The grand theater exuded an aura of anticipation, every corner adorned with the whispered excitement of an eager audience. In the spotlight, amidst the symphony of murmurs and rustling fabrics, stood a woman in a floor-length white dress that seemed to embody the purity of a newly fallen snow. Her caramel brown locks cascaded down to her waist, a soft halo framing her face, enhancing the ethereal glow that emanated from her presence.

With closed eyes, she sat poised at the grand piano, fingers delicately poised above the keys, as if waiting for a celestial signal to begin. The hush that fell upon the theater was palpable, a collective holding of breath, as if afraid to disturb the serene beauty that graced the stage.

And then, with a gentle touch, she began to play.

Each note danced from her fingertips, weaving a tapestry of melodies that seemed to transcend the confines of the theater walls. Her every movement was a symphony of elegance and grace, each keystroke painting a masterpiece in the air. The audience sat transfixed, eyes unblinking, as if afraid to miss a single moment of her performance.

As the final chord echoed through the auditorium, a profound silence enveloped the theater, a reverent pause in homage to the magic that had just unfolded before them. And then, like a dam bursting, applause erupted, a thunderous ovation that filled the air with its fervor.

With a simple smile, the woman acknowledged the adulation, her expression one of modesty and gratitude. But as the curtains began to close, and the applause faded into the background, a shadow passed over her features. For in that moment, amidst the sea of faces and thunderous applause, her gaze lingered on the one empty seat beneath the stage.

****

On the other side of the city, the atmosphere was electric with anticipation. Along a barren road, illuminated only by the glow of streetlights, a throng of spectators had gathered, their cheers and excited chatter cutting through the night air like a symphony of adrenaline.

At the heart of the commotion stood two automotive titans, a crimson Pagani and a blazing orange Lamborghini, their sleek frames gleaming under the fluorescent glare. Engines growled impatiently, a prelude to the impending clash of horsepower and precision.

Tristan's fingers tightened around the leather-clad steering wheel of the red Pagani, his gaze fixed on the sleek form of the Lamborghini beside him. With a smirk playing at the corners of his lips, he lowered the window, allowing the night air to rush in, carrying with it the electric energy of the crowd.

"Go ahead, take your head start," he called out to the other driver, his voice carrying a hint of cocky confidence that only seemed to irk his competitor further.

The driver of the orange Lamborghini bristled at Tristan's words, his jaw clenched in irritation. With a defiant roar, he revved the engine, a challenge thrown down in response to Tristan's taunt. 

Amidst the cheers and jeers of the crowd, the girl with the checkered flag raised it high, a signal that set hearts racing and adrenaline pumping. With a swift motion, she waved the flag, and the Lamborghini surged forward, a streak of orange lightning tearing down the road in a blur of speed and fury.

True to his word, Tristan waited, his car poised like a coiled spring, a calculated patience amidst the impatient groans of the audience. For a full minute, he remained motionless, a silent provocation to his adversary.

And then, with a sudden burst of acceleration that sent his Pagani hurtling forward, Tristan joined the race, the roar of his engine echoing in defiance as he chased after the Lamborghini with a determined focus.

As the two cars vanished into the distance, leaving behind only the fading echoes of their engines and the lingering scent of burnt rubber, the crowd erupted into a frenzy of cheers and applause, their excitement undiminished by Tristan's unconventional tactics.

The red Pagani closed the gap with the orange Lamborghini, Tristan could feel the thrill of the chase coursing through his veins. With each passing moment, the distance between them narrowed until they were mere feet apart, the Lamborghini's driver growing increasingly agitated by Tristan's relentless pursuit.

Refusing to be outmaneuvered, the Lamborghini driver skillfully blocked every window of opportunity, frustrating Tristan's attempts to overtake. But just as satisfaction began to settle over him, Tristan's sharp eyes caught sight of the curve looming ahead.

Sensing an opportunity, he seized it with lightning reflexes. With a calculated risk, he maneuvered the Pagani with precision, slipping past the Lamborghini, as he surged ahead, Tristan's heart pounded with exhilaration, the rush of adrenaline fueling his every move.

He expertly guided the Pagani into the turn, feeling the tires grip the asphalt as he initiated the perfect drift. Time seemed to slow as he navigated the curve with flawless execution, the car dancing on the edge of control as he carved a path through the corner with unmatched finesse.

Tristan emerged from the curve unscathed, the red Pagani soaring ahead with newfound momentum. Behind him, the Lamborghini fell further and further behind as the finish line loomed in the distance, leaving the orange Lamborghini in his wake.

The thunderous roar of the crowd reached a crescendo as the red Pagani streaked past the agreed finish line. Cheers erupted from every corner of the street filling the night air with electric energy.

The air hums with anticipation as performers mill about, their costumes vibrant against the dimly lit backstage. Clementine moves gracefully through the throng, a smile adorning her lips as she exchanges kind words and hugs with her fellow performers.

"Clementine, you were simply marvelous tonight!" said a fellow musician.

"Thank you, but it was a team effort. We all shone tonight."

"Oh, come now, Clementine! Your performance was the highlight of the evening."

"You're too kind. I'm just grateful to be part of such a talented ensemble." She replied with a gratified smile before her driver ushered her into the waiting car as the applause fades into the background, replaced by the quiet hum of the engine.

With a heavy sigh, she retrieves her phone from her purse, fingers trembling as she unlocks the screen. Notifications flood in, a river of well-wishes cascading down the screen. But among the sea of messages, there's a conspicuous absence.

Her heart sank as she scrolls through the messages, looking for that one familiar name.

Is he busy?

Did he forget?

Clementine's gaze remains fixed on her phone. She knows that she shouldn't read too much into it, but the silence speaks volumes.

****

The pounding bass of the music filled the air, as Tristan laughed with his friends, and just as he was about to take another sip from his drink, his phone buzzed insistently in his pocket.

With a sigh, he pulled it out only to see his mother's name flashing on the screen.

Tristan's heart sank, the vibrant atmosphere of the after-party fading into the background. He excused himself from the lively conversation, his steps heavy as he made his way to a quitter corner of the room.

"Tristan," his mother's voice cut through the noise of the party, "Come back. And bring Clementine with you."

His mood instantly soured as he realized that his night of revelry was over before it had truly begun.

Tristan stepped into the drawing room, the elegant furnishings subdued lighting a stark contrast to the vibrant chaos of the party he had just left. His parents stood conversing with Mr. and Mrs. Bennet, their expressions unreadable.

His mother's gaze flickered towards him as he entered, her sharp eyes narrowing ever so slightly, "What took you so long?"

Tristan stayed silent as her scrutiny didn't end there, "And where is Clementine?"

"I'm sorry I'm late," a voice said drawing everyone's attention, "I told Tristan to head here first since I had to take a call from a friend."

His mother's lips pressed into a thin line, but before she could respond, Mr. Bennet interjected smoothly, "Perhaps, we should sit down and discuss matters at hand?" he suggested.

"Just in time for the maids to finish preparing," His dad agreed as he gestured to everyone, "Let's head over to the dining room."

Tristan sank into one of the chairs whilst Clementine sat beside him, his stomach churning with apprehension.

"We've outlined the scope and timeline for the project, but I believe there's room for innovation." Tristan ate in silence not bothering to listen to his father.

"I am confident that with Christian's expertise, and your strategic vision, this project will be a success." Constance Bennet ushered as she turned to her husband who gave a curt smile in response.

"Speaking of partnerships, it's about time we make their engagement public..." Tiffany Andrews' words successfully caught everyone's attention.

"What do you think?"

Clementine's expression momentarily froze in surprise by the sudden shift in topic but she quickly recovers. "I'm fine with anything," she replies, "but after all, these matters shouldn't be rushed." She suggested tactfully as she observed Tristan's expression beside her after finishing her words.

As Tristan stepped onto the balcony, the cool night air enveloped him. The city skyline twinkled in the distance. He took a sip of whiskey, and with a flick of his wrist, he ignited his cigar, the ember casting an orange glow in the darkness as wisps of fragrant smoke spiraled into the air.

Leaning against the railing, Tristan gazed out into the night lost in thought when he heard a rustling sound behind him, "Who's there?"

Clementine's footsteps were hushed against the balcony's marble floor as she stepped out, the soft rustle of her dress echoed in the quiet as she approached the railing. Silence stretched between them, as she shifted uncomfortably unsure of what to say.

Tristan's gaze only drifted to her for a moment before it fixed on the horizon, desperate to break the oppressive silence, Clementine finally spoke, "Tristan," her voice barely above a whisper, "Is something wrong?"

Clementine's voice wavered slightly as she spoke, her words tinged with a hint of resignation, "Is this about the engagement?" she asked, her tone soft tinged with a hint of uncertainty. "If you don't want to make it public, that's also fine with me."

"Let's call it off."

Clementine's heart skipped a beat at Tristan's unexpected words, shock evident in her voice as she echoed his sentiment "W-what?"

"The engagement. Let's call it off."

She felt a knot forming in the pit of her stomach, a mixture of sorrow and disbelief swirling within her.

"W-why?" her voice barely above whisper.

"I don't like you."

Tristan's confession hung heavy in the air, his words a bitter reminder of the gulf that separated them. Clementine's heart faltered at the admission, the realization that the man she had loved for so long had never returned her affection like a dagger straight to her heart.

She struggled to mask her disbelief, to maintain the facade of composure even as her world crumbled around her. How could she accept his decision, when she had spent a lifetime dreaming of a future that would never come to pass?

"I neither wanted nor consented to this arrangement."

The weight of his rejection bore down on her, leaving her feeling small and insignificant in the face of his indifference as she struggled to find the words to respond, her throat constricted with the anguish of unshed tears she struggled to hold back.

"Is this really what you want?" she asked tremor in her voice.

Clementine refused to let go without a fight, refused to surrender to the bitter sting of rejection. If Tristan wished to annul their engagement, then so be it, but she would not go down without a fight.

"Half a year. Let's spend it together," With a trembling voice, she made her request, "give me half a year to change your mind—and if you still feel the same way after that, I'll accept your decision and I…I'll let you go." her words a whispered plea in the darkness of the night.

Tristan's expression remained unreadable in the dim light of the balcony, reluctantly, he nodded, his voice tinged with resignation. "Half a year," he agreed, "I'll hold you to your word."