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The ceiling of the opera house might be curved into a glass dome overhead, but the theater itself is a large bell shape. The stage is at the center, with gorgeously lush red curtains canopied on either side. Before that is the pit where the orchestra traditionally sits, and though it’s currently empty, it’s still mesmerizing to see the many seats.
The same can be said for the rest of the theater—the hundreds of seats fan out across the cavernous space, rising up into tiered loges built of wood and lined with beautifully hand-painted canvases. I follow the artwork with my eyes, my mouth dropping open as I do, admiring the cherubic angels and the vivid floral patterns.
Gold is the finishing touch wherever I look. It’s in the molding and the facades, wrapped around the columns at the entrance.
But it’s the piano on stage that holds my attention the longest—it steals my breath away and makes my feet move on their own. Hesitantly, but locked into a trance from the second I set eyes on it.
The piano is handcrafted. The dark wood unspeakably expensive. I know this even walking up at a distance. If I had to guess, I’d say ebony. Though it’s one of the largest I’ve ever seen, there’s a delicate beauty about it; something about the way the dark wood has been carved and curved that’s perfect geometric harmony.
So smooth, so polished, I can see myself reflected in it.
I stop in front of it, admiring the untouched ivory keys and gold inlay, and a deep ache starts up inside me.
Longing.
I’ve never wanted something so much…
I blink and find I have tears in my eyes.
“Go on,” Kaden says, standing back, both hands in his trouser pockets. He inclines his head in the direction of the Steinway. “Play for me.”
“You can’t be serious?”
He takes a step closer, his mysterious eyes like endless dark pools. “I said play for me, Lyra. I want to hear you.”
His tone has changed. His demeanor has changed.Everythingabout him has shifted.
There’s a new vibe circling us that I can’t place. It’s like he’s taken the heat and tension from our candlelit dinner and dialed it up another hundred notches.
Something deep and sexy drips from the commanding tone he uses with me. The hawkish way he watches me as I stand uncertainly tells me I’m not imagining things. He’s demonstrating he’s in control and I’m to do as he says.
…or else. Or else what? I’m not sure.
I swallow, my heartbeat pounding in my chest, and then I walk toward the Steinway. I’m fidgeting and my heels strike the hard wooden flooring of the stage. In the empty theater capable of seating a thousand, it sounds loud and sonorous.
I take my seat at the bench and inhale a deep breath. Then I quickly stretch my fingers and get into position. I tell myself this isn’t real.
This doesn’t mean anything. There’s no crowd and no judges.
Except Kaden.
I tune him out for the moment. I tune every last shred of doubt and crippling imposter syndrome out, and I play what first comes to mind.
Sergei Prokofiev’sSuggestion Diabolique,Op. 4 No 4.
My fingers become my form of expression. They take me to a place where my mind was only moments ago.
From the first key stroke, I set the mood.
Tension fills the air. Kaden’s gaze sharpens. But mine closes. I let go and give in to the dark growling note my touch produces.
The sound of warning of what’s to come.
I explode in a frenzy of fast fingers and violent key strokes. There is no composure, no grace, as I’m lost in a whirlwind of intense emotion and moody undertones.
The piece matches me. The tempo speeds up almost like it’s driven not by the composition but my fast-working fingers. They slam down and produce the angry, chaotic sound that echoes throughout the theater.
You’d think I was playing for Mom. I was playing for my childhood instructor.
