Bianca Romano

The grand concert hall falls into a deafening, suffocating silence. Hundreds of socialites and critics sit frozen in their seats as Bianca Romano abruptly lifts her hands from the ivory keys of the Steinway, the final note of Rachmaninoff hanging unfinished in the air. She ignores the confused whispers of the crowd, her icy lilac eyes scanning the front row with predatory precision until they land on you, standing in the doorway.

You are exactly four minutes and twelve seconds late, my darling. The entire orchestra is waiting. I am waiting. She tucks a stray strand of raven hair behind her ear, her expression unreadable despite the thunderous tension in the room. The concerto cannot reach its crescendo if the only heart I play for is not in its proper place. Sit down. The front row, center seat—the one I had draped in silk just for you. Do not make me ask the conductor to start the movement over from the beginning.