“Thank you,” she said, touched by the gesture despite his obvious lingering irritation. “Though I’m not sure you’re speaking to me at the moment.”
He finished with one cufflink before looking up. “Why did you tell them I play the cello?”
“Because you do,” she said simply. “And it’s one of the most genuine things about you.”
“What does that mean?” he asked.
“I think there’s more to you than you let people see.”
He studied her for a moment, the silence between them thick with unspoken thoughts. Finally, he gave a single nod.
“I’ll play one piece,” he said. “For the sake of our cover story.”
By the time she emerged from the bathroom, hair styled and makeup freshened, he was waiting by the door, handsome in the navy pants now paired with a light gray blazer over the white shirt.
“You look beautiful,” he said, his eyes moving appreciatively over the emerald dress.
“So do you,” she said, and something in his face eased—vulnerable, real. It sent a ripple through her she wasn’t prepared for.
They made their way downstairs to find Eleanor waiting in the library, a magnificent room with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and a grand piano in one corner. Beside it stood a cello on a stand, its wood gleaming with the deep patina that comes only from age and care.
“My father’s pride and joy,” Eleanor said, following his gaze to the instrument. “A French cello from the late 1800s.”
He approached it with visible reverence, his fingers hovering above the wood. “It’s exquisite,” he said, and she glimpsed the man beneath the carefully constructed exterior.
“Please,” Eleanor said. “Feel free to examine it more closely.”
After a moment’s hesitation, he gently lifted the cello, his hands steady as he positioned it and took the bow Eleanor offered.
He sat on the edge of a nearby chair, the instrument settling into place. His back straightened, his shoulders eased, and something in his eyes softened.
Andrew appeared in the doorway, nodding approvingly. “Excellent,” he said. “We’re in for a treat, it seems.”
Ronan’s eyes met Devney’s across the room. She gave him a reassuring look, hoping he could see how much this glimpse of his hidden self meant to her.
He took a moment to pluck each string, the low, resonant notes vibrating through the quiet library. Finding them flat fromyears of silence, he adjusted the pegs with practiced, steady fingers, his ear tilted toward the wood until the pitch was perfect. Only when the instrument was finally brought back to life did he position the bow, close his eyes briefly, and play.
The melody filled the room, alive and flowing, each note connecting with grace.
Watching him was mesmerizing—the subtle changes in his expression as he navigated emotional passages, the confident movement of his fingers along the neck of the cello, the way his entire body seemed to exist in perfect harmony with the instrument. This was him stripped of his armor, vulnerable, and powerful in a different way than she was accustomed to seeing him.
When the last note faded, there was perfect silence, as if none of them dared to be the first to break the spell he’d cast.
Then Andrew applauded, followed quickly by Eleanor, their appreciation clear in their faces. She remained still, unable to look away from him as he opened his eyes, seeming to return from some place distant and private.
His gaze found hers, something settling in his features—relief, maybe, or something close to peace.
She didn’t applaud. It would’ve felt wrong, too performative for a performance that had felt so personal.
Instead, she looked at him, hoping he could read in her face what she couldn’t quite put into words: that she saw him—really saw him—for perhaps the first time.
“That was extraordinary,” Eleanor said, genuine emotion in her voice. “Truly beautiful.”
He returned the cello to its stand. “The instrument deserves the credit. It’s exceptional.”
“Nonsense,” Andrew said. “The finest instrument in the world is nothing without the right hands to play it.”
As they moved from the library toward the terrace where the cocktail reception would be held, his hand found the small of her back again—that increasingly natural gesture that somehow felt both possessive and protective. But this time, his touch lingered, his fingers tracing a small circle against the fabric of her dress before settling into their usual pressure.
