Lily forced her fingers to move. C-major. E-minor. The notes tumbled out, a little too fast, a little too sharp. She shifted on the piano bench, hunching her shoulders to make herself smaller, hiding behind the music stand and the open lid.
Her blood roared in her ears, louder than the music. Every muscle in her body was coiled tight, ready to bolt.
From her peripheral vision, she saw the sommelier approach their table.
"The '82 Margaux, sir?"
"Yes," Ethan said. His voice was a low rumble that vibrated through the floorboards and straight into Lily's chest. "And bring two glasses."
"Actually," Serena's voice cut in, sugary and sharp. "Make it a bottle. We're celebrating."
Lily missed a note. It was a jarring dissonance in the middle of a smooth arpeggio. She flinched.
Ethan looked up. His gaze drifted toward the piano, searching for the source of the error. He squinted slightly, but the dimly lit corner and the mask did their job. He saw a shape, a uniform, not a wife. He turned back to his wine, dismissing the mistake as incompetence.
The restaurant manager, a nervous man named Pierre, scurried over to the piano. He leaned in close to Lily's ear.
"Mademoiselle," he hissed. "Focus. That is Mr. Sterling. He is our most important client. Do not make mistakes."
"I'm not feeling well," Lily whispered through her mask. "Can I take a break?"
"No. It is peak hour." Pierre straightened up. "The lady at table four requests a song. Marriage d'Amour."
Lily felt the blood leave her face. Marriage d'Amour. It was the song she had walked down the aisle to.
She looked toward the booth. Serena was looking right at her. Her eyes were narrowed, calculating. Serena didn't know it was Lily-she couldn't possibly-but she sensed the pianist's discomfort and, like a cat with a dying mouse, she wanted to poke it. She held a flute of champagne, tilting it slightly in the pianist's direction. A challenge.
"I can't play that," Lily said to Pierre.
"You play it, or you don't get paid for tonight," Pierre snapped. "And you are fired."
Lily looked at the tip jar. The crumpled bills. She thought of the frozen credit cards. She thought of the "Incomplete" on her resume.
She swallowed her pride. It tasted like acid.
"Fine."
She transitioned into the opening chords of Marriage d'Amour. The melody was melancholic, haunting.
Ethan froze. He was cutting his steak, but his knife stopped halfway through the meat. He turned his head slowly toward the piano.
"That song," he murmured. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the sound wash over him. "She used to play this."
"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Serena said loudly. "I asked her to play it. It reminds me of... well, new beginnings."
Ethan stared at the pianist. He watched the hands. Only the hands were illuminated by the sheet music light. They moved with a fluidity that made his chest ache, a familiar ghost of a memory. He frowned. "Her hands..."
"They look like working hands," Serena interrupted, touching Ethan's arm to draw his attention back. "Look at the tension in her shoulders. Poor thing. She probably struggles to pay rent."
Lily played the crescendo, pouring all her anger, her grief, her hatred into the keys. The music swelled, filling the restaurant, silencing the conversations nearby.
When the final note faded, there was a scattering of applause.
"Ethan," Serena said. "You should tip her. That was moving."
"I'll have Pierre add it to the bill," Ethan said, turning back to his wine.
"No," Serena insisted. She reached into Ethan's jacket pocket-a gesture so intimate it made Lily want to vomit-and pulled out his money clip. She pulled out a stack of hundred-dollar bills. "Go give it to her. She looks like she needs it."
Ethan sighed. He took the cash. He stood up.
Lily saw him coming. She wanted to run. But her legs were lead. She sat paralyzed as her husband walked across the room, holding a wad of cash like he was approaching a stripper.
He reached the piano. He didn't look at her face; he was looking at the tip jar. He just placed the money on the polished wood of the piano lid.
"Good job," he said dismissively. "You have... talent."
He turned to walk away.
Lily stared at the money. Benjamin Franklin's face stared back, mocking her. It was the million dollars all over again. It was the belief that he could buy her silence, her art, her dignity.
Something inside her chest exploded. It was a hot, white supernova of rage.
