Manifesting Milan

The plastic digits of a digital clock flipped to 11:45 PM. Seraphine Edwards sat cross-legged on her worn-out thrift store rug, staring at the wall. In a little over two months, she would turn thirty. To most people, thirty was just a number. To a singer-songwriter living in a cramped, drafty Koreatown apartment that constantly smelled like neighboring barbecue and old radiator fluid, thirty felt like a hard deadline. It was the age where “upcoming artist” started sounding like “delusional dreamer.”

Her entire life was pinned to that wall. Literally. A massive corkboard dominated the room, covered in magazine cutouts of packed arenas, Grammy trophies, glossy magazine covers, and bold letters cut out of old tabloids that spelled out words like UNSTOPPABLE, ICONIC, and GOLDEN.

“You’re staring at the lack again, Seraphine. Stop doing that. You’re telling the universe you don’t have it yet.”

Mira Weldon adjusted a small crystal on the floor, her face illuminated by a thick, lavender-scented candle that was supposed to clear negative energy. Mira was Seraphine’s best friend, housemate, and self-appointed spiritual guide. Outside, the full moon hung high over the Los Angeles skyline, casting a pale glow through their single window.

“I’m not staring at the lack, Mira. I’m staring at my bank account in visual form,” Seraphine said, her voice rich and smoky, even when she was sighing. She rubbed her temples. “I’ve been in this city for four years. I’ve sung backup for indie bands who paid me in drink tickets. I’ve written hooks for rappers who forgot to put my name in the credits. I have raw talent. I know I do. But talent doesn’t pay the gas bill.”

“Exactly, which is why your mindset has to shift,” Mira insisted, lighting a stick of sage. She waved the smoke around Seraphine’s shoulders. “The Law of Attraction doesn’t care about your gas bill. It cares about your vibration. Tonight is a powerful full moon. We are releasing the old story—the story where you almost make it—and we are claiming your global destiny. Say it with me: I am the artist the world cannot ignore."

Seraphine closed her eyes. She wanted to believe it. She really did. Every morning she woke up, looked at her voluptuous reflection in the mirror, and told herself she was enough. She had a striking appearance—curvy, fierce, with deep-set eyes and an aura that usually commanded a room—but the music industry was a brutal machine that preferred cookie-cutter pop stars. She breathed in the herbal smoke, feeling the familiar burn of ambition in her chest.

“I am the artist the world cannot ignore,” Seraphine repeated. The words felt heavy, hot, and desperately true.

“Good. Now, write down your intention for tonight and burn it,” Mira instructed, handing her a small slip of paper.

Seraphine wrote: Tonight, the right door opens.

As the paper turned to ash in a ceramic bowl, Seraphine didn’t just rely on the universe; she relied on her credit card. She had spent her very last three hundred dollars—money meant for next week’s groceries—on an underground, highly exclusive industry guest list ticket. An independent A&R coordinator she followed on social media had leaked that the upper echelon of Apex Records would be attending a private after-party at the legendary Sunset Marquis hotel tonight.

It was a massive gamble. If she didn’t get her demo into the right hands tonight, she would be eating instant ramen until July.

“The ritual is done,” Mira smiled, extinguishing the candle. “The universe is already moving people around like chess pieces to get to you.”

“Let’s hope the universe drives a fast car, because my rideshare is outside,” Seraphine said, standing up and smoothing down her outfit.

She had dressed to kill. She wore a deep emerald green, form-fitting dress that accentuated every curve of her body, paired with a vintage leather jacket to give her that raw, rock-and-soul edge. Her dark hair was styled in wild, natural waves. She didn’t look like an amateur begging for a chance; she looked like a star waiting to be discovered. She grabbed her purse, making sure the small, sleek USB drive containing her three best unreleased tracks was tucked securely into the side pocket.

Thirty minutes later, Seraphine stood outside the Sunset Marquis. The atmosphere was dizzying. Exotic sports cars lined the driveway, and the air smelled of expensive perfume, premium tobacco, and heavy influence. A thick velvet rope separated the elite from the hopefuls. A large, stone-faced bouncer checked names against an iPad.

Seraphine felt a sudden spike of anxiety. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Everyone around her looked like they belonged, chatting effortlessly about streaming numbers, festival lineups, and European tours. She held her breath as she approached the bouncer, flashing her digital ticket. He scanned it, gave her a brief, dismissive look, and unhooked the rope.

She was in.

The interior of the hotel venue was dim, lit by soft crimson and amber lights. A DJ was playing a deep, hypnotic house beat that vibrated through the floorboards. Seraphine moved through the crowd, her eyes scanning the room for the specific A&R executive she had researched. She spotted him near the VIP booths, surrounded by a entourage of models and executives.

She took a deep breath, mentally rehearsing her pitch. Hi, I’m Seraphine Edwards. My music blends classic soul with modern cinematic pop, and I have a visual identity that—

Suddenly, the crowd shifted. A group of security guards began clearing a path through the center of the lounge, pushing people aside to accommodate someone important. Seraphine, caught off guard by a sudden shove from an oversized security guard, lost her footing on her high heels. She stumbled backward, her purse slipping from her shoulder.

She prepared to hit the hardwood floor, bracing for total humiliation.

Instead, she crashed hard into a solid chest.

Strong, steady hands instantly gripped her waist, locking her in place and preventing her from falling. The impact sent a jolt of pure adrenaline straight down her spine. The scent of expensive cedarwood, expensive dark rum, and pure power washed over her.

“Careful there,” a deep, smooth voice murmured right above her ear. The voice was calm, dripping with an casual arrogance that instantly made her hair stand on end.

Seraphine steadied herself and looked up. Her breath caught in her throat.

Standing in front of her was Milan Rhodes.

He was unmistakable. Even in the dim light, his dangerously sharp jawline, piercing dark eyes, and tailored black silk shirt made him look like a modern deity. Milan was a globally renowned music producer, a multi-Grammy winner, and a certified hitmaker. He was also notorious in the industry for his ruthless nature, his cold business tactics, and a string of broken hearts left in his wake. He didn’t just dominate the charts; he ran the culture.

He didn’t let go of her waist immediately. His dark eyes traveled slowly down her emerald dress, taking in her voluptuous silhouette, before snapping back up to lock onto her eyes. There was a sudden, intense flicker of interest in his expression—an unspoken, dangerous chemistry that made the crowded room entirely disappear.

“I’ve got you,” Milan said softly, his lips curving into a faint, knowing smirk. He finally released her waist, leaving a lingering warmth through the fabric of her dress.

“Thank you,” Seraphine managed to say, her voice steadier than she felt. She quickly knelt down to grab her purse, which had spilled open. Her USB drive had rolled right to the toe of Milan’s polished leather boots.

Milan looked down, noticed the drive, and picked it up before she could. He turned the small plastic rectangle over in his fingers, a look of amused realization crossing his face.

“A demo,” Milan said, a dry chuckle escaping his throat. “Let me guess. You bought a ticket, bypassed the front gate, and were looking for a mid-level executive to hand this to in the bathroom?”

Seraphine’s face flushed with a mixture of embarrassment and sudden irritation. The arrogance in his tone pricked her pride. She stood up straight, squaring her shoulders, her fierce aura returning in full force. She looked him dead in the eye, refusing to be intimidated by his status.

“Actually, I was looking for someone who still has an ear for real talent, not just algorithms,” she shot back, her voice laced with defiancy. “But I suppose a mid-level executive would be more approachable than a producer who thinks he owns the room.”

Milan paused. His smirk vanished, replaced by a sharp, intense stare. Most aspiring artists trembled in his presence or fawned over him. Nobody spoke to him with that kind of fire. He stepped closer, invading her personal space, his eyes scanning her face as if trying to read a complicated piece of sheet music. He was genuinely arrested by her confidence, her striking beauty, and the sheer magnetism she exuded without even trying.

“Bold,” Milan murmured, his voice dropping an octave. He tapped the USB drive against his palm. “The traditional hustle is dead, sweetheart. Passing out plastic in a nightclub doesn’t make you a star. It makes you a cliché.”

“Then give it back,” Seraphine said, reaching for the drive, her fingers brushing against his cold, metallic watch.

Milan pulled it just out of reach, his eyes flashing with a playful, predatory light. “I don’t think I will. I might just see if the music matches the attitude.”

Before she could respond, Milan’s massive security detail stepped in, gently but firmly separating them as a crowd of high-profile executives called out his name, drawing him toward the private VIP lounge.

Milan allowed himself to be led away, but he didn’t look away from her. He looked back over his shoulder, locking his eyes onto hers through the crowd. He raised the USB drive in the air, giving her a cryptic, lingering nod that felt like an unspoken promise.

Seraphine stood frozen in the middle of the lounge, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs. The air around her still felt charged with his presence. She looked down at her empty hands, her mind racing. He had her music. Milan Rhodes had her music.

A wave of euphoric validation washed over her, making her dizzy. She pulled out her phone, her fingers trembling as she typed a frantic text message to her best friend.

Mira, you won’t believe this. The ritual worked. I just met Milan Rhodes, and he took my music. It’s happening.