Melodies of Manchester
"Asiya sings at Pakistani weddings to pay her bills while dreaming of stardom. When record producer Malik hears her voice at his brother's wedding, he hears something worth developing—both professionally and personally."
Melodies of Manchester
Another wedding, another night of Bollywood classics.
Asiya adjusted her microphone, preparing for three hours of requests while guests ignored her. Until—
"You have an extraordinary voice."
She looked down. The man by the stage was gorgeous—expensive suit, sharp jaw, eyes that missed nothing.
"Thanks. I'm the hired help."
"You're wasted as hired help." He handed her a card. "Malik Ashraf. Record label owner. Come see me Monday."
Monday came. The meeting should have been professional.
"Why weddings?" Malik asked.
"Dreams don't pay rent. My father's sick. Weddings do." She shrugged. "Sacrifices."
"That ends now." He leaned forward. "I'm signing you. Real contract, real support."
"Why?"
"Because talent like yours deserves a stage bigger than banquet halls." His eyes held hers. "And because I can't stop thinking about your voice. Or you."
"That's unprofessional."
"I know. Say yes anyway."
She said yes. To the contract. Later, to him.
His office couch saw more than demos and mixing sessions. Malik touched her like she was already a star.
"Sing for me," he murmured against her skin.
"I can't—not while you're—oh—"
"Try."
She did—broken phrases of Noor Jehan—and he matched his rhythm to her melody until words became impossible.
"Meri awaaz," he breathed, entering her. "You're my voice now."
She came with his name in her ears.
"This is complicated," Asiya said afterward. "Producer and artist."
"It's perfect." He kissed her forehead. "Your album drops in three months. Our engagement can wait until after."
"Engagement?"
"I don't do halfway, Asiya. You're my star and my future. Both."
The album went platinum. The dedication read: "To Malik, who heard me when no one was listening."
The wedding was private. She sang her own first dance.