But she would not.
Whether out of pride, hesitation, or something altogether more uncertain, she found herself unable to take that next step. The mere thought sent a ripple through her, unsettling and undeniable.
She sighed, quiet but resigned, as if exhaling might rid her of the weight pressing against her chest—this unfamiliar, unrelenting awareness.
The thought of him refused to loosen its grip on her mind.
She shook her head, smoothing the sleeve of her nightgown as if the act itself might steady her pulse, might silence the thrumming sensation beneath her skin, the restless energy she refused to name.
But it did not.
Is it merely about the moment? Or has something shifted between us?
Blanche closed her eyes for a moment, willing the sensation away. But the thought remained.
She exhaled, drawing the edges of her silk robe tighter around her frame, the smooth fabric cool against her skin.
Then, she heard a sound. Faint, distant, unmistakable.
She stilled, listening, her fingers hovering at the seam of her sleeve.
Music, low and melancholic, was weaving through the corridors with quiet elegance.
Blanche drifted toward the door, her bare feet silent against the carpet as she pressed a hand lightly against the frame. From the hallway, the melody carried further, filling the stillness of the house with something aching and beautiful.
Her breath hitched. Something about the composition—about the weight in its cadence—stirred a feeling in her chest she could not quite name.
She stepped forward.
Descending the grand staircase, she noted the way the floorboards murmured beneath her steps, the faint creak blending into the symphony that Heath commanded with effortless precision.
And then, finally, she reached the threshold of the drawing room.
He sat at the pianoforte, his fingers gliding over the ivory keys with an ease that belied the depth of the melody.
His expression, however, told another story.
For a moment, Blanche lingered, watching him, not daring to break the spell of solitude around him.
Then—perhaps too boldly—she spoke. “I did not know you played… Or had a habit of disappearing when it suited you.”
Heath’s fingers stilled, the final note reverberating through the silence before vanishing entirely.
Slowly, he glanced over his shoulder, a smirk tracing the edge of his lips.
“And I did not know my wife had a habit of wandering the house so late at night.”
Blanche inhaled, her pulse steady though the teasing gleam in his eyes threatened to disrupt it.
She stepped forward. “Perhaps I was merely restless.”
Heath hummed, shifting slightly as he turned to face her fully. “Or perhaps, you heard my lament and sought to console me.”
His words were spoken in jest—light, teasing—but there was something beneath them, something unspoken, something carefully restrained.
Blanche did not immediately reply. Instead, she let her gaze wander to the piano, the scattered sheet music, and the portrait on the wall behind him.
And then—softly, cautiously—she asked. “Were you lamenting?”
