Chapter 129

Not just the steak—every meal Jack ate came from specialty suppliers.

Those specialty ingredients weren't just held to impossibly strict selection standards; they were personally prepared by world-class chefs.

The taste was naturally the best money could buy.

But Jack was the kind of man who could savor the tender, juicy perfection of top-grade Wagyu beef, yet also swallow down the dry, gritty texture of military rations without complaint. He could appreciate the rich, lingering finish of Romanée-Conti, but he was equally accustomed to choking down blood-stained rations with ice-cold rainwater in smoke-filled trenches.

What most people considered unattainable luxury meant nothing more to him than fuel to keep his body running through long, brutal years.

What was truly ingrained in his bones was the ever-present awareness that death could come at any moment, and that knife-edge vigilance of someone who'd learned to dance on the blade.

So when faced with Tyler's deliberate display of "high society" airs, Jack felt no admiration whatsoever. If anything, he found it somewhat ridiculous.

Originally, Tyler had wanted to use the steak to mock Jack and make him look foolish.

He'd assumed that someone like Jack—this "unemployed drifter" without even a proper job—probably didn't even know which door to walk through at a high-end restaurant like this.

As long as he praised the steak to the heavens and struck a pose as some kind of food connoisseur, Jack would surely have nothing to contribute to the conversation and end up looking like some country bumpkin who'd never seen the world.

But Tyler never expected his carefully prepared "intellectual ambush" to be effortlessly turned into a "reverse lecture" by Jack.

At this moment, Tyler's knuckles were white around his knife and fork, his face awkward, as if he'd swallowed a fly.

He stared hard at Jack's unruffled expression, trying to find some crack in his composure that would reveal he was just putting on a front. But there was nothing.

Jack's gaze was too composed—the kind of composure that couldn't be faked by memorizing a few food magazines. It was the confidence of someone who had truly experienced and appreciated these things, and even risen above them.

Just then, the pleasant sound of piano music suddenly filled the restaurant.

Tyler looked up.

In the corner, on a small stage, sat a grand piano.

A pianist in a black tuxedo was seated at the bench, his slender fingers dancing across the black and white keys, drawing out a soothing, elegant classical melody.

Seeing this, a gleam instantly flashed in Tyler's eyes.

Since he'd stumbled on the food topic, time to change the game!

He refused to believe that some poor man without even a proper job could know anything about piano!

"Sherry," Tyler immediately adjusted his demeanor, putting on a refined and cultured expression as he swirled the red wine in his glass with deliberate elegance. His tone carried a carefully manufactured artistic air. "This restaurant's pianist isn't bad. This piece—the melody is beautiful, the emotion delicate. Perfect for helping one settle into the moment and appreciate life's finer things."

"Though he's too superficial in his interpretation. It detracts from the piece's beauty. How about I play something for you instead?"

With that, Tyler didn't wait for Sherry's response.

He walked over to the pianist, interrupted his performance, exchanged a few words with him, and paid him some money.

Then Tyler seated himself at the piano.

He adjusted his tie, the corner of his mouth lifting in a confident, elegant smile, as if what was about to take the stage wasn't him but a true master of classical music.

"Sherry, consider this piece a small gift from me." Tyler turned his head slightly toward Sherry, making an extremely gentlemanly gesture of invitation.

Sherry's brow furrowed slightly. Though she found Tyler's behavior of forcibly interrupting someone else's performance somewhat distasteful, basic politeness compelled her to nod courteously. "Thank you."

Seeing this, Tyler's smile grew even broader.

He turned around, took a deep breath, and placed his slender fingers on the black and white keys.

The next second, melodious piano music began flowing through the restaurant.

It had to be admitted—Tyler had indeed studied piano, and his skill level wasn't low.

His fingering was fluid, his rhythm precise, each note handled just right. It actually sounded quite good.

The other diners in the restaurant were drawn in by this impromptu live performance, pausing their conversations to listen quietly.

When the piece ended, Tyler lifted his hands elegantly from the keys, stood up, and bowed slightly to the room.

The restaurant erupted in enthusiastic applause.

Tyler straightened, his gaze turning triumphantly toward Sherry, expecting to see amazement and admiration in her eyes.

However, Sherry's reaction was remarkably flat.

She simply clapped a few times politely, then turned to look at Jack and asked softly, "What did you think?"

Tyler's smile froze slightly.

Was she asking this poor man's opinion?

Jack methodically finished chewing the meat in his mouth, picked up his napkin to dab at the corner of his lips, then spoke flatly, "The technique was solid."

Hearing this, Tyler felt slightly better.

At least this guy knew enough to acknowledge his technical skill!

"But..." Jack's tone shifted as he looked calmly at Tyler. "You played it too 'by the book.'"

Tyler's expression immediately darkened. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"This piece is about the stillness and melancholy of night," Jack said evenly. "Your technique is impeccable, but your playing has no 'feeling'—only 'showing off.' You were so focused on making every note perfect that you lost the soul of the piece itself."

Jack paused, lifted his wine glass, and took a small sip. "Really good piano playing isn't about proving how skilled you are. It's about telling a story. In your playing, there was only you. No story."

Tyler's face turned iron-gray. He stared hard at Jack, his chest feeling like it was stuffed with cotton, making it hard to breathe.

He'd been playing piano for over a decade, competed in countless competitions, won countless awards. No one had ever dared say his playing "lacked soul"!

"You..." Tyler bit out through clenched teeth, his voice trembling. "You're some unemployed drifter without even a proper job—what gives you the right to criticize my playing? What do you know about music?!"

Jack looked at his agitated state, shook his head slightly with a small smile, but didn't continue.

"Jack, why don't you go up and play something too?" Just then, Sherry decided to fan the flames.

She propped her chin on one hand, her beautiful eyes glinting with mischief, the corner of her mouth curving in an amused arc as she said lightly, "Mr. Thornton, since you've already made a fool of yourself—I mean, performed for us—it's only fair that Jack return the favor, right? Let me hear what this 'story' you're talking about actually sounds like."

Tyler nearly choked on his own spit.

Made a fool of himself?

Sherry had actually used those words!

He stared hard at Sherry, his chest heaving violently with rage, but he didn't dare lash out. He could only glare at Jack through gritted teeth, his eyes full of malicious glee.

"That's right, Mr. Carter. Since you claim my playing has technique but no story, why don't you go up and try? Let me see for myself?"

Hah!

You think you understand music?

You say my playing has no soul?

If you're so capable, get up there and play something!

Some poor man who needs a woman to cut his steak—what could he possibly know about piano!

Tyler was dying to see this poor fool make a complete ass of himself on stage. Then he'd see if Sherry still found him so interesting!