Not that there’s much of my mind left to torment.
Remi might be completely off-limits, but I want him like I’ve never wanted anyone. And the worst part?
If he asked, just once, I’d give myself to him without hesitation.
No questions. No conditions.
That will never happen, of course. But if nothing else, I want to earn his friendship. His respect. And if there’s one thing I know how to offer, the best part of me, it’s my music.
It’s the only thing I’ve ever truly done right.
The other night, I invited the group to my upcoming concert, and they all seemed genuinely excited, Remi included.
I can’t wait to play for him.
The piano isn’t just my work, it’s the language my soul speaks when words fall short. It’s how I breathe when everything else feels too heavy. It’s the one part of me I never have to question. When I was a child, living under the constant weight of my parents’ scrutiny, the piano became my sanctuary.
It was never a chore. It was an escape. A way to reclaim a space that was mine, where I could be honest, without fear of judgement. It gave me a voice, long before I found the courage to speak for myself.
Not having one at home these past few weeks has been difficult. Yes, I’ve got access to a piano at the conservatoire, but it’s not the same. I need my own. The moment I find a place, I’ll rent one for the summer, whatever it takes.
I’m nervous. It’s been years since I last performed solo in London. And the thought of playing with Remi, and all these new people who matter, watching from the audience… It stirs something deep in my chest. A quiet panic. Even after all this time, the stage still scares me.
But I want him to see that part of me. Because it’s the truest part I have to give.
I have a lunch meeting with my agent today. May flew in from Paris to finalize the programme. Naturally, she’s booked some trendy, over-the-top restaurant near the Tower of London, The Cube. I’ll need to dress accordingly.
I take my time getting ready. I want to feel composed. Put-together.
Not just for May’s sake, but for my own.
I choose a white silk shirt that drapes softly over my skin, just sheer enough to hint at the tattoos on my shoulders.
Tailored black trousers. Sleek black leather boots polished to a quiet shine.
And underneath, well. I couldn’t resist slipping on one of my favourite pairs: black lace over cream silk. Perfectly matched. It’s unlikely anyone will see them, especially not the one person I’d want to, but wearing something that makes me feel confident has always been part of my ritual.
I smile to myself and try to focus, just as my phone buzzes on the table.
Before I can check it, the ringtone kicks in, yes, it’s the main theme fromThe Piano. I know. Hopeless romantic.
I lift the phone to my ear, already expecting May.
But it’s not her.
“Maddie?”
“Seb, what the hell is going on over there?!”
Her voice isn’t angry, it’sfurious, almost frantic. I freeze, stunned by the suddenness of it. Maddie is passionate, sure, but she’s always composed. I’ve only ever heard her like this once before, when I left her.
“Maddie? Isn’t it the middle of the night in New York? What’s happened?”
There’s a pause. Then she starts crying, and now I’m genuinely worried.
And then she says it, voice raw, trembling:
“Tell me what the hell is going on with my boyfriend, Seb. Please… just tell me what’s going on with Remi!”
