The conservatory felt like a sanctuary from the past—a space made of glass and shadow, where the sun poured in through ornate windows and kissed every inch of the ivory piano that stood at its center. By morning, the scent of chamomile from the villa's herb gardens drifted through the open balcony doors, and the sound of the distant sea softened everything that had once felt too loud.
Elena stood at the piano, her fingers resting above the keys, trembling slightly—not from fear, but from awakening.
Adriana sat beside her, upright and quiet, her pale hands folded in her lap. Though her eyes did not see, they focused. She was listening with more than ears.
"Today, we won't start with notes," Elena said softly.
Adriana tilted her head. "But… this is a piano lesson."
"No," Elena smiled gently. "This is a lesson in feeling."
Elena reached out and took Adriana's hands, guiding them to the polished keys.
"Forget about the sound," she whispered. "Feel the coolness of the ivory. The slight roughness between each key. Let your body remember what your eyes don't need to see."
Adriana's fingers hesitated, then moved slowly, delicately. She let her hands float over the keys, then gently pressed one—middle C.
A soft note echoed into the air.
Like breath.
Elena swallowed.
"Do you hear that?" she asked.
"Yes."
"What did it feel like?"
Adriana thought for a long moment. "It felt… steady. Like a heartbeat."
Elena closed her eyes. "Exactly."
Together, they moved from key to key. No scales. No rigid patterns. Just sounds. Just emotions. Elena would play one note, and Adriana would echo it, finding it by touch, by resonance. It was as if the music became language, a communion of souls.
Lucien stood at the edge of the doorway, unseen.
He watched the two of them—the blind child with more light in her soul than most, and the broken woman who was slowly remembering how to feel again. He said nothing, but something inside him shifted, deeper this time.
Elena was healing not only Adriana—but herself.
And it made her more beautiful than ever.
---
Later that afternoon, the villa emptied as Adriana was taken by Carlo to her therapy appointment in town. Lucien remained, a book open on his lap in the library, but his eyes never left the window where the garden danced in the late sunlight.
He didn't hear Elena's steps until she stood right in front of him.
"You're spying again," she said.
He closed the book slowly, meeting her gaze. "Would you rather I stopped?"
She folded her arms, the silk of her blouse shimmering in the golden light. "I don't mind. But next time, join us."
"I wouldn't want to interrupt."
"You wouldn't," she said, voice softening. "Adriana trusts you. She listens when she knows you're near."
He stood now, walking toward her, slower than usual, as though fighting a quiet storm within himself.
"I listen, too," he said. "More than I should."
Something in his voice had changed.
Rougher.
Hungrier.
Elena stepped back slightly, only to find the curve of a bookshelf behind her. He came closer, one hand resting beside her on the shelf, his body close enough that she could feel the warmth of his breath.
"You're not afraid of me," he said.
"No."
"You should be."
Her voice was a whisper. "Why?"
He looked down at her lips, then into her eyes.
"Because I want you in ways I've taught myself not to want anyone."
The air between them snapped like a string pulled too tight.
Her breath caught. "Then why haven't you done anything?"
His voice dropped. "Because the second I touch you, Elena, I'm not sure I'll be able to stop."
And still, he didn't move.
And neither did she.
"Then touch me," she whispered. "Stop pretending you haven't already."
A pause.
And then, he did.
His hand came up to her face, his thumb brushing her cheek, his fingers threading into her hair. He kissed her—slow, deep, aching. The kind of kiss that bled history, silence, restraint.
Elena gasped against his mouth, her hands gripping his shirt, pulling him closer. She tasted salt and regret, and something wild beneath it.
Lucien backed her against the shelf, his mouth moving to her jaw, then her throat.
"Elena," he murmured. "Tell me to stop."
She didn't.
Instead, she whispered, "Don't ever stop."
He lifted her, carrying her out of the library and into the nearest guest suite like she weighed nothing. The door clicked shut behind them.
---
The light was golden when it slipped through the lace curtains and painted the walls in the softest hue of lust.
Lucien laid her down on the bed gently, as if afraid she might break. His hands slid down her sides, memorizing the shape of her. Elena arched beneath him, gasping as his mouth found her collarbone, then lower, undoing each button with maddening patience.
"You don't have to be careful," she whispered.
"I do," he said. "Because this means something."
And it did.
It wasn't just pleasure. It was unraveling.
Every touch was a conversation. Every sigh a confession.
He moved inside her like he was trying to learn her from the inside out, and she met him with the same desperate hunger. It wasn't rushed. It wasn't tame.
It was the kind of intimacy that left no part untouched, no heart protected.
When they collapsed against each other, hours later, breathless and trembling, Elena laid her head on his chest and listened.
Not to his words.
But to the echo of his touch inside her.
---
The morning after, sunlight spilled across the sheets in golden rivers.
Elena woke slowly, blinking against the brightness. The bed beside her was empty.
Lucien was gone.
She sat up, the ache in her body reminding her of every moment, every kiss, every touch.
Wrapped in a robe, she stepped into the hallway, only to be met by Carlo, holding a silver tray with a letter placed neatly on top.
"For you, Miss Elena," he said with a small nod.
Her heart skipped.
She took the envelope and stepped back inside, tearing it open with trembling hands.
The letter was written in delicate script, unsigned.
> "Some pasts do not stay buried forever.
Some songs never stop playing.
He may offer you love, but I remember the version of you that was mine first.
We are not finished, Elena."
Her hands went cold.
And as she folded the paper, a single drop of water fell onto the ink—whether a tear or sweat, she couldn't tell.
But one thing was certain.
Something—someone—was coming.
And they intended to shatter everything.