He turns slightly, gaze cutting to me. “My dove,” he says, soft enough for only the closest to hear, but I feel it all the way down to my bones. “Give them something unforgettable.”
Oh, I will. I press my fingers to the keys—cool and waiting—and smile like a sinner. Like I’ve already sinned.
The first notes ofVivaldi’s Summerexplode like lightning down my spine, each chord a storm surge that commands attention. My fingers move with purpose—sharp, slicing, relentless. The tempo burns. It’s frantic, barely tethered to restraint, and I let it unravel beneath my hands. A cyclone of sound, a wildfire set loose in velvet walls.
Heads turn. Champagne flutes pause mid-air. I don’t look up.
0:54.I shift—seamlessly—intoChopin’s Fantaisie-Impromptu, the chaos giving way to elegant, arrogant grace. This one is flirtation disguised as fury. My wrists flick. My fingers glide. I dance across the octaves like I’m laughing at them, like I know they’ll never catch up.
I hear it—the low sound of breath held too long. Their silence is louder than applause.
1:27.Then I strike—hard and fast—intoFlight of the Bumblebee. My pulse matches the tempo. My fingers blur. Staccato fury with the precision of a sniper. It’s absurd, theatrical, ruthless. I play it like I’m angry, and maybe I am. Angry that they thought I wouldn’t. Angry that heknewI would.
The room is a held breath. No one dares move.
2:00.I cut intoMoonlight Sonata’s third movementlike silk sliced open. Dark. Devastating. It begins soft—tragic, haunted—but it builds. Oh, itbuilds. Fury hidden in elegance. Wrath in a ballgown. My foot presses to the pedal. The sound swells and swells until I’m not sure where the music ends and I begin.
I close my eyes. I canfeelhim watching.
2:30.The notes twist intoRachmaninoff’s Little Red Riding Hood. It snarls. It bites. It isn’t delicate—it devours. I let the lower register growl beneath my palm, the melody above it shrieking through like a warning. This is not the fairy tale they remember.
This is mine.
2:55.Etude op. 10 no. 1—The Waterfall. I lean into it, posture perfect, wrists fluid. It’s a cascade of brilliance. I let my right hand carry the flow, fast and clean, while my left anchors the storm. It’s technical insanity, and I don’t just play it—
Iconquerit.
3:40.No break.The Torrent.Etude op. 10 no. 4.My hands are flying now, devouring keys like they owe me something. There’s no pause, no mercy. The rhythm is cruel, unrelenting, and I ride it like a second skin.
The piano groans under me. So do a few of the men in the front row.
4:27.Winter Wind.This one is violence dressed in a waltz. I hammer each note with delicate brutality, fingers sweeping like daggers across the ivory. There’s a moment—just one—where I forget the room, forget the dress, forget the fact that I’m here to play forhim.
I’m just the girl and the piano. And the fire I set between them.
5:16.I lift my hands barely an inch. Enough. Just enough for drama. Then I fall intoLa Campanella. The bell. The trickster. I tease the audience with it—delicate notes like falling stars, sparkles across the dark. My smile returns, sharp and slow. This one’s forhim.
Let him wonder if it’s a message. Let him guess what kind.
6:18.Hungarian Rhapsody No. 6.Finale. I break into it like a confession—loud, bold, and damn near feral. My body sways with the rhythm now. I let the music take me. Own me. The entire room is a cathedral of silence, watching, praying, desperate to know what comes next.
I end it with a flourish. My final note echoes. And the world stays silent. For one breath. Two. Then they erupt. Roaring, clapping, cheering like a war god just walked off the battlefield. I stand. No bow. Small curtsy. Then a steady lift of my chin, one hand smoothing the skirt of my gown like I’m brushing ash from silk.
And then I look Cillian O’Dwyer dead in the eyes. Becausethat? That was war. And I won. I turn on my heel and walk away, heading to my gilded cage for the night.
It’sthenextmorningand I’m halfway through a croissant I don’t remember ordering when the door unlocks with a sharp click. Rogue strides into the suite like he owns the place. No knock. No warning. Just expensive cologne, knuckle tattoos, and an expression that says he’s too hungover to care about personal boundaries.
“Jesus, princess,” he mutters, flicking his cigarette into the crystal ashtray on the console. “You look like you murdered Mozart in his sleep.”
“I did,” I say dryly. “Then fucked Bach on the piano bench for good measure.”
That earns me a laugh. A low one. He drags a chair out with his boot and flops into it like this is a routine hangout and not whatever the hell this is.
He tosses a garment bag on the table. “For today,” he says.
I eye the bag. “Let me guess. FromHis Royal Tragedyhimself.”
Rogue smirks. “Cillian said you’d say that.”
