KING OF EMPIRE

CHAPTER FOUR

KAI YOUNG'S POV

Through it all, I stood, body frozen and pulse pounding at the sheer
impossibility of what I’d witnessed.
I’d played the same sonata before. Dozens of times. But not once did it
sound like that. The final movement was supposed to be thick with sorrow,
an emotionally draining twenty minutes that had earned it mournful
superlatives from commentators. Yet in Isabella’s hands, it’d transformed
into something uplifting, almost joyful.
Granted, her technique wasn’t perfect. She leaned too heavy on some
notes, too light on others, and her finger control wasn’t quite developed
enough to bring out all the melodic lines. Despite all that, she’d
accomplished the impossible.
She’d taken pain and turned it into hope.
The last note hung in the air, breathless, before it faded and all was quiet.
The spell holding me captive cracked. Air filled my lungs again, but
when I spoke, my voice sounded rougher than usual. “Impressive.”
Isabella visibly tensed before the last syllable passed my lips. She
whipped around, her face suffused with alarm. When she spotted me, she
relaxed only to stiffen again a second later.
“What are you doing here?”
Amusement pulled at the corners of my mouth. “I should be asking you
that question.”
I didn’t disclose the fact that I knew she’d been sneaking into the piano
room for months. I’d discovered it by accident one night when I’d stayed
late in the library and exited in time to catch Isabella slipping out with a
guilty expression. She hadn’t spotted me, but I’d heard her play multiple
times since. The library was right next to the piano room; if I sat near the
wall dividing the two, I could hear the faint melodies coming from the other
side. They’d served as an oddly soothing soundtrack for my work.
However, tonight was the first night I’d heard her play something as
complex as the “Hammerklavier.”
“We’re allowed to use the room after hours if there’s no one else here,”
Isabella said with a defiant tilt of her chin. “Which I guess there now is.”
She faltered, her brows drawing together in a tight V.
She moved to stand, but I shook my head. “Stay. Unless you have other
plans for the night.” Another involuntary glimmer of amusement. “I hear
neon skate parties are all the rage these days.
Crimson bloomed across her cheeks, but she lifted her chin and pinned
me with a dignified glare. “It’s impolite to eavesdrop on other people’s
conversations. Don’t they teach you that at boarding school?”
“Au contraire, that’s where the most eavesdropping happens. As for your
accusation, I’m not sure what you mean,” I said, tone mild. “I was merely
commenting on nightlife trends.”
Logic told me I shouldn’t engage with Isabella any more than necessary.
It was inappropriate, considering her employment and my role at the club. I
also had the unsettling sense that she was dangerous—not physically, but in
some other way I couldn’t pinpoint.
Yet instead of leaving as my good sense dictated, I closed the distance
between us and skimmed my fingers over the piano’s ivory keys. They were
still warm from her touch.
Isabella relaxed into her seat, but her eyes remained alert as they
followed me to her side. “No offense, but I can’t picture you in a nightclub,
much less a neon anything.”
“I don’t have to take part in something to understand it.” I pressed the
minor key, allowing the note to signal a transition into my next topic. “You
played well. Better than most pianists who attempt the ‘Hammerklavier.’ ”
“I sense a but at the end of that sentence.”
“But you were too aggressive at the start of the second theme. It’s
supposed to be lighter, more understated.” It wasn’t an insult; it was an
objective appraisal.
Isabella cocked an eyebrow. “You think you can do better?”
My pulse spiked, and a familiar flame kindled in my chest. Her tone
straddled the line between playful and challenging, but that was enough to
throw the gates of my competitiveness wide open.
“May I?” I nodded at the bench.
She slid off her seat. I took her vacated spot, adjusted the bench height
and touched the keys again, thoughtfully this time. I only played the second
movement, but I’d been practicing the “Hammerklavier” since I was a
child, when I’d insisted my piano teacher skip the easy pieces and teach me
the most difficult compositions instead. It was harder to get into it without
the first movement as a prelude, but muscle memory carried me through.
The sonata finished with a grand flourish, and I smiled, satisfied.
“Hmm.” Isabella sounded unimpressed. “Mine was better.”
My head snapped up. “Pardon me?
“Sorry.” She shrugged. “You’re a good piano player, but you’re lacking
something.”
The sentiment was so unfamiliar and unexpected I could only stare, my
reply lost somewhere between astonishment and indignation.
“I’m lacking something,” I echoed, too dumbfounded to dredge up an
original response.
I’d graduated top of my class from Oxford and Cambridge, lettered in
tennis and polo, and spoke seven languages fluently. I’d founded a charity
for funding the arts in underserved areas when I was eighteen, and I was on
the fast track to becoming one of the world’s youngest Fortune 500 CEOs.
In my thirty-two years on earth, no one had ever told me I was lacking
something.
The worst part was, upon examination, she was right.
Yes, my technique surpassed hers. I’d hit every note with precision, but
the piece had inspired…nothing. The ebbs and tides of emotion that’d
characterized her rendition had vanished, leaving a sterile beauty in their
wake.
I’d never noticed when playing by myself, but following her
performance, the difference was obvious.
My jaw tightened. I was used to being the best, and the realization that I
wasn’t, at least not at this particular song, rankled.
“What, exactly, do you think I’m lacking?” I asked, my tone even despite
the swarm of thoughts invading my brain.
Mental note: Substitute tennis with Dominic for piano practice until I fix
this problem. I’d never done anything less than perfectly, and this would not
be my exception.
Isabella’s cheeks dimpled. She appeared to take immense delight in my
disgruntlement, which should’ve infuriated me more. Instead, her teasing
grin almost pulled an answering smile out of me before I caught myself.
“The fact you don’t know is part of the problem.” She stepped toward the
door. “You’ll figure it out.”
“Wait.” I stood and grabbed her arm without thinking.
We froze in unison, our eyes locked on where my hand encircled her
wrist. Her skin was soft to the touch, and the flutter of her pulse matched
the sudden escalation in my heartbeat.
A heavy, tension-laced silence mushroomed around us. I was a proponent
of science; I didn’t believe in anything that defied the laws of physics, but I
could’ve sworn time physically slowed, like each second was encased in
molasses.
Isabella visibly swallowed. A tiny movement, but it was enough for the
laws to snap back into place and for reason to intervene.
Time sped to its usual pace, and I dropped her arm as abruptly as I’d
grasped it.
“Apologies,” I said, my voice stiff. I tried my best to ignore the tingle on
my palm.
“It’s fine.” Isabella touched her wrist, her expression distracted. “Has
anyone told you that you talk like an extra from Downton Abbey?”
The question came from so far out of left field it took a moment to sink
in. “I…a what?”
“An extra from Downton Abbey. You know, that show about the British
aristocracy during the early twentieth century?”
“I know the show.” I didn’t live under a rock.
“Oh, good. Just thought I’d let you know in case you didn’t.” Isabella
flashed another bright smile. “You should try to loosen up a bit. It might
help with your piano playing.”
For the second time that night, words deserted me.
I was still standing there, trying to figure out how my evening had gone
so off the rails, when the door closed behind her.
It wasn’t until I was on my way home that I realized I hadn’t thought
about the CEO vote or its timing once since I heard Isabella in the piano
room.