That evening, the cabaret was particularly lively. Everyone was talking about the mysterious French opera diva who went by the pseudonym "***." When she appeared on stage, she paused for a moment, overwhelmed by the spotlight and the attention of the audience.

However, the response from the crowd was immediate. The audience burst into applause. We, the officers, captivated by her refined and somewhat unusual beauty, joined in with our cheers. And then she began to sing.

Her voice was not a powerful operatic baritone, but a low, velvety contralto voice that captivated not with strength, but with a penetrating intimacy and a kind of hidden sadness. The success was overwhelming. The audience called her for an encore three times, not wanting to let her go.

After the performance, a crowd of fans gathered at her dressing room. Namjoon, an officer at the imperial court, with a bouquet of white roses, broke through the hum of compliments. The officers were vying to invite her to dinner, promising her expensive gifts.

Namjoon, however, met her gaze and simply said,

“Your voice reminds me of the quiet evenings in Nice. May I accompany you on a stroll along the promenade tomorrow?”

She took his roses, and her fingers—remarkably graceful for a singer—touched my hand lightly.

“You know a thing or two about true beauty,” she replied, and a hint of a smile flashed in her eyes. "I'll be waiting at eight o'clock."

She disappeared through the door, leaving Namjoon alone under the fire of envious stares. He didn't know yet that he hadn't asked a woman out, but rather the most audacious hoax of the season, but her acceptance already felt like the greatest victory of his life.