Chapter 4: Returning To The Tailored Suit
The Tuesday morning sun filtered through the tall windows of the grand parlor, casting pale, golden slats across the polished hardwood floor. I pushed my cleaning cart over the threshold, the small front caster wheel clicking softly against the grain. On the metal tiers rested the green glass bottle of window cleaner, a fresh stack of microfiber cloths, the white feather duster, and my small black Bluetooth speaker, currently silent. I reached down to power on the device, intending to fill the quiet cavern with the same upbeat pop music that had accompanied my unauthorized dance routine four days ago, but my thumb hovered over the power button.
I stopped.
Julian sat on the mahogany bench before the grand piano. He had discarded his suit jacket, but his white shirt sleeves were neatly rolled to the forearms, and the dark waistcoat clung to his chest with the same uncompromising precision as his tailoring. His dark wavy hair fell slightly across his forehead, catching the morning light, and his jaw was shadowed by the same light stubble he’d worn on the day of our collision. He wasn't playing. His hands rested quietly on his knees, and his dark eyes were fixed entirely on me as I stood beside the cart in my burgundy uniform and white apron.
"You're early," I said, the words slipping out before I could check them. My voice felt too thin in the vast space.
"Or you're late," Julian replied, his voice low and unhurried. He didn't move an inch. "I prefer to think of time as flexible in this house, though my staff generally operates under a stricter schedule."
"I was here at eight, exactly as the agency specified," I said, keeping my hands resting lightly on the handle of the cleaning cart. I didn't want to shrink back, but I didn't want to invite another interrogation either. "I just took a minute to organize my supplies."
"And your soundtrack?" Julian asked, nodding slightly toward the small speaker on the cart. "The house has been remarkably quiet all morning. It felt... incomplete."
The admission hung in the air, unexpected and slightly jarring. I swallowed the nervous flutter in my chest, adjusting the white cap pinned neatly to my long brown hair. "I didn't think pop music suited your decor, Mr. Vance. I figured a man who keeps a marble statue and a piano he never plays would prefer silence."
"Who said I never play?" Julian stood up slowly, smoothing the front of his waistcoat with one hand. He walked away from the piano, his leather-soled shoes clicking rhythmically against the floorboards until he stopped a few feet away from me. Up close, the intensity in his gaze was palpable, tempered only by a subtle twitch at the corner of his mouth that suggested he was entirely aware of the tension he caused. "What was the song?"
"Excuse me?"
"The song you were singing when you broke into your performance last week," Julian said, tilting his head slightly. "The one about how you signed up for something. It's been lingering in the back of my mind. Annoyingly catchy."
I stared at him for a second, caught off guard by his persistence. He wasn't yelling, and he wasn't firing me. He was genuinely, quietly curious.
"It's just a radio track," I murmured, looking down briefly at the green glass bottle of cleaner on the cart before meeting his eyes again. "Nothing high-brow enough for a formal parlor."
"Hum it," he instructed softly.
"Mr. Vance—"
"Just a bar," he interrupted, his tone carrying that quiet authority that made disobedience feel exhausting. "Let's see if your musical knowledge matches your enthusiasm."
I let out a slow breath, the absurdity of the situation pressing down on us both. Without thinking further, I hummed the opening three notes of the chorus—the bright, syncopated rhythm that had gotten me into this mess in the first place.
Julian closed his eyes for a fraction of a second as the notes left my lips. When he opened them, the defensive wall in his expression seemed to drop an inch, replaced by something older and more tired. He turned back toward the grand piano, walked over with deliberate steps, and sat down on the bench once more.
May you like
Without looking at me, he reached out and struck a single, resonant chord on the keys—deep, melancholic, and entirely out of place with the upbeat melody I had just hummed. It vibrated through the floorboards, humming against the soles of my shoes.
He didn't look back as his fingers lifted from the keys. He simply gave a slight nod of his head toward the door, dismissing me without a word, though his presence remained heavy in every corner of the room. I picked up the white feather duster and went to work.
