I stepped forward onto the stage, the grand piano gleaming under the soft lights. Standing beside it, I took a deep breath, feeling the weight of all the whispers and glances directed my way.
"Poor girl," I overheard someone mutter. "She should have been the one with him."
Another voice floated over, tinged with curiosity. "Is it true that her sister married her fiancé?"
A third comment reached my ears, sharp and dismissive. "If I were her, I probably wouldn't have attended this wedding."
Their gossip grated on my nerves, each word like a pinprick that made my ears itch with irritation. I clenched my fists subtly, fighting the urge to lash out or confront them. Instead, I reached out and snatched the microphone from Michael, Hunter's best man, who looked surprised.
"I just wanted to give my sister and Hunter one more congrats, you know? "I wish you both the happiness you deserve," I said with a smile, but when I glanced around the room, it was like everyone was on high alert, ready to jump in if I lost it. My parents were eyeing me like hawks, the sound guys were hovering over their controls, and I even spotted a couple of security guards lurking by the backstage area.
I couldn't help but smirk. Yeah, right—like I'd ruin their big "happily ever after" moment. As if. I've still got some class and self-respect, thank you very much. I handed the mic back to Michael with a little flourish and slid onto the bench in front of the grand piano, feeling all graceful about it.
Michael let out this awkward, nervous laugh. "Alright, everyone, can I have the newlyweds step into the center for their first dance as husband and wife?"
He gave them the nod, and there they went—my sister and Hunter, gliding to the middle of the hall, their faces lit up like they were in their own little world of pure joy. I just sat there watching for a second, took a deep breath to steady my nerves, and rested my hands on the keys. The piano felt cool and smooth under my fingers, like it was waiting for me to make some magic happen.
I shut my eyes, and as my fingers hit the keys—one by one, letting the notes build into this flowing melody—I just poured everything I was feeling right into it, like I always have. I play straight from the heart, no holding back, and that's probably why everyone says I'm so free-spirited.
My teachers used to call me that all the time back in the day. In that moment, I felt totally unbothered, like the wind itself, just drifting wherever the music took me. That's what drew me to the piano as a kid—it was my escape, the one place I could spill out all my emotions without having to utter a single word.
And from that moment, I dove into those classic wedding pieces, the ones that fit the vibe perfectly. Even though I couldn't stand the sight of those two newlyweds, no way was I about to sabotage it with something off-key. People wanted that magic, that satisfaction, and I'd be damned if I didn't deliver.
~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~
What could these vain people possibly know about classical music? He hadn't known what to expect from her, but never in a million years did he imagine she'd surprise him like this. The notes Novaria was playing—complex, intricate—were the kind only highly skilled pianists could master. As a royal child, he had spent more than half his life learning the piano, yet never before had he found it as captivating as he did now. Part of that was because his mother often dragged him to piano concertos, so he recognized the pieces she was playing.
Frédéric Chopin's "Polonaise-Fantaisie" Op. 61.
Frédéric Chopin's "Etudes, Op. 25"—especially No. 12 in C minor, the "Ocean."
Sergei Rachmaninoff's "Piano Concerto No. 3 in D minor," Op. 30.
He fought back the urge to smile. He hadn't realized she was this talented.
He watched her closely, completely absorbed. With every passing second, he felt an undeniable pull toward her. There was something about the way she played—so much power, so much freedom, so much spirit—that stirred something deep inside him.
She played without a care for where the waves of music might carry her. She didn't try to control the waves—no, she rode them, sweeping everyone in the audience along with her. Even her sister and Hunter had stopped dancing. How could they not? The emotion she poured into every note was so raw and genuine, it was almost audible to the deaf.
He smiled quietly to himself. Novaria knew exactly what she was doing.
His admiration for her deepened with every powerful movement—when she threw her head back and forth with such intensity, something inside him stirred. She looked like a dream, felt like one too.
Then came Sergei Rachmaninoff's "Piano Concerto No. 3 in D minor," Op. 30, flowing seamlessly after Chopin's "Etudes, Op. 25," especially the "Ocean." His heart sank as his fingers tightened around the glass in his left hand. That piece was Sova's favorite.
Sova.
His heart skipped a beat. No, he wouldn't think of his late older brother—not now. But his eyes stayed fixed on Novaria as she finished the last note.
The song ended.
She bowed gracefully, a soft smile playing on her lips as she left the stage. The entire hall watched her in awe.
When her eyes met his, he felt an unexpected calm wash over him. He didn't understand why—and he didn't like it.
~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~
Alas! It was all over.
I walked steadily, head held high, chin up, shoulders back. I promised myself I would never look down again. When I reached the head table, I grabbed a bottle of champagne and excused myself. I needed to find a quiet corner and drink until I blackout.
Making my way toward the exit of the hall, I spotted a stool and sank onto it with a weak smile, still clutching the champagne bottle. Thankfully, it was already open and more full than empty.
I pressed the bottle's rim to my lips and took my first gulp. With this, I was done with them. Finally, I congratulated myself for not making a scene and for letting go.
Halfway through the bottle and after muttering ten curse words under my breath, I noticed a familiar figure approaching. My vision blurred as I struggled to focus and recognize the face, but I couldn't.
"You might want to put that bottle down," I heard him say as he stopped in front of me.
A scowl crept onto my face. I knew that voice all too well. "Oh. It's you—the mister who crashed my car..." I stopped as a hiccup caught in my throat. "...I didn't see you come here."
"Exactly why you're going to drop that bottle," he said again, more firmly.
I rolled my eyes, the motion nearly causing me to topple off the stool.
I heard Zion curse under his breath before rushing over to steady me in the chair. His hands were firm but gentle as he took the bottle from my grasp and set it down on the floor.
Why? Why did he have to take away the one thing that was bringing me even a shred of joy? Did he get some twisted satisfaction from seeing me as miserable as he looked? With the way he always frowned and held his nose high, I could swear he never even laughed as a kid. Tears welled up in my eyes. Why didn't anyone want to see me happy?
"Why did you do that?!" I screamed, but he didn't answer. Instead, he pressed his palm over my mouth to silence me. Annoyed, I punched his chest hard. His eyes darkened, and it worked—he pulled away.
But I needed out. I had to get away from here. Everything around me made me feel sick, so sick. "Please…" I muttered, trying to catch his attention again. "Get me out of here."
"I'll call Carter or Suzette to get you—" he started.
"No! I'm not going home!" I cut him off, desperation thick in my voice. "Please, just take me away." His eyes darkened again as he looked at me.
Before I knew it, his right hand was wrapped firmly around my waist, steadying me, while my hand found its way across his shoulder for support. My vision was still hazy, the world blurring at the edges, but I followed him without resistance. He led me toward a sleek black car waiting just outside. The door opened, and I slid inside, the cool leather seat grounding me slightly as the door closed behind us.
He drove me crazy when I was sober. His presence alone was enough to unsettle me, to make my heart race and my thoughts scatter. But the drunk me found it even harder to control the effect his hold had on my hormones, my mind, and my body. Every touch, every brush of his skin against mine sent sparks through me, igniting feelings I wasn't ready to face.