“Dimitri,” I breathe. “I didn’t know you could—”
He keeps playing, eyes on the keys, voice low and almost shy. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”
Apparently.
I lean against the side of the piano, arms folded, pretending I’m not completely disarmed by the softness in his tone. The melody curls through the room. It’s warm, steady, intimate, and for a moment I feel like I’m intruding on something private.
He stops playing abruptly, like he catches himself being too vulnerable. The last note hangs in the air before fading.
I clap—loud, dramatic, absolutely unnecessary.
“Wow. Look at you. Virtuoso.”
He snorts, shaking his head as he rubs his palm down his thigh. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You play as good as my mom.”
He laughs. Full, shocked, bright. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It is,” I say, nudging him with my knee. “She’s insanely good.”
He tilts his head, studying me.
“You like music?” I ask.
“Of course I do.” He shrugs. “I like it a lot.” He hums, leaning back on the stool. “But specific types, though. I think most contemporary music is trash.”
I gasp dramatically. “Oh my God. Finally. Finally, someone says it.”
His mouth twitches, and I know I’ve amused him.
“That bad?”
“Worse. Take me back decades, and I’ll play the songs for hours. Give me old-school soul, jazz, anything with passion.” I gesture at the piano. “I also like—what do they call them—piano pieces.”
He lifts a brow. “Pieces?”
“Yes,” I say, lifting my chin. “Piano pieces. Or compositions. Or arrangements. Something classy. Something that makes me sound like I know what I’m talking about.”
He chuckles, turning back to the keys. “You can call them piano pieces. Or maybe a prelude, nocturne, sonata…depending.”
I blink at him. “Ah. So you’re not just showing off. You’re actually a nerd.”
He flips his hair back in that annoyingly elegant way of his, like he’s used to being looked at. “Of course I’m a nerd. You know, I spent all my teenage years reading in a boarding school in London. Then I pursued my BSc, my master’s, and my PhD in business.”
His fingers tap the piano lid lightly. “Iama nerd.”
I stare at him longer than I mean to. Something warm and stupid blooms in my chest before I can stop it. “I wanted to pursue my master’s,” I say quietly. “But I couldn’t.”
His hands still completely. “Why?”
I swallow. The answer sits heavy on my tongue, thick with old bitterness.
“My father said I wouldn’t need it,” I breathe. “He said my husband would prefer me to stay silent. More education means more opinions.”
A muscle jumps in his jaw. “That’s bullshit.”
I laugh, but it’s a small, sharp sound. “Welcome to the family tree. Generations of men who believe women should come pre-silenced.”
