Chapter 2 - THE WOMAN WHO HAD ONCE PLAYED CARNEGIE HALL
Clare Bennett hadn't touched a concert violin in seven years.
That was the first thing Vincent learned when he found her in the service corridor.
She was removing her black jacket, revealing a plain ivory blouse beneath.
“Miss Bennett.”
She didn't turn.
“Mr. Moretti.”
“Please wait.”
“I have a shift to finish.”
“I can arrange—”
“Please don't offer to buy my time.”
Vincent stopped.
It wasn't often that someone interrupted him.
Even less often that the interruption made him feel ashamed.
“I wanted to apologize privately.”
“You already apologized publicly.”
“It wasn't enough.”
Clare finally turned.
“No,” she agreed. “It wasn't.”
He accepted that.
She studied him.
“Why did you do it?”
Vincent frowned.
“What?”
“Why did you offer to marry me because you thought I couldn't play a violin?”
He looked away.
The honest answer was ugly.
He'd wanted to entertain the room.
He'd wanted to embarrass someone Beatrice had identified as insignificant.
And he'd been certain there would be no consequences.
“I was arrogant,” he said.
Clare nodded.
“Yes.”
“I'm not proud of it.”
“Good.”
She picked up her jacket.
“Then perhaps you'll think before doing it again.”
She walked away.
Vincent didn't stop her.
An hour later, Vincent sat in his private office with a tablet in front of him.
His head of security, Rafael Costa, stood nearby.
“You asked for information on Clare Bennett?”
Vincent nodded.
Rafael hesitated.
“Sir, I should mention that looking into a hotel employee's private life without cause would be inappropriate.”
Vincent looked up.
“I'm not asking you to invade her privacy.”
“Then what would you like?”
“Publicly available information about her musical career. Nothing else.”
Rafael nodded.
Within minutes, Vincent found an archived newspaper article.
The headline made him straighten.
CHICAGO VIOLIN PRODIGY CLARE BENNETT, 19, DAZZLES AT CARNEGIE HALL.
He stared at the photograph.
A younger Clare stood beneath stage lights, holding a violin.
The same steady eyes.
The same composed expression.
But her smile was different.
Open.
Joyful.
Unburdened.
He read the article.
Clare had been accepted into a prestigious conservatory at fourteen.
She'd won international competitions.
Performed with major orchestras.
Received praise from celebrated conductors.
Then, at twenty-five, her career had ended abruptly.
The final article mentioned a severe injury to her left hand following a backstage accident.
No further public performances were listed.
Vincent leaned back.
He remembered the way she'd checked the violin.
The slight stiffness in her fingers.
The controlled economy of her movements.
She hadn't merely played well.
She'd played through something.
He closed the tablet.
Then whispered, “What have I done?”
Meanwhile, Clare returned to her small apartment in Rogers Park.
Her younger brother, Owen, was sitting at the kitchen table with a stack of engineering textbooks.
He looked up.
“You're home late.”
She dropped her bag.
“Long night.”
“Did the rich people behave?”
Clare laughed without humor.
“Not particularly.”
Owen grinned.
“Shocking.”
Then he noticed her expression.
“What happened?”
Clare hesitated.
“Someone asked me to play.”
His smile vanished.
“Clare.”
“I know.”
“Did you?”
She nodded.
Owen stared.
“How did it feel?”
Clare looked at her left hand.
The old scar ran from the base of her thumb toward her wrist.
“Like remembering a language I'd convinced myself I'd forgotten.”
Owen's eyes softened.
“Did it hurt?”
“Yes.”
“Was it worth it?”
She thought about the music.
The silence.
The expression on Isabella Moretti's face.
Then nodded.
“I think so.”
Owen leaned back.
“Mom would've been proud.”
Clare swallowed.
“Maybe.”
He frowned.
“Definitely.”
She smiled faintly.
Then her phone vibrated.
An unfamiliar number.
A message appeared.
You should have stayed invisible, Miss Bennett.
Clare's smile disappeared.
May you like
A second message followed.
Your mother made the same mistake.
