Page 86 of Widow's Walk

“My night won’t be.”

I squint at him. “Meaning?”

He takes a moment to answer. “For my one night, I want to see you play.”

I blink. “Play…the piano?” He nods, and I stare at him for a moment before breaking into laughter. “Really? First the dance, now seeing me play the piano?” His expression is unwavering.

It has me sobering, my laughter dying. He’s serious. He’s actually fucking serious. Instead of staking his claim and trying to push me further, he wantsthis.

I roll out from underneath him, and he lets me. Slipping my silk teddy back on, I get to my feet and glance at him over my shoulder. He’s lying on his side, displayed in all his naked glory, only wearing a smirk. “Well, come on.”

“Now?”

I shrug. “Why not? Or are you too tired, grandpa?” I grin, and he gives me a scowl. “I get it. You’re what, forty-nine, fifty?”

He grunts and slides off the bed to stand in front of me. “Forty,” he mutters dryly. “And no, I’m not too tired.”

Chapter thirty-nine

Blackwell

She walks ahead of me, barefoot, barely covered in silk.

The hall is dim. The moonlight coming in from the high window at the end of the hallway.

She doesn’t look back to check if I’m following her. She knows I am. Knows I will follow her anywhere.

We reach the stairs and she begins to ascend. No snark. No smirk. Just an eerie stillness she wears when she feels the need to protect herself.

It grows darker until we reach the landing at the top. Then moonlight floods in through the glass dome that leads out to her widow’s walk. Illuminating the room and reflecting off the alabaster surface of her piano.

White.

She lives in black. Surrounds herself in it. Weaponizes it. It was intentional, separating it from the dark. A deliberate choice to keep it untouched by the poison.

The piano has been her true sanctuary. Music is her clean place.

Her proof that, despite everything, she still yearned for some light in her life.

Her exterior remains calm, but I know there’s a storm of emotion going on inside her. In the way her jaw is too tight, looking like she’s bracing for something. Her music is sacramental and private. Quite possibly the most personal piece of her that she holds closest.

In the short time she’s been back, she’s added to the space. Velvet furniture in deep jewel tones. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined with worn spines. Several thriving plants scattered about. I haven’t made the connection between her and the plants, but they’re alive and well-tended.

She sits down on the piano bench, and I hover several feet back, unsure of what to do. Sit or stand. I’m sure she wishes for me to vanish altogether, so I take a seat to fade into the background as if I’m not even here.

She hasn’t looked at me once since we left the bedroom.

Silence stretches, but I can be patient. For her. For this.

Finally, she lifts her hands. And plays.

No music sheet, no familiar tune, no effort. I could be wrong, but it feels like improvising. Raw and cracked open. Her fingers glide and strike, notes swelling and retreating. She bleeds into every key she hits.

This doesn’t feel like a performance. It feels like a confession.

I’ve seen so many dark shades of Sinclair. Wild. Violent. Seductive. Manic and heartbroken. And right now, I can see her soul.

She’s sorrow incarnate. A phoenix not just rising from the ashes, but she stayed in it, lived in it, and made it her kingdom. Built a throne on top of her own ruin, reigning where others would perish.

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