Page 117 of What Goes Around

Sans lui, je suis un peu paro…

My voice was clear. Controlled. Raw without breaking.

I focused on nothing else. No faces. No judgment. No memory. Only the music. The grief threaded through it. The longing. The quiet fury of loving something you’ve already lost.

I wasn’t performing.

I was confessing.

Je déambule seule dans l’métro

Une dernière danse…

Every restrained breath and every controlled note carried the weight of things I had survived and things I had buried. The longing to move forward tangled with the pull of what was gone.

They didn’t know I could sing. Really sing.

I had made sure of that in my last life, hidden it to keep the peace, to stay smaller, to avoid provoking Apple.

Not tonight.

When the final note faded, I remained still for a breath longer than necessary.

Then I lifted my hands from the keys.

Then the room erupted.

Applause. Gasps. Someone audibly whispered, “oh my God.”

I stood and inclined my head once.

I had chosen that song deliberately. Because the ache in its melody matched the one in my chest. And French had been my mother’s first language. Singing it felt like reaching toward her, like standing closer to her memory than I ever had before.

When I stepped away from the piano, people were already moving toward me.

Including my parents.

A woman with silver hair and a sharp, practiced gaze reached me first. She didn’t bother lowering her voice.

“That voice,” she said, studying me like an investment. “Where has that been hiding?”

Before I could respond, a man leaned slightly toward my parents, his expression openly impressed.

“Your daughter’s French is excellent,” he said. “And her tone shows remarkable control.”

Marissa’s smile tightened.

Someone else chimed in, eager now.

“If she’s ever interested in pursuing music seriously, I know people. Vocal coaches. Producers. A label that would absolutely want to hear her.”

My father blinked, genuinely stunned, and then recovered with unsettling speed. His spine straightened, his expression smoothing into something polished and proud.

“Yes,” he said easily. “Ashley’s always had a gift. We’ve always encouraged her. She just preferred to stay out of the spotlight.”

I said nothing.

Marissa looked like she’d swallowed something sour. Her grip tightened around her wineglass, knuckles whitening before she caught herself. She nodded stiffly.