*CHAPTER ONE — THE GIRL AT THE PIANO*
1221 Words
The chandeliers dripped golden light over the Harrington Winter Gala, scattering brilliance across silk gowns, glass flutes, and polished marble floors. The hall shimmered like a snow globe brought to life—warm, elegant, and painfully deceptive. The kind of place where smiles were worn like masks, and every compliment carried the quiet weight of rivalry.
Ariella Hart felt all of it pressing in on her.
The nineteen-year-old sat before the grand piano, fingers hovering above the keys like a breath waiting to be released. She tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear, trying to steady herself. Her father, Charles Hart, stood among a circle of business partners, beaming proudly… or at least pretending to. His new wife, Ophelia, watched from the left side of the hall, lips held in a sugary smile that was one shade too sweet. Her daughter, Gina, mirrored it—tight, polished, and poisonous underneath.
“Play beautifully, dear,” Ophelia called softly, with a tone that always felt like a needle inside a velvet glove.
Ariella’s stomach knotted.
She exhaled… and began.
The first notes flowed softly, delicate and shimmering, like snowflakes landing on a frozen lake. The hall grew silent. Her fingers moved faster, transitioning into striking crescendos that spilled emotion—loneliness, longing, a hidden kind of rebellion she wasn’t brave enough to voice. People whispered praise. Some even pressed closer, mesmerized.
Her father’s expression softened with something almost like pride.
But Ophelia’s smile twitched. Gina’s perfect posture stiffened.
“She’s showing off again,” Gina muttered under her breath.
“Of course she is,” Ophelia replied. “And the men are eating it up.”
The performance ended in a storm of applause. Ariella rose, cheeks warm, but she curtsied gracefully.
“You did wonderfully,” her father said, squeezing her shoulder. “Just like your mother.”
That word—mother—always hit her like a bruise. She never met her mother. Only heard murmurs of a gentle, talented woman whose existence was now spoken about with fear in Ophelia’s presence.
Ariella forced a small smile. “Thank you, Father.”
But inside, she felt the walls closing in.
She slipped away from him, away from Ophelia’s stiff clapping and Gina’s sharp stare. Past the glittering dresses, past the glass doors, and into the cool night air.
Paris in December smelled like cold stone, roasted chestnuts, and snow on the edge of falling. Ariella hugged her arms around herself, breathing out clouds of white.
“I just need a moment,” she whispered.
Inside, music swelled again. A different pianist had taken the stage. People returned to their champagne, their whispers, their judgments. But outside, the courtyard was quiet—lit only by fairy lights and the moon.
She walked toward the far end, where a line of hedges blocked a small path. The air felt different here. Cold. Still.
Too still.
She turned—
A hand clamped over her mouth.
Ariella tried to scream, but fingers muffled the sound. Strong arms dragged her backward, boots scraping against the pavement. Another man rushed from the side, pulling out a cloth.
“Hold her—she’s smaller than she looked—”
“Don’t let her scratch—this one’s worth more unharmed—”
Her heart slammed against her chest.
Kidnapping.
In the middle of her father’s gala.
Her vision blurred. Panic clawed up her throat.
“Let go!” she cried, voice breaking as she bit the hand covering her mouth.
The man cursed. “Little brat—”
She kicked wildly, fought with everything in her. But they were stronger. Bigger. Trained. One grabbed her wrists, twisting them painfully behind her. Another reached for the cloth again.
“Stop moving—”
A sharp hiss cut the air.
Ariella froze.
So did her attackers.
A silhouette stood near the archway—tall, broad-shouldered, face hidden beneath the hood of a black coat. He moved with the silent confidence of someone who had decided the outcome before stepping in.
“Let her go,” the stranger said.
His voice was low. Controlled. Dangerous.
One kidnapper barked a laugh. “Mind your business, man. Go inside before you get hurt.”
The hooded figure stepped closer.
“You’re touching the wrong girl.”
What happened next happened so fast Ariella barely processed it.
A flash of metal.
A grunt.
A body hitting the ground.
The stranger moved like a shadow—precise, efficient, merciless. He disarmed one, struck another with a blow that cracked bone. One tried to flee; the hooded man caught him by the collar and slammed him into the wall.
Ariella stumbled backward, breath shaking, watching with wide eyes.
Within seconds, the attackers lay unconscious on the ground.
The stranger wiped blood from his knuckles, breathing only slightly heavier. Then he turned to her.
Her pulse stuttered.
He stepped into the light, but somehow… the shadows still clung to his face. She couldn’t see him—only the outline of a jaw, a glimpse of dark hair, and the cold intensity of eyes she couldn’t fully meet.
“Are you hurt?” he asked.
She tried to speak. Her lips trembled. “N-No… I don’t… I don’t think so.”
He looked her over quickly, checking for injuries without touching her.
“Good,” he murmured. “Go back inside. Don’t come out alone.”
“W-wait,” she whispered. “Who are you? Why did—”
He stepped back, retreating into the shadows.
“You won’t remember me,” he said softly. “Not yet.”
She took a step forward. “Please, wait—”
But he was gone. Disappeared into the night as if he had never existed at all.
Ariella clutched her shaking hands to her chest.
Inside the gala, laughter and music continued, blissfully ignorant. The world moved normally. But her world had just tilted—shifted, cracked.
“Who was he?” she whispered into the cold air.
A voice called from behind her.
“Ariella?”
She turned sharply.
Damien Voss walked toward her from the ballroom doors, the warm light behind him creating a halo around his tall frame. He was dressed in a crisp black suit, tie loosened slightly, dark hair falling in soft waves over his forehead. Handsome in a way that made her breath catch—calm in a way that made her feel strangely safe.
He stopped when he saw her trembling.
“Are you alright?” he asked. His voice carried warmth. Concern. Something grounding.
Ariella stared at him, torn between panic and relief.
“I—I just needed air,” she whispered.
He stepped closer, searching her face. “You look shaken.”
She swallowed. “It’s nothing. Really.”
He didn’t believe her. She could tell.
But he didn’t push. Instead, he offered his coat.
“You’re freezing.”
She hesitated.
Then accepted it.
The moment the fabric settled around her shoulders, something eased inside her—just a little.
“Come on,” Damien said gently. “Let’s get you somewhere warm.”
She followed him back inside, unaware that this night had just tied her fate to two men:
The shadow who saved her.
And the one who would soon change her life forever.
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- Writer
