Soft music flowed from the two speakers installed in the TW meeting room in Paris.
Although it carried the slow tempo typical of ballads, there was nothing dull about it.
The arrangement perfectly suited the wintry chill outside the windows of the TW headquarters near the Canal Saint-Martin, wrapping the room in warmth and melody.
Even though the melody was nothing more than a hummed guide with no lyrics, it felt intimate.
So intimate, in fact, it might have been mistaken for Pierre Lemoine himself humming it.
Everyone in the meeting room shared one unspoken thought:
"This is a masterpiece."
As the final note faded, silence lingered.
All eyes slowly turned toward CEO Jacques Chevalier.
"...Hmm."
He turned his gaze to the laptop in front of him.
The song had arrived in the official A&R inbox only twenty minutes earlier.
Despite being in the middle of an ongoing strategy meeting, Deputy Manager Marc Delacroix had burst in, visibly excited.
That alone was proof of how invested TW's A&R department was in this winter album.
Jacques allowed himself a small smile.
"Julien Moreau? Is he an established composer?"
The quality of the song suggested a seasoned professional.
But the name didn't ring any bells.
He glanced at the others in the room, only to be met with shaking heads.
Team Leader Émile Laurent spoke up, cautiously:
"I've never heard of him. But it doesn't sound like a rookie's work. Maybe he's been composing for film or working abroad?"
"That's possible."
Jacques nodded thoughtfully.
Even though the track was a full MIDI demo, it had the richness of a live orchestral recording.
The rhythm? The percussion was subtle but precise—flawlessly compressed.
The mix? Professional.
There wasn't a single misplaced note or awkward transition in the arrangement.
"It felt like a scene from a film."
Despite its cinematic vibe, it worked effortlessly as a pop ballad.
Jacques mused aloud:
"A film composer, perhaps?"
Émile nodded.
"That would make sense."
But there was still one question:
Why had someone this talented submitted a song through the public email inbox?
After a pause, Jacques offered his theory:
"Maybe he just wanted to try his hand at pop. It happens. Some film composers venture into pop and sell their tracks."
He checked the contact info on the screen.
This wasn't something to delegate.
"Émile."
"Yes, sir?"
"Let's show this to Pierre Lemoine. He'll want it. And prepare for the album."
"Understood. I'll also start contacting the composer—"
"No need. I'll handle it personally."
"Ah, of course."
"Meeting adjourned."
Once everyone cleared out, Jacques picked up the slip of paper with Julien's details and dialed.
The call connected after a few rings.
—Hello? This is Julien Moreau.
Jacques blinked.
Young.
The voice on the other end sounded startlingly young.
Still, he introduced himself calmly:
"Good evening, Composer Julien Moreau. I'm Jacques Chevalier, CEO of TW Entertainment. I listened to your track and would like to meet you in person. Are you available now?"
—Right now...?
"If it's too short notice, I'll adjust. Just tell me when works."
—No, I'm free. I'll text you my studio address. Feel free to drop by.
After the call, Jacques grabbed his keys and headed for the underground garage.
He quickly punched the address into his car's GPS and drove off into the Parisian night.
It was already dark, and the dashboard clock showed nearly 9 p.m.
He chuckled to himself.
"Maybe I'm being too eager."
Julien, meanwhile, ended the call and reflected.
Jacques Chevalier had a reputation for passion—but this was something else.
He smiled knowingly.
"I guess Pierre Lemoine's album really is a big deal."
He grabbed two canned coffees from the fridge and folded his cot back into a makeshift couch.
Knock, knock—
As the GPS declared, "You have arrived at your destination," Jacques parked on a narrow side street near Marché Bastille.
He checked the address. The location didn't scream "studio."
Rusty blue doors, a dim alley, and an old staircase leading underground.
But this was it.
Jacques descended slowly and stood before a gray steel door. He knocked.
"Composer Julien Moreau?"
The door opened.
A young man stood there.
He looked barely into his twenties.
Jacques was momentarily stunned.
This... was the composer?
"Ah, CEO Chevalier? Please, come in. It's not much, but welcome."
The space was modest. Underground. Almost bunker-like.
The floors were old terrazzo. The walls, barely patched. One wall bore a faded Jason Mraz graffiti.
"Please, have a seat. Coffee okay?"
Jacques nodded and settled onto the sofa.
The setup was spartan. A keyboard. An audio interface. Some monitors.
Could this really be where that masterpiece was made?
Julien handed him the coffee, noticing the flickering light above.
"Sorry. Haven't had a chance to fix that."
He sat across from Jacques.
"So... urgent business this late?"
Jacques finally got a good look.
Short hair, focused eyes, quiet confidence.
This was no ordinary rookie.
"Forgive me for the intrusion. I just had to meet the composer behind that track."
"I'm flattered. I hope Pierre likes it."
That caught Jacques' attention.
Julien hadn't just written a great song.
He had tailored it for an artist.
Even veterans struggled with that.
"Who is this young man...?"
He masked his curiosity with a polite request:
"Julien, if it's alright, could I hear some of your other work?"
Julien nodded, cheerful.
"Of course. They're rough, but I made them just yesterday."
He opened his DAW.
And began to play.
Track after track.
...
When the final notes faded, Jacques was silent.
A genius. No—a monster.
He had planned to offer a contract for one song.
Now, he wanted everything.
"Julien Moreau must never slip through our fingers."
He would bet everything:
This composer would change French music forever.