"Cleaning it," Holloway mocked, looking her up and down. He leaned in, speaking into the mic so the whole room could hear. "I see the way you’re looking at it. Tell me, do you even know what it is? Or were you hoping to bang out a little Chopsticks for us?"
The crowd laughed louder this time. Holloway thrived on belittling those beneath him; it was how he asserted dominance.
"Actually," Holloway continued, a wicked gleam in his eye. "Our maestro seems to have stood us up. So, why don't you entertain us? Go on. Play something. If you can manage a single recognizable song, I’ll tip you a hundred bucks. If not, I’ll have you fired for loitering on my stage."
Tessa stared at the billionaire. The threat of losing her job was terrifying—she needed this paycheck for Nadia’s tuition deposit next week. But beneath the fear, a long-dormant spark ignited into a raging inferno. Six years of grief, exhaustion, spilled drinks, aching feet, and deferred dreams boiled over.
She looked at the microfiber cloth in her hand, folded it neatly, and placed it on top of the piano.
Without a word, Tessa sat down on the leather bench.
Holloway let out a theatrical sigh. "Ladies and gentlemen, it seems we are about to be treated to a masterclass in—"
He didn't get to finish his sentence.
Tessa didn't adjust the bench. She didn't hesitate. She simply raised her hands and brought them down on the keys with the force of a thunderclap.