Chapter 98: The Grand Piano

Cecilia

After our playful argument subsided into comfortable laughter, Arthur pressed one more kiss to my forehead before reluctantly extracting himself from the couch.

"I really do need to finish reviewing these contracts," he said, though his hand lingered on my cheek for a moment longer than necessary.

"Go," I said, giving him a gentle push. "I'll find something to do."

"Don't get into trouble," he said.

"I make no promises!" I called back, earning a low chuckle that made me smile.

Left to my own devices, I found myself drawn to explore the estate properly—not with the rushed nostalgia of yesterday's arrival, but with the slow, deliberate appreciation of someone who was finally home for good.

The scent of flowers still permeated every room. Their fragrance followed me as I moved through the house, sweet and romantic and impossibly extravagant.

I found myself gravitating toward the back of the estate, drawn by some half-formed memory. Through the French doors, I could see James, the head groundskeeper, directing a small crew of staff as they pruned the garden beds and trimmed the hedges that lined the stone pathways.

I stepped outside, breathing in the salt air mixed with the earthier scent of freshly turned soil and cut grass.

"Miss Locke!" James looked up from where he was examining a rosebush, his weathered face breaking into a warm smile. "Good to see you out enjoying the grounds. Beautiful afternoon, isn't it?"

"It is," I agreed, moving closer. "The gardens look amazing, James. You've really outdone yourself."

"Well, Mr. Winston was very specific about wanting everything perfect for the party." He gestured to the crew working nearby. "We've been at it since dawn, making sure every flower bed is pristine, every hedge is trimmed just right."

I watched them work for a moment, then I saw it.

Beyond the main garden, visible through the glass walls of the conservatory, sat the grand piano.

I'd forgotten about it—or maybe I'd deliberately not let myself remember. But there it was, exactly where it had always been, the black lacquer gleaming even through the slightly dusty glass.

My feet were moving before I'd consciously decided to go there, drawn by a pull I didn't fully understand. I pushed open the conservatory door and stepped inside.

The piano sat in the center of it all, untouched and waiting.

I approached it slowly, my fingers reaching out to trace the smooth surface of the lid.

I was eighteen, wearing that dress Arthur had bought me, sitting in the concert hall with his hand warm in mine as we watched a renowned pianist perform.

The woman had been incredible—her fingers flying across the keys with such precision and passion that the entire audience had been transfixed.

After the performance, we'd gone backstage at Arthur's request—he'd wanted to congratulate the pianist, having donated significantly to the concert series. I'd watched from a few steps back as she'd thanked him, her eyes bright with admiration.

"Mr. Winston," she'd said, her voice dropping into something that was supposed to be sultry. "I'd love to thank you properly. Perhaps over dinner? I could play something just for you."

The jealousy that had surged through me had been sharp and immediate and completely irrational. Arthur had politely declined, but I'd been eighteen and insecure and desperately in love with a man who I was convinced would never see me as anything more than the girl he was obligated to protect.

So I'd done what any reasonable eighteen-year-old would do—I'd thrown a fit.

"I want a piano," I'd announced in the car on the way home, my arms crossed over my chest. "A grand piano. Just like that one."

Arthur had glanced at me, one eyebrow raised in amusement. "You want a piano."

"Yes. And I'm going to learn to play it. I'm going to be better than her. So good that—" I'd stopped, suddenly aware of how ridiculous I sounded.

"So good that what?" he'd prompted, and I could hear the smile in his voice even though I refused to look at him.

"Nothing," I'd muttered. "Just... I want a piano."

"Then you'll have a piano."

And he'd bought it. Had it delivered within a week, along with the contact information for three different piano teachers. The conservatory had been converted to house it properly, temperature and humidity controlled to protect the instrument.

I'd been so determined. Had taken exactly four lessons before I'd gotten bored with scales and exercises and decided that seducing Arthur was a much more interesting use of my time.

The memory of that night made my face heat even now.

And then, of course, I'd been sent away.

I lifted the piano's lid, revealing the pristine keys beneath. On impulse, I sat down on the bench, adjusting my position until I was comfortable.

My fingers found middle C almost automatically, muscle memory from those long-ago lessons kicking in. I played a simple scale, wincing slightly at how rusty I sounded.

Then I started into one of the few pieces I actually remembered—a basic arrangement of "Clair de Lune" that my teacher had insisted was good for beginners.

It was clumsy and imperfect, my fingers stumbling over passages that should have been fluid. But there was something soothing about it anyway, about the simple act of creating sound, of filling the conservatory with music.

I lost track of time, moving from one simple piece to another, relearning the feel of the keys under my fingers. The light through the glass walls shifted from golden afternoon to the deeper amber of early evening, casting long shadows across the piano.

I was midway through attempting "Für Elise"—and absolutely butchering it—when I heard it.

A sharp crack that was too loud, too wrong.

An explosion?

My hands froze on the keys, my head snapping toward the sound.