The first note cuts through the room like a blade drawn slow. Paganini. Caprice No. 24.Of course it is.
The piece is vicious—technically brutal, merciless in its demand. It leaves no room for softness, no place to hide. Her bow moves with surgical precision, fingers flying, commanding the instrument like it was forged for her hands alone.
The room is spellbound. Every conversation dies. Every breath holds. She plays like she’s bleeding out everything she’s not allowed to say—rage, grief, love twisted into something sharpand unrecognisable. The melody snarls and seduces, rises and fractures, daring anyone listening to look away.
I can’t look away.I’ve seen her play before. In chapels. In shadows. For me. But never like this. This isn’t beauty offered. This is violence performed.
When the final note snaps into silence, the room stays frozen—caught between awe and fear, unsure whether it’s allowed to breathe again. And I know, with bone-deep certainty, that whatever peace this night was meant to sell… She’s just torn it apart in front of all of them.
The applause crashes down like a wave. It’s loud, earned, relentless. People rise to their feet without even realising they’ve done it, hands stinging, faces lit with awe. They cheer her name. They cheer the performance. They cheer the illusion that what they just witnessed was beauty and not a blade drawn slow across the room, and she deserves every second of it.
The bell rings—clear, authoritative—calling everyone back to their seats as staff begin to move with practiced efficiency. Chairs scrape, conversations burst back into life, buzzing and breathless. Someone presses a glass of champagne into her hand as she steps down from the stage. She takes it absently, still riding whatever edge she carved into herself up there. Her cheeks are faintly flushed, eyes bright and distant, alive in a way that hurts to look at.
She moves toward me through the crowd. Every step she takes is deliberate, controlled. Like she’s still playing something onlyshe can hear. I watch the way people turn as she passes. The way men stare, women lean in, hungry for proximity to that kind of power. They don’t touch her, they don’t dare.Good.
She stops in front of me, champagne held loose in her fingers, the violin already gone from her hands like it was never real at all. I can still hear the echo of the music in my bones. I think about her fingers—how they moved, how precise they were, how easily they could ruin a man who underestimated them. I think about the way she held herself under those lights, unbowed, unapologetic, utterly hers.
I want her pressed against me somewhere quiet and dark. I want her furious and breathing hard. I want her whispering threats she doesn’t mean and promises she doesn’t know she’s making. I want to remind her she’salive. I take the glass from her hand before she can lift it, set it aside, and lean in just enough that my mouth is close to her ear.
“Sit,” I murmur. “Before I forget where we are.”
Her lips twitch, not quite a smile. We turn together and take our seats as dinner is announced, the performance ending and the next act beginning, but my attention never leaves her, not for a second. Because now that I’ve seen her like that— now that I know exactly how she can command a room—I’m not sure how I’m meant to survive the rest of the night without touching her.
We sit among them—donors, lieutenants, old enemies smiling into crystal glasses—while dinner is served in careful coursesand she becomes exactly what they expect her to be. Laughing at the right moments, leaning in, bright-eyed, effortless.
She’s dazzling.She talks with her hands. Tilts her head when she listens. The diamond on her finger throws light every time she moves, and I hate every bastard who notices.
I can’t help myself. My hand slides beneath the table, slow and deliberate, settling between her thighs like it belongs there. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world. She stiffens for half a breath—then keeps smiling, keeps talking, keeps the lie alive.Good girl.
I lean closer, mouth near her ear, my voice pitched low and fond for anyone watching. “Aye,” I murmur, thumb pressing just enough to make the point. “Keep smiling, wee rose. Let them all hear ye’re mine.”
Her laugh doesn’t falter, but her eyes do.
She turns her head a fraction, teeth bared in a smile that could pass for charming if you didn’t know her. “Move your hand,” she says sweetly, “or I’ll stab you with the dessert fork.”
My grip tightens. Heat coils low and dangerous.
“Later,” I whisper. “We’re entertaining.”
Her knee bumps mine under the table—sharp, warning. “I mean it, Finn.”
I meet her smile with one of my own, calm and pleased, the kind that makes men uneasy without knowing why. “So do I.”
The clink of glasses rises. Conversation swells. The band strikes up again. And I’m hard with the knowledge that she’s furious, beautiful, and sitting right here—playing her part while every nerve in her body screams my name.
I slide my hand higher beneath the table, the silk of her dress whispering against my fingers. Her skin burns hot beneath my touch as I trace lazy circles up her inner thigh. She keeps her composure perfectly intact—chin lifted, smile fixed—but I can feel the tension coiled within her.
"You're playing a dangerous game," she murmurs through her teeth, never dropping that perfect smile.
"I'm not playing," I reply, finding the edge of her underwear. I trace the delicate lace with my fingertips before pushing it aside.
She inhales sharply but doesn't move, doesn't flinch, doesn't give a single thing away to our audience. I slip one finger inside her, finding her slick and ready despite her protests. Her knuckles go white around her wine glass.
"Problem?" I ask innocently as I begin a slow, deliberate rhythm.
"You're a monster," she breathes, the words barely audible as she nods pleasantly at something the banker's wife is saying across the table.
I add a second finger, curling them just so, finding that spot that makes her thighs tense beneath my hand. "And yet you're soaking wet for me." I keep my voice low, for her ears only, while adding a third finger to stretch her.
