Chapter 3: The Secret in the Bench
The morning sun cut through the tall French doors of the music room, illuminating floating motes of dust in the quiet air. The grand piano stood in the center of the parquet floor, silent and imposing in the daylight. Yesterday’s glamour had vanished, leaving behind only the cold reality of a room filled with buried history.
I knelt beside the mahogany bench, the same bench Lily had stood beside during the gala. According to the estate inventory, this piece of furniture had been custom-built for Elena by an artisan in Vienna, featuring a concealed compartment designed to hold her working scores away from prying eyes.
My fingers traced the carved molding along the base of the seat cushion. I pressed the hidden wooden release—a small, square peg disguised as a decorative knot in the walnut grain. With a soft pneumatic hiss, the hinged top popped open a fraction of an inch.
I lifted the lid. Inside, resting on a bed of faded red velvet, lay a thick stack of manuscript paper, yellowed with age and covered in Elena’s unmistakable, sloping handwriting. At the very top was the original score for Midnight Waltz in E-Minor, complete with her marginalia, annotations, and the date written in bold ink: October 14, three years prior.
"Finding something interesting?"
The voice cut through the quiet room like a scalpel. I didn't need to turn around to know it was Victoria. She stood in the arched doorway, wearing a cream-colored silk blouse and tailored trousers, her dark hair pinned back with severe precision. Her expression was ice—no warmth, no pretense of civility now that the public cameras were gone.
"Just auditing the inventory," I said calmly, not bothering to close the lid. I picked up the topmost sheet, letting her see the ink annotations. "It turns out Elena kept her working drafts closer than you thought."
Victoria crossed the room, her footsteps measured and deliberate. She stopped two paces away, her eyes fixed on the manuscript in my hand. For a fraction of a second, a muscle twitched beneath her left eye—a tiny micro-expression of pure panic that she instantly smoothed over with a haughty sneer.
"Those are drafts of my compositions," Victoria said, her voice dripping with cold entitlement. "Elena was my ghostwriter for three months before she lost her mind. The foundation owns every note on that paper."
"Ghostwriter?" I stood up, holding the score between us. "Elena hadn't spoken to you in five years, Victoria. Not since you tried to acquire her publishing rights through corporate coercion. These notes are dated six months after our divorce was finalized—long after you slithered your way into my father's life and this estate."
"Your father believed in my talent," she hissed, stepping closer, her voice dropping into a harsh whisper. "And the court believed his will. That piano, this house, every copyright in this room belongs to the Moretti Foundation—which I chair."
"For another forty-eight hours," I said, slipping the manuscript back into the velvet compartment and snapping the lid shut.
May you like
Victoria froze, her hand hovering near the edge of the piano. "What did you say?"
"You heard me," I replied, looking down at her with a calm, absolute certainty that made her take an involuntary step back. "The board is convening tomorrow morning. And they’re going to hear a very interesting recording of you admitting to forgery in the hotel stairwell last night."
