Fourteen
1191 Words
Chapter Fourteen
I finish the last bite of my toast, staring at him as my thoughts drift away from the room.
“You know you can’t keep the towel on all day,” Chase chuckles, breaking me out of my reverie.
I glance down, realizing I’m still comfortably wrapped in the towel as though it were a shield. My cheeks warm, and I open my mouth to reply, but his phone buzzes. “Give me a sec.” He raises a hand, already distracted, and steps out of the room. His voice drops low as he answers, leaving me alone.
I sigh, scanning the room for my clothes. Nothing. Not on the chair, not on the floor. I tug open one of his wardrobe doors, hoping maybe he tossed them in there. Instead, I find rows of shirts and trousers lined up, colors arranged in perfect themes. It looks like a display. The scent of his cologne drifts out, sharp and expensive, convincing me I’m looking in the wrong place. I shut the wardrobe and sit back down.
The silence stretches, giving me time to study his room, to notice things I hadn’t before. It’s huge, almost intimidating, with a big glass mirror attached to a table that gleams. Drawers that look like they store documents—secrets perhaps. A few perfume bottles lined neatly on the table, part of a collection. My eyes catch the slightly open door that leads to a walk‑in closet. Curious, I move toward it. Transparent glass wardrobes reveal endless clothes, ties, watches, all displayed like treasures in a boutique. It feels less like a closet and more like a curated exhibition, a clothing store designed for him alone. Everything speaks of order, precision, a life lived with deliberate choices. It makes me wonder where I fit in this order, unsure of where to stand.
“I thought I might find you in here.” His voice cuts through, warm and amused.
I turn, caught between embarrassment and relief. My heart thuds at the suddenness of his voice, and I clutch the towel tighter around me.
“Come, let’s get you changed,” Chase says, his tone light but firm.
We walk together through the wide hallway, the sound of our footsteps echoing against polished floors. Minutes later, I’m dressed in a long blue dress with white polka dots. My hair falls loosely around my shoulders, and I tug at the fabric, unsure.
Chase studies me for a moment, then smiles. “It really brings out your eyes. I like it.”
“You said that before,” I reply, half teasing.
“Oh, it’s good I remind you,” he chuckles, shaking his head.
We continue down the hall, marble figures standing tall in graceful forms, shadows stretching across the walls as we enter the music room. The violin, cello, and grand piano gleam under the light, each instrument waiting to be touched.
Chase pauses, his hand hovering over the piano keys. “Do you play?” he asks, turning toward me.
“Never tried,” I admit, shrugging.
He smiles faintly. “Well, I’ll play you a few notes. Tell me what you think.”
He sits down and pats the space beside him. I hesitate, then join him, the bench cool beneath me. His fingers glide across the keys, soft notes filling the room. The melody is gentle, almost haunting, and I find myself watching his profile—the way his brow furrows slightly, the concentration in his eyes.
“What do you feel?” he asks, voice low, still focused on the keys.
I swallow, searching for words. “Restless. Like I’m waiting for something to happen.”
He tilts his head, amused. “Patience, sweetheart. Music teaches that.”
I laugh softly. “You sound like a teacher.”
“Maybe I am,” he says, playing another string of notes. “Or maybe I just like seeing how you react.”
I glance at him, curious. “And what do you think of me reacting like this?”
He pauses, letting the last note linger. “I think it means you’re listening. That’s more important than playing.”
I shake my head. “You make everything sound deeper than it is.”
“Or maybe you’re the one making it deeper,” he counters, smiling. “You’re the one who said restless.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling too. “Fine. Then teach me something simple.”
His grin widens. “Alright. Place your fingers here.” He guides my hand to the keys, patient and steady. “Now press. Don’t think too much.”
The note rings out, uneven but clear. I laugh at the sound. He laughs too, softer this time.
“See? You’re already learning,” he says.
For a moment, the silence between us feels lighter, filled with music and something unspoken.
“Maybe I am,” I reply, then he adds, “Try pressing this one.”
I press, the sound echoing awkwardly. He chuckles. “Not bad for a first note.”
“You’re mocking me.”
“Not at all. Every great pianist starts with one note.”
His hand covers mine briefly, warm and steady. My pulse quickens.
“You space out often,” he teases.
“Maybe because you keep staring,” I shoot back.
He grins, leaning closer. “Can’t help it.”
The air thickens between us. For a moment, I think he might kiss me, but instead he pulls back, playing another tune. The melody shifts, deeper, heavier.
“Legacy isn’t a trap,” he says suddenly, eyes fixed on the keys.
I blink. “What?”
“My grandfather believed everything could be owned. That’s what he taught me.”
“Do you believe that?” I ask, curious.
He pauses, then shrugs. “I believe it’s power. Ownership is power, and power gets addictive.”
His words unsettle me. I study his face, but he changes the subject subtly, fingers moving faster across the piano.
“Play another note,” he says, nudging me.
I press one, clumsy again. “Still not great,” I admit.
“You’ll get better,” he says softly. “You don’t get perfect at first try.”
“You sound like you’re quoting someone.”
“Maybe I am,” he says lightly. “Or maybe I just like sounding wise.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet, you’re still sitting here,” he points out, smiling.
I shake my head, but I don’t move. “Fine. Teach me something else.”
He shifts closer, guiding my fingers again. “Alright. This time, two notes. Together.”
I press, the sound uneven but fuller. He nods. “Better. See? You’re improving already.”
“Barely,” I mutter.
“Barely is progress,” he counters. “Don’t dismiss it.”
I glance at him, amused. “You really do sound like a teacher.”
He smirks. “Then consider this your first lesson. Music isn’t about perfection. It’s about feeling.”
- Writer
