Chapter 3 - The Price of a Stumured Chord
For the next forty minutes, time lost all meaning. Anaëlle played through classical repertoires—Bach, Beethoven, Chopin—her fingers flying across the keys with frantic precision. Every time she felt her focus slipping, every time the phantom weight of his gaze made her pulse spike, she forced herself to anchor back to the rhythm.
She only made two more mistakes.
The second mistake happened during a complex movement of a Beethoven sonata. Her right pinky slipped on a sharp, producing a discordant screech that echoed miserably in the quiet room.
Instantly, the music stopped.
She didn't even have to look—though she couldn't anyway—to know he was standing beside her again. The scent of amber and vetiver washed over her, thick and grounding.
"A second mistake," his deep voice resonated, smooth as polished glass. "The price must be paid."
Anaëlle’s hands clenched into fists on her lap. "What do you want from me? Money? I can work extra hours at the cafe to pay you back."
"I don't want your money, Anaëlle," he replied quietly. "I want your honesty. Tell me why a talented pianist with a degree from Juilliard is playing for pennies at a run-down diner downtown."
The question hit her like a physical blow. She sucked in a sharp breath, her body stiffening. How did he know about Juilliard? She had scrubbed her online presence clean years ago.
"That's none of your business," she snapped, a sudden flash of anger overriding her terror.
"Everything in this room is my business," he countered, his voice remaining chillingly calm, yet laced with an undeniable authority. "Answer the question. That is your price for the wrong note."
She bit her lower lip so hard she tasted copper. The memories she had buried deep down clawed their way back to the surface—the hospital bills, the betrayal by a mentor who stole her credit, the crushing debt that forced her to pawn her mother's jewelry piece by piece.
"My mother got sick," she whispered, the walls she had built up finally cracking. Her voice broke, thick with unshed tears. "I had to drop out in my final year. The medical bills swallowed everything. By the time she passed away, there was nothing left—just debt collectors pounding on my door and a broken career. Playing at that cafe is the only way I can afford food and rent while keeping my hands on a keyboard."
A profound silence filled the room. It wasn't the cold, threatening silence of before; it was heavy, suffocating, and loaded with an unexpected weight of understanding.
He didn't mock her. He didn't offer cheap pity. For a long, agonizing moment, he just stood there behind her, his invisible presence radiating a strange, quiet warmth.
"Ambition is a fragile thing when poverty breaks its legs," he said softly, his voice losing its sharp edge, replaced by something dark and melancholic. "Keep playing."
She swallowed the lump in her throat, blinking hot tears behind the black silk blindfold. She found her place on the keyboard again and began to play, the melancholy of the music now blending seamlessly with the wreckage of her own history.
By the time she committed her third and final mistake—a fumbled arpeggio near the end of a Debussy piece—the clock was chiming 9:55 p.m.
The footsteps approached again, steady and familiar now.
"Third mistake," he said, leaning down so close his lips nearly brushed the shell of her ear. "The final price for tonight."
Anaëlle braced herself, her heart hammering against her ribs. "Name it."
"Take off the blindfold," he whispered.
May you like
She froze. "What?"
"Take off the blindfold and look at me."
