Marvis POV
She touched the piano like it could bite her.
The safehouse had an old upright tucked in the corner of the living room. I hadn't paid attention to it in months maybe years but today, Melody drifted toward it like it had gravity.
Her fingers hovered over the keys. Light. Cautious.
"You play?" I asked from behind her.
She flinched slightly, like she forgot I was there. "A little. My mom taught me."
I didn't say anything. She didn't look at me.
"She said music made the pain quieter," she added.
I took a slow breath. "Was she right?"
"No. But it gave the pain rhythm. Like it had somewhere to go."
She pressed one key. Soft, high. Then another. And soon, a slow tune began to rise gentle, haunting. Something familiar but broken.
I watched her in silence, arms folded, unsure if this was a dream or a confession.
She stopped playing suddenly.
"What?" I asked.
Melody stood. "I don't know who I am anymore."
"You're Melody Quinn."
"That name feels fake now."
"It's not. You survived. That doesn't erase who you were."
She turned to me, arms crossed. "And who were you before all this, Marvis?"
Before S.H. Group. Before the blood and secrets.
For a moment, I didn't answer.
"A brother," I said. "A son. A violin prodigy, if you can believe it."
Her eyes widened. "Seriously?"
"I was good. But then I got tired of being used as a mask for my family's reputation."
"What happened?"
"My father chose business over blood. And I burned the violin."
She stared at me.
"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" she asked.
"No," I said. "It's supposed to remind you that even broken things have beginnings. And that we don't have to stay shattered."
The silence was heavy again.
Then she did something unexpected.
She stepped closer. Barely a breath between us.
"You think you've got me all figured out," she whispered.
"No. But I want to."
My hand twitched at my side. I didn't touch her. Not yet.
"I'm not your project, Marvis."
"I don't want to fix you, Melody. I just want to be where you are when you finally take your life back."
That made her stop. Look at me really look at me. Like maybe, for the first time, she believed me.
She turned away before I could read her eyes too much.
"I need air," she muttered, heading for the door
"Take my driver. It's not safe…"
"I said I'll be fine," she said, cutting me off. "I need to feel something real."
And then she was gone. But I didn't chase her.
I let her go, even though my instincts screamed to follow.
Because sometimes, the only way to prove you care… is to trust them to come back.