Chapter 1: Broken Wings

The energy dome filtered the starlight, casting a soft, golden glow that bathed every crystalline skyscraper.

Outside the window lay the spectacle of the city's upper district. Sleek shuttles glided silently along their designated paths, leaving shimmering light trails in their wake.

The atmosphere in the dining room, however, was a stark contrast to this harmonious order. It was as cold as the vacuum of space.

At the head of the table sat Ella's father. He had just finished a remote conference, his dark suit immaculate, his brow etched with authority. His fingertips tapped a rhythmic beat against the tabletop, where an acceptance letter bearing the Starshine Entertainment insignia lay.

"What is this?" His voice was low, yet it landed like a sledgehammer on everyone's heart.

Ella kept her head down. Her long, ginger-gold hair veiled most of her face.

The man's voice dripped with contempt. "An entertainer." He spat the word out. "A daughter of the Xia family, parading herself on a stage? Becoming a mere entertainer?"

He snatched the paper. Ella's pupils contracted sharply.

"I forbid it."

Riiip—

The jarring sound of tearing paper sliced through the dead silence of the room. The letter became fragments in his hand, tossed carelessly onto the carpet. He stared at her, enunciating each word. "Have you no regard for the Xia family's honor?"

Ella finally lifted her head. Her amber eyes held no tears, no fury—only the calm of a deep pool. She looked at the scattered pieces, and the corner of her mouth curled into the faintest of smiles.

A smile he had never seen before.

That night, she descended the stairs, dragging a suitcase behind her. The old, white-haired butler stood at the door. "Miss..."

"Benson," Ella's voice was gentle, "tell him my stage will be grander than any of his shopping malls."

A complex emotion flickered in the old butler's eyes—worry, pity, and deeper still, a sense of understanding. He bowed slightly and stepped aside.

Without a backward glance, Ella walked out into the perpetual golden twilight of Solaria.

The Starshine Entertainment trainee building was an island of chaos in the city of order. The air was a cocktail of sweat, cheap perfume, and fermenting dreams. It was here that Ella finally understood what her father meant by "entertainer."

Talent and hard work were the price of admission, but not the ticket to the final destination.

Her looks and skills were enough to crush everyone in her cohort. The initial auditions were a mere formality. But she quickly discovered that the real rules were written beneath the surface.

She saw a girl with mediocre dancing skills advance smoothly, simply by handing a judge a "special" drink. From the bathroom stalls, she overheard the hushed whispers of senior trainees discussing which producer was more "generous."

Ella sheathed her sharp edges and slipped on the persona of a "cute and sweet" girl. This disguise was the best camouflage.

"Ella, you're such an amazing dancer! How do you practice?" She would tilt her head and smile sweetly. "Oh, I'm just slow, so I have to spend more time on it. Not like you, you're a natural."

"Ella, Producer Lee has his eye on you." She would blink, her expression a mask of innocence. "Really? Producer Lee is nice to everyone."

She was like a sponge, greedily absorbing all the rules of this world of fame and fortune. The dirty tricks, the effective tactics—she categorized them all and stored them away in her mind. Meanwhile, her body was forged in the crucible of the dance studio. The sweat, the stinging pain—this was her reality. With every spin, every high note, she pushed herself toward perfection.

After all, only the most perfect product earns the right to choose its buyer.

Six months later, the final evaluation for the group's lineup took place.

Spotlights, sharp as swords, stabbed down. Ella stood center stage. The moment the music began, the sweet smile vanished from her face, her gaze transforming into a fatal allure—like a red rose blooming on the edge of a cliff.

Every move she made was perfectly on beat, a blend of power and grace. Even the toss of her hair carried emotion. A difficult backbend into a spin drew suppressed gasps from the audience. Her final high note pierced through the entire studio, steady and resonant with sorrow.

When the music ended, the applause was thunderous. Even the dance instructor, who was notoriously strict during training, gave her a standing ovation.

Ella bent over, panting, as sweat streamed down her face. She knew she had delivered a flawless, unassailable performance.

However, the host announced the result. Under the spotlight, the winner was not her. The name was—Flora Lin.

The girl who had fumbled her moves and whose voice had cracked on the high note was covering her mouth in feigned surprise, her eyes darting toward an investor in the front row—Director Zhang.

Ella stood frozen. Her expression shifted in an instant: from shock to disappointment, and then, to a smile. When the camera found her, she applauded vigorously for Flora Lin. A single, precise tear slipped from her long lashes, catching the spotlight like a diamond—a moment perfectly captured by the lens.

Her face flushed as she sniffled, quickly clapping a hand over her mouth. She tilted her head back, forcing the tears back, her expression a heart-wrenching mix of a sob and a smile.

It all looked so natural. That seemingly involuntary act of fighting back tears was, in fact, a calculated performance for the camera.

She had flawlessly portrayed the image of a pitiful debutante idol, wronged by injustice but forced to accept her fate.

"So strong it's heartbreaking"—that was the exact effect she was aiming for. Soon enough, on Solaria's internet, the hashtag GiveEllaHerCrown began to trend.

Late that night, the trainee building was deserted.

Ella pushed open the door to a dance studio and walked to the enormous mirror.

In the reflection, the mask of sorrow, disappointment, and grievance was instantly stripped away, not lingering for even a second. All that remained was an icy stillness. Reflected clearly in her amber eyes was pure, unadulterated ambition.

She took out her notebook. With a fountain pen, she forcefully etched three names, stroke by painstaking stroke:

【Flora Lin】 【Her sponsor, Director Zhang】 【Producer Lee】

She whispered to her reflection in the mirror, "Time to take out the trash."