Page 125 of The Contract

She said it like a mantra, like the notes of each piece were more than music—they were control. Mastery. Another way to shape me into something untouchable.

When my father crashed the family, the piano disappeared with everything else.

And for a while, I let it stay gone.

There was no room for music when I was clawing my way out of the wreckage. No space for anything that didn’t drive me forward, keep me moving, keep me fighting for something more than the nothing I had been left with.

But when I finally had money—real money—this was one of the first things I bought.

I didn’t question why.

Didn’t examine what it meant that I wanted it back.

Now, as my fingers move over the keys, something shifts in my chest. The tension I’ve been carrying, the storm of thoughts that won’t let me sleep—it all starts to dissolve, carried away by the music, by the rhythm, by the memory of her eyes on mine, shining under the soft glow of the opera house.

And for the first time in years, I remember what this feels like.

Not an obligation.

Not a strategy.

Just something that belongs to me.

A soft creak pulls me from my trance, the melody faltering as I turn my head.

Elena stands in the doorway, watching me.

She’s wrapped in a short silk robe, the tie loose at her waist, her damp tresses falling over her shoulders. The city lights catch the curve of her bare collarbone, the delicate diamond earrings I gave her still glinting in her ears.

In her hand is a small dessert plate, a slice of dark chocolate cheesecake resting in the center. A fork in the other.

She stays in the doorway, not daring to move an inch inside the study.

“I didn’t know you played.”

I lean back slightly, resting my forearms on my thighs, letting the softness of her voice settle around me.

“It’s been a long time.”

Elena tilts her head. “Did you love it?”

I consider that, my gaze flickering down to the keys.

“I don’t know,” I admit after a moment. “I think I might have.”

She watches me for a long moment, and I swear there’s something unspoken in the way she looks at me.

Something neither of us should be feeling.

She shifts on her feet, her hands coming together, the fork clanging against the plate with a soft ding.

I look at the plate, then her.

“I—made this for you.” The hesitation makes my chest tighten, like she’s doubting if she should have done it.

I can’t look away from her. Words are lost to me. My chest rises hard with each labored breath, and I know this is the moment. The moment we cross a line—one way or another.

“Come here,” I say before I can stop myself.

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