Chapter 64 You Need to Begin
“Look at me,” Ravial said, turning Leitana’s face gently toward him with a finger under her chin.
She looked up, watery eyes shimmering, chest heaving with nervous breaths. Her small frame trembled slightly in the seat.
Throughout the drive to Juilliard Extension, she had been tense, leg tapping rhythmically against the floor mat, fingers twisting in her lap.
He watched her for a moment, expression calm.
“You’re nervous,” he observed, voice low and even.
She nodded, biting her lip. “Mi never go place like dis before. Big school. Fancy people. Mi scared mi no good enough.”
A faint curve touched his lips, not quite a smile, but close.
“You are good enough,” he said. “Because I decided you are.”
She blinked, then let out a small, surprised laugh, soft, breathy, the tension easing from her shoulders.
“Yu always say tings like dat,” she said, shaking her head. “Like it fact.”
“It is.”
Her laugh grew a little, warm and shy.
He leaned in suddenly.
Captured her mouth in a hard, claiming kiss.
She melted into it, hands clutching his shirt.
When he pulled back, her lips were swollen, eyes dazed.
They stepped out of the car in front of the iconic Lincoln Center building—glass walls gleaming, Broadway bustling nearby.
Heads turned immediately.
Whispers rippled through the small crowd near the entrance.
“Wait… isn’t that Mr. Ashbourne?”
“And his wife…Avery?”
Phones lifted discreetly.
Leitana heard the name “Avery” repeated, soft, excited murmurs.
Her stomach twisted.
They thought she was Avery.
Fake.
Imposter.
She looked down, cheeks burning.
Ravial noticed—of course he did.
He leaned close, lips brushing her ear.
“Soon,” he murmured, “we’ll hold a press conference. Tell the world your real name. That I married Leitana Ashbourne. Not Avery Hale.”
Her eyes went wide.
“Press… conference?” she whispered. “Wat dat?”
His hand settled at the small of her back, guiding her forward.
“A room full of reporters,” he said calmly. “Cameras. Questions. We speak. They listen. The story changes.”
She nodded slowly, cheeks flaming hotter at the idea of all those eyes, all those voices.
But also… relief.
No more hiding.
They entered the building, modern lobby, high ceilings, the faint echo of music drifting from practice rooms.
Staff at the Welcome Center straightened instantly when they saw them come in.
“Mr. Ashbourne,” the director of Extension rushed forward, flanked by two assistants. Smiles professional, deferential. “We weren’t expecting you personally, but everything is prepared.”
Ravial nodded once.
“This is my wife, Leitana Ashbourne.”
No explanation for the name difference.
The director didn’t ask. Just smiled wider.
“Mrs. Ashbourne, a pleasure. Welcome to Juilliard.”
They were led upstairs, elegant hallways, walls lined with posters of past performances.
To a private conference room first, overlooking the plaza.
The Extension director and a senior piano faculty member waited, Dr. Elena Markov, renowned pedagogue, Juilliard alumna, teacher to concert pianists.
“Mr. Ashbourne,” Dr. Markov said, shaking his hand firmly. “An honor.”
Ravial introduced Leitana again as Leitana Ashbourne.
Dr. Markov turned to her, warm but professional smile.
“Mrs. Ashbourne, we’re thrilled to have you. Your husband arranged private lessons with me, weekly one-on-one sessions. We’ll focus on technique, repertoire, interpretation. Whatever pace suits you.”
Leitana’s cheeks reddened. “Tank yu… mi excited. But mi only play small-small before.”
Dr. Markov’s eyes softened at her accent and the way she spoke. “That’s how everyone starts. We’ll build from there.”
They discussed schedule, twice weekly private lessons, group masterclasses for observation, practice room access, fourth or fifth floors.
“Beginner to advanced students in Extension,” the director added. “But your privates are exclusive.”
Leitana nodded, overwhelmed but excited.
Ravial watched her the whole time.
When they stood to leave, Dr. Markov shook Leitana’s hand, firm, encouraging.
“You have beautiful hands for piano,” she said. “We’ll make music together.”
Leitana’s blush deepened, but she smiled wide.
@Her blush lingered as Dr. Markov released her hand, the teacher’s words “We’ll make music together”echoing warmly in her ears.
The director cleared his throat gently. “Actually, Mrs. Ashbourne, since you’re here today… we have a group masterclass starting in twenty minutes. Dr. Markov thought it might be nice for you to observe or even join if you feel comfortable. No pressure, of course. Many of our Extension students begin by listening.”
Leitana’s eyes widened. “Today? Already?”
Dr. Markov smiled reassuringly. “Only if you’d like. It’s a mixed-level class, some beginners, some more advanced. You can sit in the back, get a feel for things. Or play a little if the spirit moves you.” She winked. “We’re very informal in these sessions.”
Ravial’s voice cut in, calm and final. “She’ll participate.”
The director blinked, then nodded quickly. “Of course, Mr. Ashbourne. Whatever you prefer.”
Leitana turned to him, nervous again. “But… mi no ready. Mi no practice proper piece.”
His hand settled at the small of her back, steady. “You don’t need to be ready. You need to begin.”
She swallowed, but the warmth of his touch eased the knot in her stomach.
Dr. Markov glanced between them, then smiled. “We’ll start slow. Come, I’ll show you the studio.”
They were led down a sunlit corridor, past practice rooms where scales and arpeggios drifted through closed doors like distant birdsong. Leitana’s heart raced with every step.
The masterclass studio was larger than she expected, high ceilings, a grand Steinway at the front, rows of chairs in a semi-circle, maybe thirty students already seated, chatting in low voices.
When the door opened, conversation stopped like someone flipped a switch.
Every head turned.
Dr. Markov stepped in first. “Good afternoon, everyone. We have a new student joining us today.”
Eyes flicked from the teacher to Ravial, tall, blindfolded, unmistakable, then to Leitana beside him.
Whispers started immediately.
“Is that…?”
“Ashbourne?”
“And his wife?”
Ravial didn’t acknowledge the stares. He guided Leitana to a seat in the front row, then to everyone’s visible shock, took the chair directly beside her.
No one argued.
Dr. Markov cleared her throat.“This is Leitana Ashbourne,” she said. “She’ll be joining us from today, regularly, I hope.”
A few polite nods, curious glances.
Leitana managed a small wave, cheeks burning. “Hi… nice meet yu all.”
A couple of students smiled back, surprised by the accent.
Dr. Markov gestured to the piano. “We’ll begin with our usual warm-up pieces. Who’d like to start?”
A young man in the back raised his hand, confident, mid-twenties, playing a bright Chopin etude with flair.
Leitana listened, wide-eyed.
Then a woman, older, elegant, performed a slow, haunting Bach prelude.
Piece after piece.
Leitana’s nerves twisted tighter.
Finally, Dr. Markov turned to her.
“Leitana, would you like to play something? Anything you’re comfortable with. Even a scale.”
The room went quiet.
Leitana glanced at Ravial.
He nodded once.
She stood slowly, walked to the piano like it might bite her.
Sat.
Her fingers hovered over the keys.
She closed her eyes.
And played.
The simple hymn from the orphanage, slow, heartfelt, fingers finding the notes like old friends.
Not perfect.
A hesitation here, a wrong note there.
But pure.
When the last chord faded, the room was silent.
Then applause, genuine, warm.
Dr. Markov smiled wide. “Beautiful. That’s soul, everyone. That’s what we chase.”
Leitana looked out at the faces—surprised, respectful.
For the first time since arriving in America, she didn’t feel small.
She felt seen.
Ravial’s hand brushed hers as she returned to her seat.
“Good,” he said quietly.
Just that.
But it was everything.