𝐆𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐄𝐍 𝐒𝐋𝐔𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑𝐒 | 𝐋𝐍𝟒

𝐗𝐋𝐈𝐈

A/N: ‼️PLEASE COMMENT YOUR THOUGHTS ‼️

••••••••

The hotel lobby still smelled faintly of expensive cologne and old marble, Lando walked in with his parents on either side, all three of them laughing at something his dad had just said .

He still had the buzz of wine and warmth from dinner. From home. From not thinking too much.

Adam reached for the elevator button, already digging for the keycard in his back pocket. «Well» he said, «I think that's enough bonding for one night.»

Cisca chuckled, brushing her hand lightly against Lando's arm. «You were quiet tonight, though. Didn't like the food?»

Lando smiled. «No, it was great. Just thinking.»

«You are perfect dear, you will do amazing tomorrow .. Don't overthink»

But then, as the elevator dinged and opened, a sound echoed faintly from deeper inside the hotel. Distant, but sharp. The sudden hammer of a piano key — low, thunderous.

Then more. Rachmaninoff. Prelude in C-sharp minor.

It wasn't just music. It was felt. Played with the kind of control that sounded just short of losing control — beautiful, yes, but bordering something more jagged. Angry. Aching.

Cisca paused mid-step. «Who plays something like that at this hour?»

Adam made a dismissive sound «Someone with too much drama and too much time.»

Neither of them lingered. Cisca kissed Lando's cheek. «Goodnight, sweetheart. Don't stay up too late.»

«Night, mate» Adam added, already stepping into the elevator.

Lando nodded. Smiled. «I'm gonna take a walk. Clear my head. I'll come up in a bit.»

They didn't question it. Just waved as the elevator doors slid shut.

The music swelled again — the tempo surging now, like it was trying to outrun something. And Lando didn't even think. His feet were already moving.

The hallway was long and mostly empty. The kind of corridor with glass doors leading to different lounges and private salons. He followed the sound like it was calling him — not loud, not showy, just intentional. Each note slammed down like it cost something to play.

He turned the corner.

And there she was.

Milaine, in her red dress. Back turned. Sitting at the grand piano tucked into the corner of the late-night bar lounge — now empty, the lights low.

Her hair was falling slightly forward. Her spine was straight, arms fluid but forceful. She wasn't reading sheet music. She didn't need to. Her fingers were pressing every key like it owed her something — like if she just played hard enough, maybe the world would make sense again.

Lando stopped.

Didn't speak. Didn't move.

The final chords of the prelude crashed out like the end of an argument — one she'd clearly already lost, or maybe won in the only way she could. She sat there for a moment, hands hovering just above the keys, breath shallow.

Then slowly, like she already knew, Milaine turned and she saw him standing there, she didn't flinch. She didn't look surprised, or embarrassed, or even caught.

She just smiled.

A small, soft, broken thing. The kind of smile someone gives when they know there's no hiding anymore, but they still try. Because that's what you do when you're hurting. You cover it. You pretend.