Chapter 5

Elara’s POV.

The brunch is held in the grand dining room. Crystal chandeliers, a table long enough to seat twenty, though only eight sit at it.

I walk in on Adrian's arm. I feel Agatha's eyes on me before I see her.

She sits at the head of the table. Diamond rings weighing down her fingers, her gaze travels from my face to my dress and back again.

I smile, sweetly. The smile I practiced in the mirror before I walked out of my room.

Adrian pulls out my chair. A small gesture. One he never made in my first life. I sit, and he takes the seat beside me. His eyes flick to me once, then away.

Agatha begins.

"Elara," she says, her voice honey over steel. "I see you've chosen something... bold for your first family appearance."

In my past life, I shrank. I smoothed my skirt. I mumbled something about not meaning to draw attention.

I meet her eyes.

"I wanted to look my best for the family. First impressions matter, don't they?"

Her smile tightens.

"They do. Which is why I'm surprised Adrian didn't mention your... background before the wedding."

Adrian's hand pauses on his water glass. He does not intervene. He never does.

I tilt my head. "What would you like to know?"

She sets down her fork.

"Your mother was a schoolteacher, I understand."

"Yes. She taught literature. She believed words had power."

"And your father?"

"He passed when I was young."

"I see." She sips her champagne. "Adrian tells me you studied music. Such an impractical pursuit for a young woman without means."

The table goes quiet. Adrian's jaw tightens. He looks at his plate.

In my past life, I would have nodded. I would have apologized with my eyes. I would have made myself small so she wouldn't feel threatened.

I smile.

"Music taught me discipline, focus and excellence.” I pick up my fork. "I've found those qualities serve me well in every area of my life."

Her hand stops mid-air. The table is silent.

I lower my eyes, let my voice soften. "I'm sorry. That came out wrong. I'm just nervous. It's my first family brunch."

Agatha stares at me for a long moment. Something flickers behind her eyes. Not anger but wariness.

Adrian looks at me, just a glance. But longer than before.

After brunch, I excuse myself. I walk through the mansion, past the rooms I once wandered like a ghost. My feet carry me to the music room.

I open the door. The Steinway sits in the center, draped in white, dust everywhere. I pull the sheet away, it billows, settles on the floor.

I sit at the piano. My fingers find the keys. They are cold.

I play something simple. Scales at first. Then arpeggios. Then a piece I learned when I was twelve, one my mother loved. The notes rise, tentative at first, then stronger.

My fingers remember, my heart never forgot. Later that day, I pick up my phone. My fingers tremble as I dial.

It rings twice. Then a voice, gruff and familiar.

"Valerio."

My throat closes, my mentor. The man who shaped me. The man I abandoned, for who? I shake my head

"It's me," I say. "Elara."

Silence. Long enough that I think he will hang up.

"Elara." His voice cracks. "After how many months, you call?"

"I know. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Another silence. When he speaks again, his voice is softer.

"Are you alright?"

I think about the pills. The divorce. The headlights. The second chance.

"I will be," I say. "I need to play again. Properly. Will you teach me?"

"You want to come back?"

"Yes."

He exhales, slowly. "You broke my heart when you left, Elara. You had more talent than any student I ever taught. And you threw it away."

Tears prick my eyes. "I was young. I was stupid."

"You were in love."

"I thought I was. I was wrong."

He is quiet for a moment. "When do you want to start?"

"Tomorrow."

"Then tomorrow it is. Welcome back."

I smile. For the first time in a decade, it reached my eyes.

****

The changes are small at first.

I stop waiting up for Adrian. When he comes home at nine, the dining room is dark. No candles. No warm meal. No wife at the window.

He walks through the kitchen. I hear his footsteps pause at the dining room door.

I am in the music room. I play a nocturne, low and slow, the notes bleeding under the door. His footsteps resume. He goes to his study.

But he stops again. I pause, he doesn't hear anything, then he walks away.

Two weeks pass. Valerio comes to the mansion when Adrian is at work. We work in the music room, the door closed, the hours disappearing beneath my fingers.

"Again," he says. "The transition was sloppy."

I play again.

"Better. Again."

I play until my fingers ache. Until sweat drips down my back. Until the music is not something I play but something I breathe.

One afternoon, Adrian comes home early. I do not hear him. I am deep in Rachmaninoff, my hands flying, the piano trembling beneath my touch.

I finish. The last note hangs in the air.

I open my eyes. Adrian stands in the doorway.

His face is unreadable. But he is not moving. Not walking away. He stands there… like he doesn’t know what to do with what he’s seeing.

I turn on the bench. I meet his eyes.

"I didn't know you still played," he says.

I give him the smile he knows. The one that asks for nothing.

"You never asked."

His jaw tightens. Something flickers in his eyes. Confusion. Or the first stirring of something he does not yet understand.

He opens his mouth. Closes it.

I stand. I smooth my dress. I walk toward the door. As I pass him, I pause. Close enough that he can smell my perfume. Close enough that his breath catches.

"Dinner is in the refrigerator," I say. "If you're hungry."

I walk away without looking back, he follows me.

"There's a business gala next week. The pianist canceled."

I stop and look up at him.

"You used to play," he says. "Just fill in."

In my past life, I would have been terrified. I would have played something safe. Forgettable. Something that did not draw attention.

I lower my eyes, demure and obedient. "Of course."

He nods, already looking away. He is halfway down the hall before he pauses. He does not turn around.

"The dress you wore to brunch," he says. "The green one."

I wait.

"Wear it again."

He walks away.

I watch him go. In my past life, those words would have made my heart leap. A compliment. A scrap of attention. Something to hold against the cold.

Now I know what his attention costs.