Chapter5 There is a three-day deadline - From Substitute to His Regret

Elena

I sat at my workbench. Turned on the lamp. Soft light fell on the ruined music box.

I took a deep breath. Put on my loupe. Got to work.

Step one: disassembly.

I used micro-tweezers to carefully separate each component. Laid them on the velvet cloth in organized rows. Some screws were rusted shut. I soaked them in solvent. Then used the ultrasonic cleaner to strip away oxidation.

This required absolute focus.

My hands were steady as stone under the microscope. Every movement precise to the millimeter. Sweat beaded on my forehead. I didn't wipe it away. All my attention was on the parts in front of me.

Outside, the sky darkened.

People started leaving. One by one.

Marcus came upstairs. Carrying coffee. "Elena, it's eight o'clock. You should rest. Eat something. I brought you coffee."

"I'm fine, thanks." I didn't look up. "I want to keep going while I'm in the zone."

Marcus set the coffee on the table beside me. "Then remember to drink it. Don't push too hard."

"Okay."

Marcus stood there. Wanted to say more. Finally just said softly: "If you need anything, call me. I'm downstairs doing accounts."

"Thanks."

The door closed quietly.

The workshop was silent again. Just the faint tick of gears and my steady breathing.

I loved this feeling.

When I was completely absorbed in restoration, everything else disappeared.

No heartbreak. No betrayal. No name that caused me pain.

Just the gears. The springs. The mechanisms.

Just my hands. And the poetry of time.

Stay busy. Then I can forget Caspar.

I told myself that.

But when my finger touched a broken gear, memories flooded back anyway.

One year ago. The rehab center. Afternoon sun through the windows. Caspar standing for the first time. Looking at me with gratitude. The look was laced with what I’d thought was gentle, devoted fondness.

I'd thought I was special then.

How arrogant I’d been.

Now I knew the truth.

I was just a tool. Useful during his recovery. Discarded when he didn't need me anymore.

Like this broken music box.

I took a deep breath. Picked up my tweezers again.

"No." I said quietly. To myself. "I'm not a tool. I'm Elena Sawyer. And I can make it on my own."

I kept working. Until three AM.

When I finally set down my tools and stretched my aching shoulders, the table was covered with cleaned components. Each gear numbered. Each spring carefully straightened.

I looked at them. Smiled. Exhausted but satisfied.

Three days.

I could do this.

I picked up Marcus's coffee. Cold now. But I drank it anyway.

Bitter. With a hint of sweetness.

Like my life right now.

The third morning broke over Brookhaven in shades of gold and gray.

I'd been awake for seventy-two hours straight.

My eyes burned. My back ached. My fingers trembled with exhaustion every time I set down my tools—but never while I was working. Never while I was working.

I sat at my workbench, the restored music box gleaming under the lamp.

Every component had been cleaned, repaired, replaced where necessary. The gears meshed perfectly. The springs were calibrated. The bird's metal feathers—painstakingly reconstructed from photographs and historical records—caught the light like real plumage.

All that remained was the final test。

I took a breath. Steadied my hands. Turned the key.

Click. Click. Click.

The mechanism engaged.

And then—music.

Clear, bright notes spilled from the box. Mozart's Turkish March.

The melody I'd studied in recordings, transcribed from damaged cylinders, rebuilt note by note.

The bird's head turned. Its beak opened. Its wings spread.

Perfect.

Behind me, someone gasped.

I turned. The entire workshop had gathered at the top of the stairs.

Marcus stood in front, his hand pressed to his mouth. Emily's eyes were wide. Sebastian had removed his loupe to stare.

"Holy shit," Emily whispered.

Marcus crossed the room in three strides. He reached for me—stopped himself.

His hands hovered in the air like he wanted to hug me but didn't dare. "I knew it. I knew you could do it."

I looked at him. At all of them. Felt something warm unfurl in my chest.

This. This was what mattered. Not penthouses. Not charity galas. Not pretending to be someone I wasn't. This.

"It's beautiful, Elena." Sebastian moved closer. Studied the bird with professional appreciation. "The feather reconstruction alone... I've never seen anything like it."

"Your grandfather would be proud." Marcus's voice was soft.

I touched the music box gently. "He taught me everything."

The music played on. Delicate and haunting. Two centuries of silence, broken.

Marcus cleared his throat. "I'll call Mr. Thorne. Tell him to come see it."

He practically ran downstairs. I heard him on the phone, his voice pitched high with excitement.

Emily sidled up to me. Grinned. "Girl, you just made restoration history. Do you know how many people have tried to fix pieces like this? How many have failed?"

"I got lucky."

"Bullshit." She laughed. "That wasn't luck. That was seventy-two hours of genius-level work.

"You barely slept. Barely ate. Marcus kept bringing you food and you'd just wave him away."

Had he? I vaguely remembered coffee appearing at my elbow. Sandwiches I'd nibbled between adjustments.

"He's worried about you," Emily added. Her tone shifted. Meaningful. "He cares. A lot."

I seemed not to catch the hidden meaning in her words. "He's a good boss."

Emily opened her mouth. Closed it. Shook her head with a small smile.

I gave a slight smile, too.

I don’t want to think about anything else right now.

I only want to focus on my work.