Chapter 159 The Piano Lullaby

Chapter 159 The Piano Lullaby
Mila’s POV

The elevator doors slid shut behind us, and the quiet hit me harder than the cold outside. No more chandeliers. No more whispers. No more Alexandra’s smile cutting across the room like a blade.

Just the penthouse. Just air I could finally breathe.

My knees dipped. Not a collapse — just enough to show how close I’d been to breaking.

Nate caught my elbow before I could pretend otherwise. He didn’t say anything. He just guided me inside, locked the door, and slipped off my heels like he’d done it a hundred times. When my feet touched the cool floor, the shock of it ran straight up my spine.

“Mila,” he said softly. “Look at me.”

I did. And the weight of what he’d done at the gala — the podium, the declaration, the way he’d stared his mother down — hit me all over again.

“You went rogue,” I whispered. “Alexandra looked like she wanted to set the room on fire.”

“Let her.” He stepped closer, his hands sliding into my hair, pulling out the pins one by one until it fell around my shoulders. “She’s been writing my life for years. Tonight, I stopped letting her.”

My chest tightened. “Nate… you didn’t have to do that.”

“I did.” His thumb brushed my jaw, lingering over my pulse. “You’re not a rumor. You’re not a charity case. You’re not something they get to dissect. I told them the truth.”

I didn’t know what to say. My body felt too full of adrenaline, of fear, of relief, of something warm and terrifying that had been growing since the moment he stepped onto that stage.

He didn’t take me to the bedroom. He kept my hand in his and led me through the living room, past the windows where the city lights flickered like distant stars.

He stopped at the piano.

It sat in the corner like a quiet memory — untouched since we moved in, polished and waiting.

Nate lifted the fallboard, exposing the keys. Then he turned to me.

“Play.”

I froze. “Nate… I haven’t played in—”

“Play for me,” he said, voice low. “Not for anyone else.”

My throat tightened. The gala was still clinging to me — the diamonds, the stares, the way Alexandra’s words had curled under my skin. I didn’t know if I had anything left to give.

But the way Nate looked at me just now.

I sat.

The bench was cool. The silence was heavy. My fingers hovered over the keys, unsure, stiff, almost afraid.

Then I pressed down.

The first chord vibrated through the room — deep, aching, familiar. My shoulders dropped. My breath loosened. I played again, and again, letting the tension bleed out through the sound.

The melody softened, warming at the edges, settling into a pattern my fingers remembered before my mind did — the lullaby I used to hum for Grace and Zoe when the apartment felt too small and lonely.

My voice followed, quiet and shaky, barely more than breath.

Not performance.

Not release.

Just comfort.

Just home.

Nate didn’t move. He leaned against the piano, watching me like the music was something he’d been waiting to hear. His eyes stayed on my face, dark and steady, drinking in every note.

When the last chord faded, my hands dropped to my lap. My chest rose and fell too fast. My throat felt raw.

The silence after the music was different — not heavy, not suffocating. Just still.

Nate pushed off the piano immediately, standing over the bench. He didn't ask. He didn't wait. He gripped my hips, his strong hands sliding easily over the smooth silk of my gown, and lifted me effortlessly off the bench, setting me down right on top of the polished mahogany lid of the grand piano.

The wood was cool against my bare thighs, a sharp contrast to the scorching heat of his body pressing flush against mine.

"God, Mila," he breathed, his voice breaking on a sound that was half-groan, half-prayer.

His mouth crashed down onto mine. There was nothing gentle about it—it was hungry, desperate, and fierce, tasting of champagne and raw, unadulterated possession. I tangled my fingers in his hair, pulling him closer, letting out a sharp gasp as his hands found the zipper at the back of my dress, dragging the heavy emerald silk down past my waist in one violent motion, pooling the fabric around my hips and baring my chest completely to his hungry gaze.

The cool air of the room hit my skin, but it lasted only a heartbeat before Nate covered every inch of me with his heat.

"They can talk," he muttered against my lips, his hands mapping the curve of my waist, sliding up to cup my bare breast as his thumb and teeth grazed the sensitive, hardened peak, drawing a sharp, shattered cry from my throat. "They can write whatever headlines they want tomorrow. Let them."

I arched into him, the heavy wood of the piano vibrating beneath us with every frantic movement, every ragged breath we stole from each other. The diamonds at my throat clicked rhythmically against his collarbone as he kissed down my neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin just below my ear before trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses over my collarbone down to my aching flesh.

My fingers dug into the broad expanse of his shoulders, feeling the tight muscles bunched beneath his dress shirt as he tore the remaining buttons free, stripping the fabric away so our chests could press together skin-to-skin.

He slid between my thighs, parting them wide as his large, calloused hands gripped my hips, lifting me just enough to align us. When he drove straight into me, a ragged sob ripped from my throat, the full, searing weight of him filling me so completely that my vision went white at the edges.

The friction was immediate, brutal, and utterly consuming. Nate caught my mouth in a deep, bruising kiss that swallowed my cries as his rhythm turned fierce and relentless. Each heavy thrust rocked the heavy mahogany beneath us, the sound of our skin slapping together echoing off the vaulted ceiling as he pounded into me with a desperate, claiming heat that erased every thought, every lingering shadow of the gala, leaving only the violent, perfect rhythm of his body driving me faster and faster toward the edge.