged uncertain glances. With so little experience, they were like blind men feeling an elephant—no idea what was going on. 

Maxime mumbled, “Maybe all big record labels do this kind of thing?” But it sounded like he was talking to himself, not really expecting an answer. No one else responded in the elevator. 

In that silence, the elevator arrived on the third floor. There was no time left for discussion. 

Stepping out, they were greeted by bluish-gray wallpaper with golden lettering clearly labeling different rooms—recording studio, workroom, rehearsal room, and more—with arrows pointing the way. The creative studio was listed too, but its exact purpose remained a mystery. 

The destination was right in front of them. 

Chapter 218: Resonance of Instruments 

Standing at the elevator entrance, they followed the signs toward their destination. It wouldn’t take long to get there, but none of them made a move. A trace of hesitation lingered in the air. 

They exchanged glances until Clive cautiously suggested, “How about we go to the fourth floor first?” trying to take the initiative in unfamiliar territory. 

But Ronan shook his head. “Since we’re already here, let’s face it head-on. We don’t have any say in this matter anyway, so we might as well accept their challenge.” He shrugged lightly. “Honestly, just a short conversation the night before last isn’t enough to convince anyone to sign a contract with us—I don’t have that kind of confidence.” 

Ronan’s straightforwardness carried a hint of self-mocking humor, slightly easing the tension. Ollie and Maxime chuckled, while Clive remained stern and serious. 

Then Ronan took the lead, stepping out of the elevator and striding to the left. 

“Ronan. Ronan, wrong way. You’re going the wrong way!” Ollie hurried after him, grabbing his arm and steering him back toward the elevator. “It’s to the right, didn’t you see?” 

Ronan sheepishly rubbed his nose and laughed quietly. 

Thankfully, everyone was too nervous to tease him much, so Maxime didn’t take the opportunity to roast him. 

They followed the arrows, and since there were no intersections, they quickly arrived at the door of the creative studio. Clive knocked on the door. A deep, serious voice replied from inside, “Come in.” Even before seeing the speaker, the gravity in his voice made the air tighten. 

Clive pushed the door open—and their view instantly expanded into a rehearsal room! 

The place was packed with a wide variety of instruments crammed into every corner: string instruments, percussion instruments, keyboards—you name it. It was like an encyclopedia of music, rivaling the scale of a classical orchestra. Each instrument had its own bit of space to allow movement, but the overall arrangement made the room feel cluttered, almost chaotic. So much so that— 

It gave off the bustling, disordered vibe of… a junkyard. 

Admittedly, calling it that might seem unfair, but the sight really did resemble an unorganized storage dump. It wasn’t just messy—it was old and worn. 

But there are always two sides to everything. To some people, this might look like a junkyard. To others, this place could be a paradise. Especially if you looked closely—you’d notice a soft gleam on the surfaces of the instruments. This meant they were being maintained regularly, possibly even played every day. That’s why they were still full of life, instead of just sitting there collecting dust. 

Take Ronan, for example. 

His eyes wandered curiously around the room. Every instrument seemed alive. Each one had its own unique voice, resonance, and structure—from the materials used and place of origin, to the craftsmanship behind its creation. Every detail helped carve out the soul of the instrument. And naturally, each one produced a sound infused with a different emotion. 

Ronan had once heard that instruments carry colors. Some are naturally cheerful and perfect for upbeat melodies. Others are melancholic, ideal for slow, sorrowful tunes that stir the soul. 

But up until now—across both this life and the last—he’d never had the chance to truly experience this firsthand. Top-tier instruments are incredibly expensive and rare—just one could easily cost as much as a car. 

Until now. 

Ronan’s eyes sparkled as his imagination painted vivid stories. What stories did these instruments hold, waiting to be expressed through music? What journeys had they endured to end up here? Each one had its own tale to tell. 

“Which one’s your favorite?” A deep, buzzing voice called out from ahead. It didn’t specify a name, but everyone turned to look at Ronan. 

He lifted his head and immediately spotted a middle-aged man seated behind a grand piano. There wasn’t time to examine the man closely—Ronan’s attention was still completely captured by the instruments. Without hesitation, he began scanning the room, thoughtfully making his choice. 

Clive grew uneasy. They had just been greeting Curtis and making introductions when Ronan, distracted, was caught off-guard. Curtis ignored the others and spoke directly to Ronan, clearly noticing his absent-mindedness. Was that rude? What would Curtis think of them? They didn’t know enough about Curtis’s personality yet. Should they try to smooth things over? 

Clive thought for a moment, then offered a polite explanation. “Ronan has a deep passion and focus when it comes to music. Being here must be incredibly exciting for him—so much so that he got a little carried away.” He didn’t elaborate, but the message was clear—this was a way to explain Ronan’s behavior and present it in a positive light. 

But Curtis didn’t respond. His eyes stayed locked on Ronan, fully absorbed in observing him—almost as if he hadn’t heard Clive at all. 

This made Clive even more nervous and anxious. Emotions churned in his stomach. He glanced at Maxime, hoping for support, but Maxime seemed just as engrossed as Curtis, watching Ronan’s movements. Clive’s gaze followed theirs. 

Ronan looked up at Curtis and locked eyes with him, though his focus remained on the instruments. “Can I choose one and play it?” 

Curtis gave no reply—neither an affirmation nor a rejection. But Ronan, lost in his own world, took Curtis’s silence as a quiet encouragement. He broke into a wide smile, then stepped forward, weaving his way between the instruments. 

Guitar. 

Keyboard. 

Bass. 

These were the instruments Ronan was most familiar with. They naturally gave off a sense of familiarity and intimacy, as if they were calling out to him with quiet excitement. But Ronan didn’t stop—he kept moving, his steps guided by an invisible pull. 

Closer. 

And closer still. 

He finally stopped in front of a deep brown piano. Its aged wood radiated a sense of solemn serenity. Slowly, Ronan raised his right hand, gently tracing the piano’s contours with his fingertips—not yet playing, but feeling the energy radiating from its surface. A faint pulse of resonance stirred beneath his skin, and his fingers trembled ever so slightly in excitement. 

His heart leapt. 

He set his fingers on the piano lid and lifted it. Then he sat down, straightening his back and shoulders, raising his hands. 

In that moment, his posture and presence came together perfectly. 

(End of Chapter)