Chapter 2

The clatter of the kitchen seemed to stop dead.

We both froze.

The air between us suddenly thickened, turning suffocatingly still. My breath caught in my throat. His thumbs were pressed against my palms, just like they used to be.

Do you want to ruin your hands?

That was exactly what he used to scream at me five years ago. Every time I tried to chop vegetables, carry heavy groceries, or even open a stubborn jar. He would snatch whatever it was right out of my grip.

Leave it, he’d say, kissing my knuckles. These hands are for Carnegie Hall. Not this.

My mind violently snapped back to the dive bar in Queens where it all started.

It was a filthy, loud place. Just a year prior, I had been classical music royalty. My father, Arthur Hayes, was a renowned Juilliard professor and the artistic director of the Lincoln Center.

But he made the fatal mistake of blowing the whistle on a mafia family's money-laundering front. They framed him, destroyed his reputation overnight, and my father jumped off a building. My mother died of severe depression shortly after.

At that time, I was a broke Juilliard student playing a beat-up upright piano in the corner to pay my rent. Nobody ever listened.

Except for him. 

He used to sit in the darkest booth, nursing a glass of Whisky. He was hiding from his family’s "business" dinners. I didn't know he had severe clinical depression. I just saw a guy who stared at the keys like they were the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

One night, on my fifteen-minute break, I walked right up to his booth. I practically talked his ear off. I babbled about Chopin, about chord progressions, about how the pedal on that garbage piano was sticking. He barely looked at me. He just gave me one-word answers.

But he came back the next night. And the next.

Slowly, the ice cracked. I saw him smile for the first time. Then he started laughing. We fell in love in that dingy bar. He saved up every dollar of his own money—refusing to touch his family's wealth—just to buy me a rare first-edition sheet music book for my birthday.

When his mother found out and threatened me, he didn't blink. He cut ties. He dragged crates at the docks and did under-the-table construction work, coughing until his chest caved in, just so I could continue to play the piano.

He used to tell me that no matter how grueling it got, he would make me the most famous pianist in the world.

He said my music saved his life, so I never had to feel guilty about what he sacrificed.

He looked at me like I was the sun that dragged him out of the dark.

But I betrayed him without a second thought.

Because I thought it was too slow. I couldn't wait around relying on the money he saved up penny by penny from hard labor to support my piano playing.

The past memory shattered.

He dropped my hands like they burned him.

"Why would you do these things, Florence?" he demanded. "You took six million dollars. Six. Million. And you're in a kitchen washing glasses?"

I sharply pulled my hands behind my back, hiding them in my apron.

I forced a careless smirk onto my face. "Six million doesn't go that far. "

Caleb stepped closer. He towered over me, backing me up against the metal sink.

"Don't lie to me."

"I'm not lying," I shot back, lifting my chin.

He grabbed my left wrist again, holding it up to the harsh fluorescent light. He stared at the rough, cracked skin.

"Are you even still playing?" he asked. His eyes narrowed, slicing right through me. "Are you still on stage?"

Panic flared in my chest. I afraid that the Donovans would track me down. His mother would take my girl away.

"Of course I am," I spat, yanking my arm out of his grip. "I'm a professional concert pianist. I do private shows. High-end stuff."

Caleb stared at me for a long, agonizing second. The muscle in his jaw ticked.

Before he could say another word, his phone buzzed.

Caleb pulled his phone from his tuxedo pocket.

Vivian.

He stared at the screen, then looked back at me. He answered the call and put it to his ear.

"Yeah," Caleb said.

His voice changed instantly. The cold, furious edge vanished. It dropped into a soft, gentle murmur.

"I'm still at the gala," he told her. "How was the fitting?"

A pause. I could hear Vivian's sweet, high-pitched laugh bleeding through the phone's speaker.

"That’ fine." Caleb said softly.

His dark eyes stared at my face. "Don't stand too long, Viv. You know your back acts up. Drink some water. I'll have the driver pick you up in twenty."

A bitter, suffocating lump lodged in my throat.

Don't stand too long.

He used to say that to me when we waited for the subway in the freezing rain. Now, he was saying it to Vivian Russo.

I couldn't breathe. The kitchen walls felt like they were closing in.

I kept my head down, quietly stepping around him to slip out the back door.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm off the clock," I said without turning around.

"You're on my clock now," Caleb said. "You took my money."

I squeezed my eyes shut. "I know. I'll play the piano at your engagement party."

"You're going to do more than just play," he said, taking a slow step toward my back. "You're going to help Vivian pick the setlist. You're going to rehearse with her tomorrow morning. She wants to sing a piece for the guests. You're going to accompany her."

"Fine," I choked out. "Text me the address."

I reached for the door handle.

"Florence," he called out.

I stopped.

"You've been hiding for five years," Caleb said. "Is there really any point in hiding anymore?"

I didn't answer. 

"See you tomorrow," he said as the door swung shut behind me.