Page 75 of Love & Notes

“Brilliant. Save them.” I push open the library doors.

“Julian,” Josh says after me. “Is that what she thinks, too?”

I turn back to look at him. Fuck.

This is definitely not just a duet partnership. She is going to be standing beside me in front of my father next week. She is becoming more than I had planned—far more than I ever intended to let anyone become.

I’ve gone back into full blown character mode.

“Thought so,” Josh says quietly.

I push through the library door quickly, welcoming the silence.

I am so screwed.

I am so completely, entirely screwed.

Over the last week, our practice sessions have descended into something dangerous.

We spend half the time practicing the Chopin, and the rest of it scattered across the practice room, tangled up in each other until we’re both breathless.

Ellise Vance has become an obsession I can’t shake. A fixation I have zero desire to control. The way she makes those fucking little noises and whimpers, the way she surrenders and comes completely alive under my touch, it’s driving me out of my fucking mind.

But it’s not just physical. I enjoy being with her. Talking to her.

There’s more to her than I ever imagined, and tomorrow is the gala.

She’s been a nervous wreck all week. To be honest, if I were in her shoes, I’d be shitting myself too. But I’m well beyond caring. I’m so numb to these absurd farces my father puts on. At this point, the routine is muscle memory: turn up, play the prodigal son, perform the exact piece dictated by him, smile, and then disappear.

The only difference this time is that Ellise will be standing right beside me.

“Julian.” Alistair’s voice cuts from the doorway, sharp and cold.

My fingers stay light on the keys, finishing the phrase of a piece that doesn’t belong to him. I do not turn around.

He’s still in his cashmere coat. He has obviously come straight from somewhere—a dinner, a high-stakes event, or another obligation in the endless, social circle of Alistair Thorne.

He looks as he always does. Immaculate. The type of meticulous effort he hasn’t managed to invest into his only son in the last ten years.

“I assumed you would be preparing,” he says, looking at the piano.

“I am.”

“That did not sound like Debussy.”

“No.” I agree, letting my fingers continue playing. “It didn’t.”

I finally turn on the bench to look at him properly. His eyes assess me the way they always do.

“The gala is tomorrow,” he states coldly.

“I am aware.”

“The Debussy—”

“It is ready,” I cut him off immediately, injecting zero warmth in my tone.

It ends the line of questioning before it begins properly. We both know his concern was never about the music anyway. It is about how it looks to everyone else.