Chapter 4 The Ghost in the Wing

Elena

People say the truth sets you free.

They forget to mention that before it does, it strangles you first.

I barely sleep after hearing that piano. It's not just the music, it's what it means. There's someone else in this penthouse. Or something Lucas hasn't told me. The west wing, off-limits and locked, beats in my mind like a second heart, pulsing with secrets.

By morning, I'm wired, restless.

I don't bother with the luxury spa bathtub or the breakfast tray waiting like clockwork outside my door. I throw on jeans and a t-shirt from my old bag one Lucas didn't throw away and march down to the east library.

And, of course, he's already there.

Reading Financial Tyranny like it's a bedtime story.

"You lied to me," I say without preamble.

He doesn't look up. "Good morning, Elena."

"There's a piano playing in your forbidden west wing, Lucas."

His fingers still, just for a fraction of a second.

"I told you not to go there."

"You also told me we were being honest now."

"That was a moment. This is reality."

"You're hiding something."

He finally sets the book down and rises. "We all are."

He starts to walk past me, but I block his path.

"Who's in there?"

"No one you need to know."

"That music... it was real. I heard it."

"I'm aware."

"And?"

"I don't owe you explanations, Elena."

His voice is low, steel wrapped in velvet. But I don't flinch.

"Yes, you do. I'm your fiancée, remember? Your public love story. If there's a ghost in your hallway, I'm entitled to know its name."

His jaw tightens. "Drop it."

"I won't."

He steps closer, invading my space, towering over me with that ruthless calm that always makes people back down.

But I don't.

"Tell me what's behind that door, Lucas."

"You want truth?" he says softly. "Fine."

His hand brushes mine not affectionately, but deliberately. Like a warning.

"My mother died in that wing."

I freeze.

"She played piano there every morning. She kept the windows open no matter the season. My father hated it. Said it made her too soft."

He laughs bitterly.

"She died in the music room. Heart attack. I was twelve. I found her."

Suddenly, the cold man in front of me becomes flesh. Becomes breakable.

"I had the wing sealed. The staff are forbidden to enter. The piano plays on a timer. Her favorite song."

He looks at me, and for once, I see the storm behind his stormless eyes.

"Now you know."

The air thickens. The weight of his words presses against my chest.

I open my mouth, unsure what to say.

But he's already turning away.

So I say the only thing I know won't make it worse.

"I'm sorry."

He stops. Doesn't turn back.

"Don't be," he says. "She's the reason I don't believe in love."

And then he's gone.

I haven't seen him for two days.

Which is fine. I need space. Time. I spend my hours painting on the glass balcony, trying to recreate that melody in colors, soft blues and haunting silvers, notes that rise and fall like breath.

But on the third day, I'm summoned.

Adrienne bursts in mid-afternoon with a hurricane of designer bags and perfume samples.

"There's a ThornCorp event tonight," she says. "Lucas needs you on his arm."

I groan. "More fake smiles and people talking about hedge funds like they're divine prophecies?"

"Exactly. Wear the navy Valentino."

I glare. "Tell Lucas I'm sick."

"Tell him yourself," she says with a smirk. "He's the one who signed your release clause."

My blood runs cold. "What clause?"

"The one that says if you violate image expectations, he can void the contract."

I inhale slowly. "Fine. Let's play pretend."

The gala is hosted at the ThornCorp Tower rooftop, 88 floors up, under glass and moonlight. There are CEOs, fashion editors, politicians, tech mogul,s sharks in sequins, all of them circling Lucas like he's the blood in the water.

I enter beside him, arm in arm, and the silence that follows is almost reverent.

Until she arrives.

Her name is Cassidy Vale.

Blonde. Legs for days. Lips like weapons.

And, apparently, Lucas's ex.

She strides straight up to us like she owns the night.

"Well, well," she purrs, eyeing me like I'm a stain on her couture. "You must be the art project Lucas picked up."

I smile sweetly. "You must be the regret he doesn't talk about."

Her eyes flash, but she recovers quickly. "Lucas always did like broken things. Didn't think he'd go this far down the ladder."

Lucas clears his throat. "Cassidy. Don't."

She pouts. "What? Just catching up."

She leans closer to him, her hand grazing his lapel. "You still like violins at midnight? Or did you trade that for finger paint and cheap whiskey?"

I feel the fury boil up, but I stay still. Still and lethal.

"She's perfect for me," Lucas says, voice cutting.

Cassidy's smile falters.

I step in. "Don't worry, Cassidy. Not everyone gets a second chance. Especially not ones who burn bridges and expect applause."

The surrounding guests murmur. Cassidy's face hardens.

Lucas grips my hand tighter, and for the first time, it feels real.

"She's a guest," he whispers through gritted teeth. "Don't start a war."

I smile for the crowd, but I whisper back, "Then don't let her start it."

The drive back is silent.

Until I break it.

"Is she the one who broke you?"

He doesn't look at me. "No. I was broken long before Cassidy."

"She still wants you."

"She wants power. I just happen to wear it well."

I turn to him. "Did you love her?"

"I thought I did."

"What happened?"

"She betrayed me. Slept with my father's business partner. Tried to use it as leverage."

My mouth falls open. "Jesus."

"She was the reason I learned to separate want from need."

"And me?" I ask before I can stop myself. "Am I a want or a need?"

His jaw flexes. "You're a storm, Elena."

I blink. "What does that mean?"

"It means you were never supposed to be either."

Later that night, I couldn't sleep.

So I go to the west wing.

This time, the door is unlocked.

I push it open slowly, breath held.

Inside, the room is a cathedral of memories. Tall windows. Dust-covered furniture. A grand piano in the corner, its surface reflecting moonlight like water.

I step toward it, heart pounding.

And I sit.

My fingers hover over the keys.

I don't play. I don't dare.

But I touch the keys. Gently. Like an offering.

Behind me, the door creaks.

I turn.

Lucas stands there. Watching.

"You weren't supposed to come in."

"You unlocked the door."

He exhales. "It's time someone did."

He walks over. Sits beside me.

"She used to play 'Clair de Lune' every morning," he says. "Said it reminded her that life was fleeting but beautiful."

He presses a key.

A soft note spills into the room.

"She believed in beauty. Even when the world didn't."

"She sounds like someone I would've liked."

He studies me. "She would've liked you, too."

Something changes between us in that moment.

Something unspoken but real.

He reaches up, gently brushes a strand of hair from my face.

I freeze.

"You're dangerous," he murmurs.

"So are you," I breathe.

And then he kisses me.

Slow. Deliberate. A taste of a truth we both pretend doesn't exist.

But when we part, the silence that follows is deafening.

He stands.

"This doesn't change anything," he says, voice rough.

"No," I reply. "It changes everything."

He hesitates.

And then he walks away.

Leaving me alone with the piano, the ghosts, and a storm that has just begun to rise.