Rachel's voice echoes in my mind: "He's not giving you time. He's giving you just enough rope to hang your dreams with."
I keep telling myself this is temporary, that I just need to play along for six months until Father eases his grip. But I know she's right. It's never going to happen. I can see it now—howeach small compromise will lead to another, and another, until I'm exactly like Owen: a beaten-down lapdog whose dreams died under Father's relentless expectations.
My chest feels too tight, as if the air is slowly being squeezed out of me. Father continues talking, but I don't hear a word he's saying. My thoughts drift to my cart on the beach, the smell of sunscreen and salt. The hand-painted sign I added last week. Rachel's cottage, with its mismatched coffee mugs and wind chimes made from sea glass. Everything real and imperfect and alive—everything I'm letting slip away.
God, Rachel. The memory of her face in the music room haunts me—the disappointment in her eyes, the sound of her voice breaking. She saw right through me, saw how easily I surrendered, how easily I chose the cage over the fight.
I love you enough to let you go. I just wish you loved yourself enough to stay.
Those words have been eating at me for days. She was right—I don't know how to love myself enough to fight. I've spent my entire life trying to be the perfect Pierce son, measuring every word, every action against Father's impossible standards. The family name hangs around my neck like a gilded noose, and I've spent so long focusing on not choking that I've forgotten how to breathe.
What kind of man am I, that I'd give up everything real and precious for a person who's never loved me? Who's never looked at me and seen anything but another piece in his corporate chess game?
Owen hunches as he takes notes on whatever Father's saying. This is who I'm going to become—another Pierce who traded his soul for a corner office and Father's conditional approval.
"Did you hear what I said, Grant?"
"Mhmm." I answer, though I don't know what he's spent the last ten minutes talking about. I'm not sure it even matters. He doesn't actually want my input, just my compliance.
Music drifts across the square—soft at first, so faint I almost disregard it. Then more instruments join in, and my head snaps up. Rachel's students are arranged near the gazebo, but they're not alone. Tom from the bait shop has his old trombone. Violet's grandmother, Hazel, carries what appears to be a tambourine. Even Marcus from the bookstore has dusted off his clarinet.
People keep arriving, and before long, instrument-wielding musicians flood the square.
They're all here. The entire town.
The music swells, and people emerge from every corner—shop owners, servers, tourists—all joining in with instruments or simply adding their voices. Zoe's orchestrating an impromptu dance routine, while Mia and Rhianna hand out flyers.
Then my breath catches.
Rachel stands at the center of it all, conducting this beautiful chaos with tears streaming down her face. Her hair's coming loose from its braid, catching the last rays of sunlight like strands of gold. She's radiant, fierce, absolutely free in a way I've never been.
My heart cracks open at the sight. This woman still fights for what she believes in when everything seems impossible. She dragged a broken-down snow cone cart onto the beach and saw possibility. She heard me playing piano in an empty school at midnight and didn't just listen—she understood. She saw past every carefully constructed wall, every practiced smile, and found the real me underneath. The me I didn't know existed.
The scent of her hair fills my breath like a phantom memory. The weight of her curled against my body is bruised into my flesh. The taste and the feeling of how she kissed me,even knowing I came with the Pierce family's entire baggage collection, lingers in my mouth.
And what did I do? I let her go. Worse, I stood there and let my father reduce her to some small-town distraction. Let him dismiss everything beautiful and real about her, about us, about the life I could have.
Ethan and Tom set out baked goods on a table next to a donation jar covered in sparkly stickers that could only be Rhianna's handiwork. I almost want to laugh. They need tens of thousands of dollars if the rumors I've heard around town are true. The mountain they're trying to climb has tripled in height. One bake sale and some street music won't create a miracle.
But look at them. All of them. The entire town showing up with instruments they probably haven't touched in years. Zoe spinning between tables collecting donations like it's a dance. Mia, Violet, and Rhianna handing out flyers they probably stayed up all night making.
I offered her money instead of courage. Tried to solve the problem like a Pierce—throw cash at it until the problem goes away. But Rachel didn't want money. She wanted me to believe in something. In her. In myself. In the magic that happens when people come together for something bigger than themselves.
God, I've been such a fool.
"This is completely unacceptable," Father snaps, his fork clattering against his plate. "The noise level alone—who authorized this disruption? Owen, call the council immediately?—"
"Stop." The word slips out before I can catch it. Both Owen and Father freeze. "Just... stop."
"Excuse me?"
I love you enough to let you go.
Rachel's words ring through my head again, melodic and set to a four-beat rhythm. I stand, my chair scraping against theconcrete. I love her enough to fight back. Finally, I understand what she tried to tell me. Maybe I finally love myself enough to get to my feet.
"I said stop." I clench the chair's back. I'm done.
Father's face darkens. "Grant Anthony Pierce, sit down this instant."
