Chapter 2: Did You Fight with Alexander?

Sophia's POV

I'm standing at the apartment door, keys clutched in my trembling hand, but I can't bring myself to slide them into the lock. The metal feels cold against my palm as I take a deep breath and finally push the door open.

Sunlight streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows, hitting the black grand piano dead center. Last night's sheet music is still spread across the music stand. Tchaikovsky's Piano Concerto No. 1. The same piece that brought my world crashing down just hours ago.

My fingers hover over the piano keys, barely touching the ivory surface. The silence feels wrong after last night's chaos. Each key holds a memory, each note a moment I thought was real.

Three years. Every inch of this place holds our memories. But maybe Isabella was right. Maybe none of this ever really belonged to me.

I start gathering my stuff into cardboard boxes I found in the storage closet. Concert programs with our names printed together go in first. Then the framed photos of us after performances. The empty jewelry box that once held the silver musical note necklace sits on the counter, and I grab it and hurl it toward the trash can. But something makes me fish it back out. I clutch it against my chest, unable to let go completely.

"Time to go, Sophia," I whisper to my reflection in the hallway mirror. "Time to face reality."

As I'm packing the last of my music scores, my eyes fall on a photograph hanging on the wall. Me at the piano in "Blue Moon," the little jazz club where everything started. Suddenly, I'm not in this luxury apartment anymore. I'm back there, three years ago, when the world still felt full of possibilities.

The memory hits me like a punch to the gut. I was twenty-two, wearing a simple black dress that had seen better days, sitting at that beat-up upright piano in the dimly lit club. Cigarette smoke hung in the air, and the handful of customers barely looked up from their drinks as I played my jazz arrangement of "Moonlight Sonata."

Then the door opened, and he walked in.

Alexander looked completely out of place in his formal tailcoat and white bow tie, like he'd stepped straight from some charity gala into this dive bar. But something about my music made him stop dead in his tracks.

"You're making Beethoven into a conversation, not a performance," he said, walking up to the piano with this look of wonder in his dark eyes.

I stopped playing, my hands frozen above the keys. "Excuse me?"

"Your playing. It has soul."

No one had ever said anything like that to me before. The way he looked at me wasn't pity or casual interest. It was genuine appreciation, like he saw something in my music that even I didn't know was there.

Heat crept up my neck as I stammered some response, but Alexander was already taking a seat at the corner table. Night after night, he came back. Always the same table, always ordering whiskey he never finished, always watching my fingers dance across those worn keys.

Then came that rainy Tuesday when the club was nearly empty, just me and the lingering scent of old cigarettes and spilled beer.

"Sophia," he said, his accent making my name sound like music. "I want to do something for your career."

I turned on the piano bench to face him. "What do you mean?"

"Your talent shouldn't be buried here. Let me help you."

Hope bloomed in my chest. Dangerous, impossible hope. I'd resigned myself to playing in this club forever, watching my dreams fade one night at a time. But this mysterious Italian man believed in my music.

"Why?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. "Why would you help me?"

"Because music shouldn't have boundaries. Real artists deserve the biggest stages."

Those words changed everything.

The memories blur together now. My first time walking into this very apartment, speechless at the sight of the grand piano that would become my world. Alexander introducing me to my new teacher, this stern but brilliant woman who pushed my technique to new heights. The first time I stood on stage with the New York Philharmonic, my heart pounding so hard I thought the entire audience could hear it.

And then there was that rainy night when Alexander took off his jacket to shield me from the downpour, his hand gentle on my back as we ran toward the building entrance.

"This is your piano," he'd said that first day, gesturing toward the instrument. "This is your home."

"Alexander, I don't know how to repay you..."

"With your music. Let the world hear your voice."

I remember those late-night rehearsals when he'd stand behind me, his hand resting lightly on my shoulder to adjust my posture. The air would get thick with something unspoken, something that made my breath catch.

"Feel the music, Sophia," he'd whisper, his voice low and warm near my ear. "Don't think about technique. Play with your heart."

Back then, I thought that was what love looked like. I thought the way he watched me meant he loved me as a person, not just as a musician.

The sound of cardboard hitting the floor jolts me back to the present. I've dropped the box I was holding, and sheet music has scattered everywhere. Tears blur my vision as I scramble to collect the pages, each one a reminder of what I'm leaving behind.

"Sophia Blake, you're such a fucking fool," I say out loud, my voice echoing in the empty apartment. "Three years of living in a fairy tale you created yourself."

I throw a program from our Carnegie Hall debut into the box, then immediately fish it out again, smoothing the wrinkled cover. How can I hate these memories when they're all I have?

Maybe I really was just Isabella's replacement. Maybe when he closed his eyes during our performances, he was pretending she was the one sitting at the piano.

My phone buzzes on the counter. Margaret's name flashing on the screen with several missed calls. I hesitate for a moment before calling her back.

"Honey!" Margaret's voice explodes through the speaker before I can even say hello. "I just saw the news! What the hell happened at Lincoln Center last night?"

"Margaret, I'm moving out of here."

"What? Why? Did you fight with Alexander?"

"It wasn't a fight. I finally saw the truth."

There's a pause on the other end, and I can practically hear Margaret's mind racing.

"Sweetheart, what happened? Where are you? I'm coming over right now."

"Don't. I just wanted to let you know that I might need to start over for a while."

"Start over? Sophia, what are you talking about?"

"I'm going to prove that Sophia Blake doesn't need anyone's protection to make it in this industry."

Before Margaret can respond, I hang up the phone and grab the final box, my resolve hardening with each step toward the door.

I pause at the threshold, taking one last look at the apartment that's been my home for three years. Sunlight still streams across that beautiful piano, and for a moment, I almost change my mind.

But then I remember Isabella's victorious smile, Alexander's protective gesture toward her, and the way he couldn't meet my eyes when I threw his necklace at his feet.

Maybe someday I'll prove to everyone, including Alexander, that I was never anyone's substitute. I am one-of-a-kind Sophia Blake.