Chapter 6

Elara’s POV.

The gala is held in the Sterling Hotel's grand ballroom. Crystal chandeliers. Champagne flowing. The city's elite gathered in their finest, here to see and be seen.

I stand at the edge of the room, the emerald dress hugging my body, my hair swept back, my hands steady.

Adrian approaches. He offers his arm. I take it.

He leads me through the crowd, stopping to greet his business partners, accepting their praise, their envy, their respect. I stand beside him, silent, the dutiful wife.

"Adrian." A man in a gray suit claps his shoulder. "I hear your wife is playing tonight. How delightful."

Adrian's smile is tight.

"My wife will play a little piece. Nothing special."

In my past life, they would have sunk into my chest, heavy with shame.

Now, I smile sweetly and innocently.

"Nothing special," I echo.

Adrian glances at me. Something flickers in his eyes. A question, maybe or the first stirring of unease.

He does not know what is coming.

The piano sits at the center of the stage. I walk toward it. My heels click against the marble. The room buzzes with conversation, glasses clinking, laughter rising.

I sit on the bench. I place my hands on the keys. I close my eyes. I breathe.

This is for every night I waited. For every meal that grew cold. For every pill I swallowed thinking it was love.

I open my eyes. My hands move.

The first chord crashes through the ballroom. Rachmaninoff. Piano Concerto No. 2. The opening is dark, heavy, the notes like thunder rolling across a storm sky.

The conversation falters. Glasses stop mid-air. Heads turn.

I do not notice. I am not in the ballroom anymore. I am in the music room, dust on the piano, silence in my chest. I am in the kitchen, watching coffee grow cold, waiting for a man who never came.

I am on the floor, my back against the door, tears soaking into a gray dress.

I pour it all into the keys. Every silent year. Every forgotten dream. Every moment I made myself small so he could be large.

The music builds, my fingers fly. The second movement is softer, aching, a melody that rises and falls like a heart learning to beat again.

I think of the woman I was. The woman who wore gray because he never noticed what she wore anyway. The woman who swallowed poison because she trusted the hand that gave it.

The woman who died on a rainy road, clutching a pill bottle, nothing but a substitute for the woman he actually wanted.

The third movement explodes fiercely. A storm breaking into light. My hands crash down on the final chord. The note hangs in the air.

Then silence. Slowly, I open my eyes.

The room is frozen. Every face turned toward the stage.

Then applause.

I look for Adrian.

He stands near the bar, his glass frozen halfway to his lips. His face is pale. His eyes are fixed on me, unblinking.

I smile as usual, the mask he expects.

But he sees something else. I know he does. Because he does not look away.

I am swarmed. Women I have never met clutch my hands, asking where I studied, how long I have played, why they have never heard of me before. Men press their cards into my palm, invitations to private concerts, charity events, recordings.

I smile, I nod and thank them.

Adrian approaches. His face is unreadable. But his hands are in his pockets. His shoulders are tight.

"You never told me you could play like that," he says.

I meet his eyes. "You never asked."

His jaw tightens. Something moves behind his eyes. Pride, perhaps or confusion.

He opens his mouth, then closes it.

A man steps between us. Older, distinguished, silver hair slicked back. I recognize him from the music magazines.

Victor Hughes. Head of Hughes Classical Records.

"Mrs. Sterling." His hand closes around mine. "That was extraordinary. I have not heard Rachmaninoff played with that kind of emotion in decades."

"Thank you."

"I would like to discuss a recording contract. Your talent belongs on an album. On stages. The world needs to hear you."

My heart leaps. A recording contract. My own album. The dream I buried ten years ago, handed back to me.

Before I can answer, Adrian steps forward.

"My wife does not work." His voice is cold and final.

Victor Hughes looks at him.

"Mr. Sterling, your wife has a gift. It would be a crime to keep it hidden."

Adrian's hand closes around my elbow.

"She is not interested."

I feel his fingers dig into my skin. In my past life, I would have let him lead me away. I would have smiled, apologized, made myself small.

I gently pull my arm free.

"I will consider your offer, Mr. Hughes. Thank you."

Adrian stares at me. I do not see his eyes. I walk toward the restroom, my heart pounding, my hands trembling.

Behind me, I hear Victor Hughes say, "You have a remarkable wife, Mr. Sterling. Do not let her forget it."

That night, I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling. Adrian is in his study. I hear him pacing. His footsteps are heavier than usual.

He is thinking, I know he is. I heard him on the phone earlier, his voice low, asking someone to find recordings of my old performances.

He is curious now. And curiosity, in a man like Adrian, is dangerous.

I smile in the dark.

In no time he climbed in beside me. I felt him settle. Then his phone buzzed. I did not move, pretending to sleep.

He reached for the phone. The screen lit up. I saw it from the corner of my eye, a single notification, a single letter.

“S.”

My blood went cold.

He did not respond to the message, instead he sat up. I heard him walk to the closet.

In my past life, they never met this early. I waited until I heard his footsteps fade down the hall. Then I opened my eyes.

I slipped out of bed. I crept down the back stairs. Through the kitchen. Out the service entrance.

A taxi appeared at the intersection. I threw my arm up. It pulled over.

"Follow that car," I said. My voice desperate. "Black sedan. It went left on Maple."

In no time i was standing across the street from the Regent Hotel. The rain has started. Light at first, then heavier. It slicks the pavement, pools in the cracks.

Through the window, I see Adrian walk in and then I saw her, Sophia.

She is beautiful. Dark hair, sharp cheekbones, a smile that has always gotten her what she wants.

I thought I would burn a whole city down the day I would see her with Adrian. But seeing Sophia sit across him, being treated the way I had begged him to treat me, I couldn't even light a match..

I look up. Through the window, I see Adrian lean closer to Sophia. He is smiling, easily, like it costs him nothing.

I feel nothing. No pain, jealousy or longing. I pull my coat tighter.

Let the games begin.