Chapter 7 7

Elise walked to the Steinway. Her heels clicked rhythmically on the parquet floor.

The whispers started again.

"Is she going to play Chopsticks?"

"This is going to be a train wreck."

Elise ignored them. She reached the piano. She didn't sit down.

She turned back to the table. She extended a hand toward Damian.

"Dami," she called out. "Can I borrow you for five minutes?"

Damian stared at her. He looked confused.

"Trust me," she mouthed.

Damian stood up. He buttoned his jacket and walked to the stage. He climbed the steps and stood next to her.

"What are you doing?" he whispered.

"The attic," she whispered back. "Rainy days. Csárdás."

Damian's eyes widened.

When they were children-before the teenage years, before the rebellion-they used to hide in the attic of the Nelson estate. Damian had taught her piano. But she had preferred the old violin she found in a trunk.

They had learned one song together. A difficult, fast-paced Hungarian folk dance. It was their secret.

"You remember?" he asked.

"Every note," she said.

She reached behind the piano bench and picked up a violin case that had been hidden there earlier-she had tipped the band leader $500 to stow it.

She opened the case. It was a Guarneri copy. Not priceless, but good.

She lifted the violin to her chin. She tightened the bow.

Her posture shifted. Her back straightened. Her chin clamped down. In that second, the "party girl" vanished. A musician appeared.

Damian sat at the piano. He placed his hands on the keys. He looked at her.

She nodded.

Damian struck the first chord. A heavy, dramatic D minor.

Elise drew the bow across the strings.

The sound was rich, deep, and mournful. The Largo section of Monti's Csárdás.

The room went silent. Not the silence of awkwardness, but the silence of shock.

Elise's fingers danced on the fingerboard. Her vibrato was wide and passionate. She wasn't just playing notes; she was pulling emotion out of the wood.

She looked at Conrad as she played. The melody was sad, full of longing.

Conrad's mouth opened slightly. His hand gripped his cane. His late wife used to hum this tune.

Then, the tempo changed.

Damian hit the keys harder, picking up the pace.

Allegro vivace.

Elise's bow flew. The music became a frenzy of speed and precision. Her fingers were a blur.

Damian matched her perfectly. He watched her, his eyes burning with intensity. They moved as one organism. He anticipated her rubato; she leaned into his crescendos.

It was electric. It was intimate. It was sex set to music.

Jill's face went slack. She looked like she had been slapped.

Arthur Nelson was standing up, his napkin clutched to his chest. Tears streamed down his face. "My god," he whispered. "She's... she's incredible."

The music built to its climax. Faster. Higher.

Elise threw her head back, her hair flying. Damian pounded the final chords.

They hit the last note together. A sharp, triumphant staccato.

Elise lifted her bow.

Silence hung in the air for three seconds.

Then, Conrad Vincent started to clap.

It was a slow, heavy clap. Then Arthur joined in. Then the whole room erupted.

Elise lowered the violin. She was breathing hard, her chest heaving. She looked at Damian. He was looking at her like he wanted to devour her right there on the piano bench.

She smiled at him. A real smile.

She walked to the edge of the stage, holding Damian's hand.

"Happy Birthday, Grandpa," she said into the microphone. "Jade is cold. Music is life. This is for you."

Conrad stood up. He walked over to them. He ignored Jill completely.

"I didn't know," Conrad said, his voice gruff. "Why did you hide this?"

"I didn't want to share it," Elise said, looking at Damian. "It was ours."

Damian squeezed her hand so hard it hurt.

Elise glanced at the crowd. She saw Jill, pale and trembling with rage.

She smirked.

Then, her gaze drifted to the waiters standing by the kitchen doors.

One of them was staring at her. He had a cap pulled low. He had the same lanky build as Eddie, the same posture. For a terrifying second, her heart skipped a beat, convinced it was him, that he hadn't gone to the airport.

It wasn't a waiter.

It was a man Jill had hired, a low-level private investigator meant to catch her in a compromising position later. But from this distance, under the dim lights, the resemblance was a ghost punching her in the gut.