I should feel happy for them.
Idofeel happy for them.
But there’s something else coiling beneath the warmth in my chest. Something sharp-edged and uncomfortable that I don’t want to examine too closely.
I tiptoe out of the bedroom, easing the door shut behind me with a soft click. The hallway stretches before me, dark except for the thin strip of moonlight bleeding through a window atthe far end. Somewhere in the depths of the house a clock ticks steadily. Old wood settles and creaks.
I have a vague memory of Atticus and Dom slipping out of the room at some point—after the second time? The third? The details have blurred together into a heat-hazed montage of skin and sounds and the overwhelming combination of scents.
God, I had sex with Mason.
The thought is sudden and disorienting.
I had sex with my assistant. My best friend. The man who has been taking care of me for three years, who knows all my secrets and schedules and medication dosages, who has never once crossed the professional line I thought was permanently etched between us.
Except now I’ve obliterated that line with a sledgehammer. Multiple times. In creative positions.
Breathe, Phoenix. Just breathe.
I press my back against the wallpapered corridor, letting the cool surface ground me. My skin still feels too hot and sensitive, possibly remnants of my own heat, but more likely the aftermath of everything that just happened. It’s impossible for me to tell the difference.
I find myself wandering around the rambling house with no particular destination in mind. Going back to the nest right now is obviously not an option.
A subtle sound distracts me that I only just realize I’ve been hearing for a while.
Piano.
The notes drift up from somewhere below, faint but unmistakable. It’s not a recording, the timing is too imperfect and the instrument itself sounds slightly out of tune.
I follow the sound down the hall to a dusty sitting room with open French doors.
Atticus sits at a battered upright piano, his back to me.
The instrument has seen better decades. The wood is scratched and faded, several keys visibly yellowed with age, and there’s a chip in the music stand that looks like it might have come from an impact rather than simple wear. But Atticus plays it like it’s a Steinway grand, his hands moving over the keys with a fluidity that steals my breath.
The song isn’t one I recognize. A minor key, melancholy threading through every note, but beautiful in the way that sad things often are. The melody builds and retreats like waves against a shore, never quite cresting, always pulling back just when you think it’s about to sweep you away.
I lean against the doorframe and just listen.
His head is bowed, obscuring his expression, but I can read the emotion in the line of his shoulders. The way his spine curves toward the instrument. The slight tremor in his left hand during a particularly difficult passage. He’s not performing. He’s processing. Using music the way some people use alcohol or tears or screaming into pillows.
The song builds toward what feels like a climax—tension mounting, notes climbing higher—and then dissolves into something softer. Gentler. A resolution that sounds almost like forgiveness.
The final chord fades into silence.
Atticus doesn’t move. Doesn’t turn around.
“You can come in,” he murmurs.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”
“You didn’t. I could smell you coming from down the hall.”
Heat floods my cheeks. I spend a split second thinking about just how many scents I must be saturated in at this point before quickly pushing the thought away.
I cross the room and settle onto the piano bench beside him. The wood is worn smooth beneath my thighs, polished by yearsof use. There’s barely enough space for both of us, our shoulders brushing with every breath.
“I don’t know that song,” I say quietly.
