"Play it again."
Ethan pauses, his fingers hovering over the ivory keys of the grand piano. The Steinway usually sits in the corner of his penthouse like a glossy black coffin—expensive, imposing, and rarely touched.
Tonight, it's alive.
"Violet," he says, "that was Chopin. It's supposed to be melancholy. You're smiling."
She's lying underneath the piano. Actually underneath it. Lying on her back on the expensive Persian rug, staring up at the soundboard with her eyes closed. Her bare feet are propped up against the leg of the bench he's sitting on.
"It wasn't melancholy," she murmurs. "It was... indigo. With streaks of silver. Like rain on a tin roof."
Ethan looks down at her. "Indigo?"
"You didn't know? Music has color." She opens one eye—the golden one. It glints in the low light of the living room. "Play something warmer. I want orange."
Ethan shakes his head. "You are insane."
But he plays.
He shifts into a jazz improvisation. Something lighter, bouncier. Major seventh chords and syncopated rhythms. His fingers remember the patterns from years of lessons his mother forced him into, but for the first time, he's not playing to get the notes right. He's playing to see what color she calls it.
It's been two months.
Sixty-one days.
In business terms, it's a single financial quarter. A short-term projection.
In Ethan terms, it's an entirely different lifetime.
His apartment has changed. The sterile, architectural digest minimalism is gone. Now, there are canvases drying against the floor-to-ceiling windows. There are empty tubes of acrylic paint on the granite kitchen island. There is a smell of turpentine and vanilla candles.
It's messy. It's inefficient.
He loves it.
He finishes the piece with a flourish.
Violet claps from her position on the floor. "Apricot! Definitely apricot. With a hint of lime green."
She crawls out from under the piano and pulls herself up onto the bench beside him. She's wearing one of his white dress shirts, which swallows her small frame, and nothing else but fuzzy socks.
She leans her head on his shoulder. "You're good, Ethan. Why do you hide it?"
"I don't hide it. It just doesn't have an ROI."
"Return on Investment?" She pokes his ribs. "The ROI is joy, you capitalist robot. The ROI is making your girlfriend happy."
"Girlfriend," Ethan tests the word. It still feels strange on his tongue. Heavy. Important.
"Unless you're planning to fire me?"
"I'd have to pay a severance package," he deadpans. "Too expensive."
Violet laughs. She reaches out, placing her hand over his on the keys. Her skin is pale against the black wood. Her fingers are stained with blue ink.
"Play one more," she whispers. "For me. The real you."
Ethan looks at the keys. The real him? The real him is numbers, logic, and cold ambition. Or at least, he was.
Now, looking at Violet, he feels something shifting in his chest. A terrifying expansion.
He begins to play something original. He doesn't have a name for it. It's slow, building into a complex melody that feels fragile, like glass about to shatter. It's the sound of the bridge at sunset. It's the sound of her laugh in the ramen shop.
Violet goes still. She stops teasing. She listens, her breath hitching slightly.
When the final chord fades into silence, the room feels heavy.
Violet doesn't name a color. She just sniffles.
Ethan turns. "Hey. Bad?"
She wipes her eyes with the oversized sleeve of his shirt. "No. Just... that one was deep purple. Almost black." She looks at him, and her expression is open, raw. "It sounded sad, Ethan."
"It's not sad," he says, leaning his forehead against hers. "It's just true."
The front door beeps. A numeric code is punched in.
"Hello? Anyone home? I come bearing pad thai and financial regrets!"
Marcus.
Ethan groans, pulling away from Violet. "I need to change the code."
"Don't you dare," Marcus calls out, rounding the corner into the living room. He stops dead.
He takes in the scene: Ethan sitting at the piano in sweatpants (unheard of), Violet in his shirt, three half-finished paintings blocking the view of the city skyline.
"Okay," Marcus says, dropping the takeout bags on the coffee table. "Who are you and what have you done with Ethan Cross? The Ethan I know organizes his spices alphabetically. This place looks like a bomb went off in an art supply store."
"Hi Marcus!" Violet chirps. She bounds off the bench, sliding in her socks across the hardwood floor to inspect the food. "Did you get the spicy peanut sauce?"
"Extra spicy. Lethal dose," Marcus confirms. He looks at Ethan. "You're playing the piano?"
"I dabble," Ethan says stiffly, standing up.
"He's a virtuoso," Violet corrects, digging through the bag. "He paints with sound. It's very sexy."
"Gross," Marcus says. "Please stop. I am your employee, Ethan. This is a hostile work environment."
Ethan walks over, feeling relaxed. Usually, Marcus invading his space would irritate him. Now, he just feels... anchored.
They eat on the floor around the coffee table. No plates. Just takeout boxes and chopsticks.
Marcus fills them in on the office gossip. Apparently, since Ethan stopped micromanaging every department, productivity has actually gone up.
"People are less terrified," Marcus explains around a mouthful of noodles. "Turns out, fear is a motivator, but 'my boss is distracted by a manic pixie dream girl' is a better one."
"I am not a trope!" Violet protests, throwing a balled-up napkin at him. "I am a multi-dimensional chaotic entity."
"Sure," Marcus grins. "By the way, did you finish the proposal for the riverside development?"
Ethan pauses. "It's halfway done."
Marcus chokes on his water. "Halfway? The deadline is Monday. Old Ethan would have finished it two weeks ago."
"New Ethan is busy," Violet says haughtily, leaning back against Ethan's chest. He automatically wraps an arm around her. It's become instinct. "We have plans this weekend."
"Oh yeah? What plans?"
"Cherry Blossom Festival close-out," Violet says. "And then we're driving to the coast. I want to see the ocean."
"You hate water," Ethan reminds her.
"I hate deep water I can fall into," she clarifies. "I like looking at the ocean from a safe, dry beach. It's romantic. Plus, I want to see the lighthouse."
Ethan tightens his hold on her. "We'll go."
Marcus shakes his head, looking between them. His expression softens. "You guys are disgusting. It's actually really annoying how happy you are."
"Jealousy is ugly, Marcus," Violet hums.
But then, she stops.
Ethan feels her body tense against his. One second, she's relaxed, chewing a peanut. The next, every muscle goes rigid.
"Violet?"
She drops her chopsticks. They clatter onto the glass table.
She brings a hand to her temple, squeezing her eyes shut. Her face drains of color, going paste-white in an instant.
"Whoa," Marcus says, sitting up. "You okay?"
"Violet." Ethan shifts, turning her to face him. Her skin is cold. Clammy. "Look at me."
She sways, her head lolling back against his shoulder. Her breathing is shallow.
"Just..." Her voice is a whisper, thin and reedy. "Head rush. Too fast."
"You were sitting down," Ethan says sharply. "That wasn't a head rush."
"Sugar," she mumbles. She looks drunk. "Need sugar."
"There's sugar in the sauce," Marcus points out, looking worried now. "You just ate."
Violet takes a ragged breath. She hums that tune—shaky, broken. Mmm-hmm. A self-soothing noise.
"I'm fine," she insists, pushing herself upright. But her arm shakes. She grabs her water bottle and downs half of it in one gulp. "Seriously. Just a migrane spike. I get them sometimes. The light in here is too bright."
Ethan stares at her. His analyst brain is flagging inconsistencies. Paleness. Cold sweat. Tremors. That's not just a headache.
"We should go to a doctor," Ethan says. "Now. I'll call the car."
"No!" Violet's shout is sudden and loud. She winces at her own volume. "No doctors. I hate hospitals. They smell like bleach and death. I just need to sleep, Ethan. Please."
She looks at him with those heterochromatic eyes. The amber one looks desperate. The gold one looks dim.
"If you make me go, I'll hate you," she says. She tries to joke, but there's a serrated edge to it. "I'll break up with you and date Marcus."
"Don't threaten me with a good time," Marcus says weakly. He looks at Ethan. Your call, boss.
Ethan hesitates. He calculates the risk. If he forces her, she shuts down. He knows this about her. She's stubborn as a mule.
"Fine," Ethan relents. "But if you feel dizzy tomorrow, we go to urgent care. Non-negotiable."
"Deal," she whispers. She slumps back against him. "Can we watch a movie? Something stupid where nothing bad happens?"
Marcus leaves an hour later, looking uneasy.
"Watch her, man," he whispers at the door. "She looked... ghostly."
"I know," Ethan says grimly.
He goes back to the living room. Violet is curled up on the oversized couch, buried under a plush grey blanket. A rom-com is playing on the 80-inch screen, muted.
Ethan sits down next to her. She immediately crawls into his lap, burying her face in his neck.
"Sorry," she muffles into his skin. "I ruined the mood."
"You didn't ruin anything," Ethan says, stroking her hair. It's silky. He twists a purple lock around his finger. "Violet. The truth. Is this... normal for you?"
She stays silent for a long time.
"Since the accident," she says finally.
Ethan freezes. "What accident?"
"Five years ago. A car crash." She pulls back slightly to look at him. Her eyes are clearer now, but tired. "My parents died. I... I got banged up pretty bad. Head trauma. Sometimes the wiring just... glitches."
Ethan feels a cold pit open in his stomach. He didn't know about her parents. She never talks about the past, only the now.
"I'm sorry," he says. Inadequate. Stupid words.
"It's okay. It was a long time ago." She forces a smile. "That's why I have to take the pictures, Ethan. And the drawing. And the memory exercises. Because the doctors said... eventually... the glitches might get worse."
"We can fix it," Ethan says instantly. "I know the best neurologists in the country. Whatever it is, I can pay for it. I can—"
"Shhh." She puts a finger to his lips. "Mr. Fix-It. You can't fix everything with a checkbook."
"I can try."
"Just be here," she says. "That's all I need. Be here while I'm here."
While I'm here.
The phrasing sends a shiver down his spine.
"Where are you going?" he asks, trying to keep his tone light.
"To the coast. This weekend," she reminds him. "You promised."
"I promised."
She settles back down. Within minutes, her breathing evens out. She's asleep.
Ethan doesn't sleep.
He sits there in the dark, the light of the TV flickering over her sleeping face. He traces the curve of her cheekbone with his thumb.
He has everything.
The startup is about to go public. He has millions in the bank. He has his health. And he has this strange, vibrant, confusing girl who makes him play jazz and eat on the floor.
But looking at her now, pale against the dark cushions, he feels a terrifying vulnerability.
It's the Law of Equilibrium. In economics, systems naturally seek balance. If he is this happy... what is the cost?
He checks his watch. Patek Philippe. 11:42 PM.
He carefully moves his arm so as not to wake her. He pulls out his phone and opens a browser.
Search: Post-concussion syndrome long term symptoms.
Search: Sudden fainting episodes no trigger.
Search: Dr. Amara Wells neurologist.
He books an appointment for a consultation. He won't tell Violet. He'll just get the information. Information is control.
He closes his phone and pulls the blanket tighter around her shoulders.
"I've got you," he whispers to the silent room. "I won't let the glitches get you."
Violet stirs in her sleep. She mumbles something.
"Adrian," she sighs.
Ethan pauses.
Adrian?
He waits. She doesn't speak again.
It's probably nothing. A dream. A friend. A character in a book.
But the name hangs in the air, a tiny, invisible fracture in his perfect world.
Ethan pushes the doubt away. He kisses her forehead. She feels warmer now. Safe.
He closes his eyes, letting the rhythmic sound of her breathing lull him into a false sense of security.
Outside, the wind picks up, stripping the last of the cherry blossoms from the trees in the park below. The season is ending.
The petals scatter into the dark, invisible and uncounted.