Overture
New Year’s Eve in New York was a cacophony of sound and light. The city hummed with the buzz of celebrations, but in Beca Mitchell’s sprawling apartment—a blend of industrial chic and timeless elegance—the atmosphere was decidedly more intimate. The annual NYE gathering at her place had become a tradition, a mix of her Juilliard colleagues, music students, and a smattering of old friends from her entertainment industry days.
Beca, now a tenured professor of Music Production at Juilliard, was a figure of begrudging admiration. Her grumpy exterior belied her immense talent, and her students loved her for her unfiltered honesty. They’d long accepted her snark as part of the deal, often exchanging amused glances when she muttered about their "cliché chord progressions" or "tragic overuse of reverb." Her father—a now retired professor with a penchant for dad jokes—found it endlessly amusing that his once-rebellious daughter was now a respected academic.
Her apartment, perched high above the city, was as much a testament to her past as it was a retreat from it. The floor-to-ceiling windows offered breathtaking views of the skyline, while the minimalist decor—highlighted by exposed brick walls and a carefully curated collection of vinyl records—spoke to her love of authenticity. It was a space funded by her wildly successful but short-lived music career. Beca had left the industry years ago, disillusioned by its fakeness and the relentless demand for self-promotion. Still, she consulted occasionally, her sharp ear and keen instincts highly sought after.
Tonight, she floated through the party with a tumbler of bourbon, exchanging pleasantries and the occasional sarcastic remark, her high heeled Jimmy Choos click clacking on the hardwood floor. Her cocktail dress was in her signature colour, black, and threaded with strands of silver. It was sleeveless, showing off her tattoos, another eccentricity that endeared her to her students and raised eyebrows among the more uptight of her colleagues. Her hair was wavy and cut chin length, still a deep brown with a silver streak of colour across the front that she’d chosen to accent rather than hide. The silver went well with the deep blue of her irises, elevating her from merely beautiful to absolutely striking. More than one set of admiring eyes followed her movement around the party as she mixed and mingled. Beca could sense the looks but did not acknowledge them. Maybe later she’d indulge, if she chose to see the New Year in with a bang so to speak. But for now, she was happy to be the single host, enigmatic to a degree, desirable to many.
Across the room, her ex-wife, Thalia, was effortlessly charming a small crowd. Thalia, a renowned designer whose bold, innovative creations had graced countless runways, was a force of nature. Their marriage had ended amicably, and they’d remained friends, often delighting in the fact that they managed their divorce better than most people handled relationships. Thalia’s new girlfriend, an up-and-coming artist named Eva, was by her side, and the two looked impossibly glamorous together.
Beca’s eyes scanned the room, a faint smile playing on her lips. She’d been reluctant to host this year, but now, seeing her friends and students laughing and mingling, she felt a rare sense of contentment. Maybe, just maybe, she thought, the universe wasn’t entirely awful.
Her musings were interrupted by a knock at the door. She frowned. There was a sign: “Come on in” scrawled in her sharp handwriting. Who was ignoring it?
She opened the door, her default irritation quickly giving way to stunned silence. Standing there, clutching a coat and looking both polished and frazzled, was Chloe Beale. Chloe, whose bright smile and boundless energy had been a constant ten years ago, now looked older, though no less radiant. Her red hair was impeccably styled, and her outfit—a tailored coat over a shimmery dress—spoke of someone who’d dressed to impress but hadn’t quite managed to mask her nerves. And her eyes. Her eyes still cut to Beca’s core.
“Chloe?” Beca’s voice was barely above a whisper.
“Hi, Beca,” Chloe said, her smile wavering as her eyes darted around the room behind her. “I hope I’m not interrupting. I just…” She trailed off, looking uncharacteristically unsure of herself.
“Didn’t you see the sign?” Beca asked, the words coming out automatically. Chloe blinked, clearly caught off guard.
“Uh, yeah, but I… I wasn’t sure if it really meant… you know, for me.”
Beca stepped aside, gesturing for her to come in. “Well, you’re here now,” she said, her tone softer than she’d intended. “Might as well join the chaos.”
Chloe stepped inside; her movements hesitant. She glanced around the apartment, her eyes widening as she took in the space. “This place is… wow. It’s so you.”
Beca snorted. “If by that you mean it’s a little austere and overly curated, then sure.”
Chloe’s laugh was like a balm, familiar and warm. “No, it’s… it’s amazing.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Beca’s mind raced with questions: Why was Chloe here? What had she been up to all these years? And why did seeing her now feel like a punch to the gut and a breath of fresh air all at once?
The silence was broken by Thalia’s arrival. She approached with her usual grace, Eva trailing behind her like an awestruck shadow.
“Ah, a new face. And a fellow redhead as well,” Thalia said, her eyes lighting up as she extended a hand. “I’m Thalia. And you are?”
Chloe’s eyes flicked to Beca; a question unspoken but clear. Beca opened her mouth, then closed it again, her brain struggling to catch up.
“Chloe,” Chloe said finally, taking Thalia’s hand. “Chloe Beale. I… uh, Beca and I go way back.”
Thalia’s smile didn’t waver, but her eyes sparkled with curiosity. “Oh, how lovely. You must come in. Please, help yourself to a drink or some food. Beca darling, don’t just stand there, introduce your friend properly.”
Beca gave a weak nod, her usual quick wit completely abandoning her. Chloe stepped further into the apartment, her movements still tentative, as if she were navigating a minefield. The party seemed to pause for a beat, a ripple of interest passing through the room at the sight of the striking newcomer.
As the door clicked shut behind her, Beca’s heart raced. Ten years had passed since they’d last seen each other, ten years since their lives had veered off in wildly different directions. And now, against all odds, Chloe was here, standing in her apartment on New Year’s Eve.
Beca’s grip tightened on her glass. Whatever this was, it was about to get interesting.