The Billionaires Pianist

Chapter 2

After Julian’s declaration, I remain in the living room, counting my heartbeats in four-four time, each thump punctuated by a mental hammer chord from the nocturne. The light in the room has shifted—clouds have crept in from the park, turning the white walls the color of skim milk. I should leave, but a stubborn, newly minted part of me wants to see what happens next, to witness the aftershocks of his so-called efficiency plan.

I’m not kept waiting long. The double doors, which had barely finished sighing shut, open again. Julian enters first, shoulders squared, with that air of a surgeon prepping for a difficult consult. In his wake glides a woman who could have just come from a magazine cover shoot—except that her center of gravity is slightly forward, her belly so round it seems to lead her by the navel.

Victoria Hayes. I know her face from the Style section and from the glowing comments on Julian’s i********:, which I once read as a sick form of bedtime masochism. In person, she is shorter than I expected, with a kind of engineered petite-ness. Her hair is impossibly sleek, a chestnut sheet that curves to highlight cheekbones so sharp they could draw blood. Her dress—if you can call it a dress when it’s wrapped that tightly—shows off her pregnancy in a way I can only imagine is deliberate. The fabric clings in geometric waves, and the color is a pale yellow that on anyone else would scream hospital, but on her is pure couture.

Julian’s voice is all balm. “Isabella, I hope you don’t mind an early introduction. Victoria was able to reschedule.”

Victoria steps forward, extending a hand, her smile a practiced beam of light. “It’s so lovely to finally meet you. Julian has told me you have the most extraordinary touch—on the piano, of course.” Her gaze flicks downward, as if she’s just noticed I have hands.

I rise, mostly out of reflex. I know I’m supposed to take her hand, but my arms remain at my sides, fingers curled inwards. Her hand hovers in the air, waiting, and in the awkward silence I hear the nocturne’s right-hand melody fluttering faster, like a caged bird.

Julian, unbothered, gestures to the sofa. “Let’s sit. I think we all want the same thing, ultimately.”

He leads Victoria to the sofa opposite mine. Instead of perching primly at the edge, she curls one leg under her and reclines, resting an elbow along the back like she’s been rehearsing this pose for weeks. She lowers her hand to her stomach, fingers splayed in an unconscious—or perhaps very conscious—caress.

Victoria surveys the room, her gaze pausing on the spider sculpture. “I love your taste,” she says, turning the compliment toward Julian. “It’s so... serene in here. Not like my place, which looks like a Pinterest algorithm threw up on the walls.” She laughs, then pivots to me with the speed of a news anchor reading from a teleprompter. “But I guess serenity is good for you. You’re the artist in the family.”

There’s a question mark at the end, a hook for me to hang myself on. I smile, the small, brittle kind I reserve for wine moms at charity luncheons. “It’s peaceful, yes. But sometimes I miss a little chaos.”

Victoria c***s her head, intrigued. “Chaos is what keeps life interesting, isn’t it?” She glances at Julian, then returns to me. “You must be incredibly understanding. I mean, most people would be… well, less open-minded.”

Julian interjects smoothly, “Isabella’s always been pragmatic. She understands the importance of appearances and continuity. She sees the bigger picture.”

I turn the glass of water on the coffee table, letting the condensation trail a wet circle. The room feels smaller now, the air thick with the effort of staying civil. The nocturne in my head grows louder, each phrase a new set of triplets, unstoppable.

Victoria’s smile softens into something that almost looks like empathy, except I can see the calculation underneath. She leans forward, her voice lowering to a confidential register. “Honestly, I think we’re going to get along really well. I’m not here to replace you or anything weird like that. I just… I want what’s best for everyone.” She reaches out, bridging the space between us with a hand on my wrist.

Her touch is light, the way you’d test the temperature of bathwater, but it burns through my skin. Something primal inside me recoils. Before I can think, I yank my arm away, too sharp, too visible. The nocturne crashes in my brain, a fistful of wrong notes.

“Don’t touch me,” I say. My voice is ice, lower than I’ve ever managed, even in performance.

For a moment, the three of us freeze in tableau: Victoria, still reaching, her face blank with surprise; Julian, jaw tightening; and me, arm drawn protectively against my side, heart thumping so hard I expect to see it pulse through the dress.

Victoria’s hand drops. There’s a single blink of real feeling—a flicker of something unguarded, maybe even fear—before the professional smile returns, wider and brighter than before.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “Force of habit. My dad always told me I was too touchy. Old PR joke.”

Julian cuts in, voice clipped. “Perhaps we can start over.”

Victoria nods, smoothing her skirt with both hands. “Of course.” She flashes another smile, this time only for him. “We’re all learning.”

I let the silence ride. I’m still standing, and neither of them moves to invite me to sit again.

When I finally speak, the words taste like blood in my mouth. “I’m not your problem to solve, Julian. And I’m not your audience, Victoria.”

Victoria’s gaze flicks to my hands, now clenched into fists at my side. For the first time, she looks unsure of what comes next.

I turn on my heel, crossing the room to the door. The glass globes overhead throw pale light across the floor, and I walk through it as if onstage, blind to the crowd beyond the footlights.

I don’t slam the door, but I don’t close it gently, either.