Elena didn't sleep.
She lay on the four-poster bed in the east wing of the villa, her eyes wide open, watching the ceiling like it might suddenly crack open and pour all the secrets of this place onto her chest.
The sheets were soft. Too soft. The mattress was the kind kings must have died on—plush, perfect, expensive. And yet, her body remained stiff, every nerve alert.
Lucien Ashford.
He hadn't touched her.
But somehow, he had.
There was something about him—calculated and calm, but with an undercurrent of heat that ran dangerous and deep. Like the ocean during a storm. You couldn't see the violence on the surface, but you could feel it pulling you down.
She rose before dawn.
The mansion was eerily silent, save for the ticking of a distant grandfather clock. Her bare feet padded across marble floors as she explored the hallway, her silk robe flowing like a shadow behind her. Portraits of long-dead relatives stared down from gold-framed prisons, their painted eyes too knowing.
She found herself in the conservatory, the glass dome overhead catching the first blush of sunrise. The grand piano stood there—glossy, untouched, almost glowing under the pale light.
She approached it slowly.
Her fingertips hovered above the keys.
Once, the sound of music had lived in her veins. Now, the silence between the notes was louder than any melody she could remember.
She touched a single key.
C.
The sound rang out—sharp, lonely, and real.
Her breath hitched.
And then—
"Don't stop."
The voice shattered her moment.
Elena turned sharply.
Lucien leaned against the frame of the doorway, a cup of coffee in one hand, his other hand in his pocket. He was dressed in a black shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, the top two buttons undone. He looked like sin dressed as morning.
"How long have you been standing there?" she asked.
"Long enough to hear your silence before the note," he said, walking toward her.
She wrapped her robe tighter.
"You have a habit of showing up without warning."
"I own the house."
She lifted her chin. "Still doesn't make you a ghost."
He chuckled. It wasn't warm.
"You're not used to being watched, are you?"
"I'm used to being left alone."
"Then perhaps you've never had someone worth staying for."
The air between them tightened. She didn't answer.
He stood beside the piano, looking down at the keys as if they told him secrets.
"My niece, Adriana, is blind," he said, voice shifting into something softer. "She sees the world in sound. Like you used to."
"I didn't lose my hearing," she whispered.
"No. But you lost the part of yourself that knew how to listen."
She blinked. That truth stung more than it should have.
"I want you to teach her," he said. "Not just piano. I want you to teach her how to feel music."
Elena stared at him, a dozen unspoken things crawling behind her eyes. "And what will you teach me in return, Mr. Ashford?"
He smiled faintly. "That depends."
"On what?"
"Whether you let yourself be touched."
She stepped away from the piano, pulse racing.
"You don't know me."
"I don't need to know you," he said quietly. "I hear you."
And with that, he turned and left.
Elena stood alone in the conservatory, the single note still echoing in the back of her mind.
He hears me.
It was terrifying.
And it was everything she hadn't known she was waiting for.