Phei stood in the living room of the penthouse—his penthouse now, a phrase that still tasted foreign on the tongue, like a borrowed identity he hadn't quite grown into—staring at the grand piano that dominated the corner near the floor-to-ceiling windows.
A Steinway.
Black lacquer so flawlessly polished it reflected the city lights below like a dark, liquid mirror—an obsidian lake capturing the neon heartbeat of Paradise.
It looked like it belonged in concert halls or the private salons of oligarchs who collected virtuosos the way others collected vintage cars.
Melissa had placed it here.
He didn't know why.
Had she known that he never stopped playing—even after that incident, even after his parents' deaths, even when grief had hollowed him out and left nothing but sharp edges?
