The day the orchestra’s new soloist joined us, she walked straight up to Lennon. Her fingers trailed over the polished ebony of the grand piano at his side—the one everyone knew was off-limits. With a saccharine smile, she asked, "They say only the mistress of the house is allowed to touch this. Do you think I could try a piece on it?" Lennon didn't even look up from his scores. "Go ahead," he murmured. "Whatever you like." The rehearsal hall went deathly quiet. Dozens of eyes swung toward me, sharp and stinging. Everyone knew who I was—the woman who had stayed by Lennon’s side for seven years, from the damp basement practice rooms to the world’s most prestigious stages. I was the girlfriend who had never once been allowed to touch his family's piano, let alone his family's name. That piano had belonged to his late mother. For seven years, I wasn't even permitted to lift the velvet cover. As the chill of the air conditioning seeped through my collar, I suddenly saw the finish line of this relationship. Seven years of devotion didn’t weigh as much as a light, flirtatious request from a girl who had just walked through the door. 1 After the auditions that afternoon, the orchestra manager caught me in the hall. "Regina, about the piano four-hands piece you were supposed to perform with Lennon... you can stop prepping it." My heart did a slow, painful roll. "Oh?" "Lennon wants the new girl, Daisy, to play it with him instead." I’d seen it coming, but the sting was still fresh, like a paper cut to the soul. I didn't make a scene. I just nodded and walked away. That night, I dialed a number I hadn't called in years. My hand shook slightly as I held the phone to my ear. "Everett," I said when he finally picked up. "You once told me you wanted to marry me at the Musikverein in Vienna. Does that offer still stand?" There was a long silence on the other end, followed by the sound of someone waking up from a deep sleep. His voice was thick with a heavy rasp. "Am I dreaming?" "You can say no," I began, my voice wavering. Before I could finish, I heard a loud thud—the sound of someone falling out of bed. His voice returned, frantic and breathless. "Yes. Yes, it stands. It stands forever. Any time, any place. Just tell me where you are." I let out a weak, shaky laugh. The suffocating weight I’d been carrying all day eased just a fraction. When Lennon finally came home, I was already packing. He didn't notice the suitcase at first. He just tugged at his tie, looking exhausted and handsome in that effortless way that used to make me melt. "Make me some tea," he commanded casually. "The newcomers were a handful at the welcome dinner. One of the girls kept badgering me to drink. I’m exhausted." I looked at the faint smear of pink lipstick on his white collar. I didn't move. "Lennon," I said. "Let’s break up." He froze, his hand still on his tie. Only then did his gaze drop to the suitcase by my feet. He rubbed his temples, his dark eyes flashing with irritation. "Is this because I let her play the piano?" I didn't answer. "Don't be so small-minded, Regina," he sighed, his voice dripping with condescension. "I’m just trying to keep the talent happy. It’s business." Talent? Daisy had fumbled through that piece, missing a dozen notes. She wasn't a talent; she was a distraction. He turned toward the bathroom, dismissive as always. "Go make the tea. Stop overthinking things." "Lennon," I said, my voice like flint. "I told you years ago. My plan was to be married by thirty. I turned thirty today." He stopped in his tracks. The fake patience he’d been wearing finally shattered. "Regina, are we really doing this again? This constant begging for a ring... it’s pathetic. It makes you look cheap." He turned to face me, his words like serrated blades. "I’ve told you a thousand times—the orchestra is in a growth phase. I don’t have the energy to waste on something as trivial as a wedding right now." Trivial. Every new investor we’d landed, every world tour I’d meticulously organized, every sleepless night I’d spent balancing the books while he practiced—all of that had cost me my health. My last medical report was a sea of red ink, a physical map of the stress I’d endured for his dream. And in return, he called me "cheap." His "precious" energy was apparently too expensive for me, but he had plenty of it for a girl who’d been there less than twenty-four hours. He had enough energy to worry if her seat cushion was soft enough and if she was having fun at the party. I took a breath and met his eyes. "I’m done, Lennon. Either we get married, or we're over. Choose." His last shred of restraint snapped. He ripped off his tie and hurled it onto the sofa. "Fine. You want to break up? We’re broken up. Suit yourself." As the sound of the shower started, a wave of cold clarity washed over me. I had always known I wasn't his "first choice." Lennon never lacked for admirers. I was just the one with the most endurance, the one who refused to leave when he was a struggling nobody. He hadn't stayed with me out of love; he’d stayed because he was too "moral" to throw away a woman who had sacrificed everything for him. Love is a loud thing, but the absence of it is even louder. On my birthdays, he’d buy a cake, but it was never the flavor I liked. When I was sick, he’d buy medicine, but only days later after I’d already recovered. I’d buy bridal magazines and "Wedding Countdown" books, only to hide them away like contraband whenever he gave me that look of utter disgust. I wasn't just tired. I was empty. 2 My phone buzzed repeatedly in my pocket. I pulled it out to find the orchestra’s group chat blowing up. Daisy had posted a video. It was her and Lennon at the dinner, playing a four-hands piece on his mother’s piano. She had even set a wine glass carelessly on the wood finish—something Lennon would have flayed me for. In the video, they leaned close, their eyes locked in a way that was undeniably intimate. At one point, their cheeks brushed so closely it looked like a kiss. Daisy had captioned it: “Just the new girl, but I’m already feeling more love than the 'veterans.' So touched. Thank you, Lennon, for the special treatment.” Lennon, who was supposedly still in the shower, replied instantly: “You deserve it.” He even used a heart emoji—something he used to call "childish" when I did it. I remembered three years ago, when I’d secured a prestigious industry award for the orchestra. I’d sent a playful message in the group chat: “Chief, wasn’t I amazing? Don't I get a reward?” That message had hung there in total silence for twenty-four hours. No one replied. When I’d confronted him about the embarrassment, he’d just scoffed. "Regina, how old are you? That cutesy stuff is embarrassing. I’m not going to play along and humiliate myself." I was twenty-nine then, and I had actually spent the night wondering if I was the problem. But look at him now. Even an iceberg melts for the right person. He wasn't incapable of being sweet; he just didn't want to be sweet to me. I walked out of that house with my suitcase and didn't look back. Over the next few days, I began the process of resigning from the orchestra. I stopped putting in the eighty-hour weeks. I stopped fixing Lennon’s mistakes. I simply existed in the background, avoiding him as he and Daisy grew bolder by the hour. Then, the floor fell out from under me. My father called, his voice shaking. "Regina... your mother found out about the breakup. She... she collapsed. We’re at the hospital." "Dad, what happened?" "It’s her heart. But Regina, we don't have her insurance card. You had it, remember? You were supposed to find that specialist through Lennon." My stomach dropped. I had given my mother’s card to Lennon weeks ago, begging him to pass it to a world-renowned cardiologist he knew. He’d never mentioned it again. I called Lennon frantically. No answer. I called again and again. Nothing. I drove to his villa. I tried the door code, but it didn't work. He’d already changed it. In a panic, I grabbed a heavy garden stone and smashed a side window. I climbed inside, gasping for air, but I froze the moment my feet hit the floor. The house was unrecognizable. Gone was the minimalist, sterile aesthetic Lennon had always insisted on. The living room was cluttered with pink throw pillows, dolls, and a girl’s curling iron left plugged in on the coffee table. I remembered when I’d bought a simple, whimsical lamp for our bedroom. Lennon had looked at it with such revulsion. "Regina, don't pollute my space with your cheap, tacky taste." I didn't have time to cry. I scrambled to his desk, searching for my mother’s card. Suddenly, a heavy blow hit my shoulder. I was tackled to the ground, my face pressed into the carpet by two police officers. "We got a call for a break-in," one of them barked. "Don't move." In the interrogation room, the detective glared at me. "You claim you’re Lennon’s girlfriend, but he says he doesn't know you. We checked the house—there isn't a single item belonging to a 'Regina' in there." "I’ve lived there for years!" I screamed. "He says you’re a stalker. And you claim to be the director of the orchestra, but we called them. They said the director's name is Daisy." My heart hammered against my ribs. My phone was sitting on the table, lighting up over and over with calls from my father. I knew what those calls meant. "Please," I sobbed, finally giving up. "I'll confess to whatever you want. Just let me go see my mother. She’s dying." "First she's sick, now she's dying? You think we're stupid?" the officer sneered. "Mr. Lennon and his girlfriend were very clear. You stay here until they finish an inventory of the property to see what you stole." I was held for two days and two nights. On the third day, Lennon finally showed up. 3 He wasn't alone. Daisy was draped over his arm, dressed in a designer outfit that probably cost more than my car. The rest of the orchestra board members were trailing behind them like a royal court. Daisy stepped forward, her face a mask of fake concern. "Oh, Regina! I’m so, so sorry. I had no idea it was you who broke in." She sighed, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. "I just took over as the Director of Operations, and I wanted to take everyone on a celebratory trip. I didn't realize you were sitting in a cell all this time. My mistake! I hope you can forgive me." Lennon pulled her back, his voice cold. "You don't need to apologize to her. She broke into my home after we broke up. She’s lucky I’m not pressing charges." I looked at him, my eyes burning. "Lennon... the card. My mother’s insurance card. Where is it? She needs it for the surgery." Lennon blinked, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. He’d forgotten. He’d forgotten the one thing I’d begged him to do for my family. He started patting his pockets, looking around vaguely, but it was clear he had no idea where he’d tossed it weeks ago. Right then, my phone buzzed on the table. It was a text from my father. She’s gone, Regina. My hands went limp at my sides. I looked at Lennon, who was still pretending to look for the card. "Stop," I whispered. "Don't bother. It doesn't matter anymore." Lennon caught the look in my eyes, and for a second, he looked almost haunted. But I didn't care. I stood up, my legs feeling like lead, and turned to leave. "Wait!" Daisy called out. "Regina, I feel terrible about the jail time. But since you did break in, we really should check your bag. Just to make sure nothing of Lennon's is missing." Before I could react, she snatched my bag and dumped the contents onto the floor. A shower of elegant, thick-stock envelopes spilled out. Wedding invitations. Daisy gasped, covering her mouth. "Oh... Regina. You were still planning a wedding with Lennon? You even made fake invitations? This is... this is really sad. Was the whole 'sick mother' thing just a play for attention too?" I didn't have the energy to argue. "Are you done? Did you find your silver spoons?" Daisy had achieved what she wanted—the room was looking at me with pity and disgust. I gathered my things and walked out. I hadn't gone ten paces before Lennon caught up to me, grabbing my arm. "Where are you staying?" he demanded. "None of your business. Go back to Daisy. You two deserve each other." Lennon let out a sharp, bitter laugh. "You’re actually jealous. This whole act—the 'wedding,' the 'dying mother'—it’s just a play to make me jealous." "Believe whatever helps you sleep at night." "Regina, enough!" he snapped. "You’ve had your tantrum. Can't you just wait a few more years? Why do you have to force my hand like this? It’s exhausting." I wrenched my arm away. My voice was so calm it surprised even me. "I am getting married, Lennon. But the groom isn't you. And I will never, ever force you to do anything again. Do you understand?" Lennon’s face pale for a split second, then he smirked. "Regina, you're thirty. Let’s be realistic. Look at yourself—you’re a wreck. Who else is going to take you?" "That’s not your concern." I turned to walk away, but he softened his tone, that old, manipulative warmth creeping back in. "Look, Saturday is your birthday. You’ve always wanted to meet my father. I’ll host a party for you at the estate. We’ll call it even. How does that sound?" I actually paused. Not because I was touched, but because I was stunned. In seven years, he had never once remembered my birthday. I was always the one planning his. 4 Saturday arrived. I went to the estate. I didn't go for him. I went because the guest list he’d mentioned included the most powerful movers and shakers in the music industry. If I was leaving the orchestra, I needed a new network. I needed a clean break. But when I arrived, I realized the "birthday party" was a lie. It was the day Lennon was introducing Daisy to his father as his "protégée"—and his future wife. He hadn't been "unready" for marriage. He just hadn't been ready for me. I turned to leave, but the head butler intercepted me. "You must be the assistant Mr. Lennon hired to help with the event. You're late. The dinner is starting." He looked at my cocktail dress with disdain. "And why are you dressed like that? You think you're a guest?" Before I could respond, the doors to the grand ballroom swung open. Lennon and his father, Arthur, entered with Daisy on their arms. I was shoved into a corner by the staff. Lennon took the microphone on the stage. "Tonight, I want to officially introduce the industry to my brightest star: Daisy." I watched from the shadows, my chest aching. I remembered a few years ago when I’d made the finals of a national concerto competition. My parents had been so proud. But a day before the finals, a girl with "connections" took my spot. I had asked Lennon to help me, to use his influence to just get me a fair hearing. He had told me: "Regina, the world isn't fair. Normal people don't get hand-outs. You need to learn to adapt, not rely on my 'privilege' to get ahead." And yet, here he was, throwing a gala just to hand Daisy the world on a silver platter. "And now," Lennon said, his voice full of pride, "Daisy will perform an original composition of hers." The music began. As the first notes floated through the room, my blood turned to ice. That wasn't her song. It was mine. The melody was a key that unlocked a door I’d kept shut for a long time. When I was seven, my mother had just been diagnosed with her heart condition. We were poor; we couldn't afford a piano. She used to draw the keys on the kitchen table with a marker and teach me the notes. One evening, watching the sunset, she hummed a melody. "This is our song, Regina," she’d said. "A promise between us." We had spent years perfecting that piece. It was titled The Sunset Promise. It was the only song I’d ever played for Lennon in the privacy of our home. There was only one way Daisy had it. He had given it to her. I looked at Lennon. He caught my eye and immediately looked away, his jaw tightening. My phone chimed. A text from him: “Don’t make a scene. Daisy is performing with me in Vienna next week. People are doubting her skills; she needs the 'composer' credit to boost her image. I’m doing this for the good of the orchestra.” Daisy finished the piece to a standing ovation. Lennon joined her on stage, beaming. Arthur, his father, stood up to applaud. "Not only a virtuoso, but a brilliant composer. Lennon, you’ve found a treasure. This is the kind of woman the family needs." "I agree, Father," Lennon said, his smile never wavering. I couldn't breathe. I stepped forward, out of the shadows. "Stop." My voice was raspy, but it carried. The room went silent. "That song was written by my mother and me. It is not an original work by Daisy." Lennon’s brow furrowed. Daisy’s face flickered with panic before she settled into a pout. "Regina... I know you wanted to be part of this family, but you can't just lie because you're jealous." Arthur’s face darkened. "You're the woman who’s been hounding my son for seven years? No wonder he didn't marry you. You have no class." Lennon didn't defend me. He just sighed, looking weary. "Regina, give it a rest. This 'desperate for a wedding' act is becoming suffocating." The whispers started. "I recognize her. She’s the one who followed him around like a puppy." "Is she crazy? He’s clearly with Daisy now." "She’s obsessed." Daisy leaned in with a cruel smirk. "Regina, if you're going to claim I stole your work, surely you have proof on your phone? A digital trail? Show us. If you can prove it, I'll apologize." I froze. I didn't have the original files on this phone—but I did have something else. I had a folder of photoshopped wedding pictures I’d made months ago, a pathetic hobby I’d indulged in when I was still dreaming of a life with Lennon. Arthur signaled the security guards. "Check her phone. Let's see what else she's lying about." As they moved toward me, I fell, scrambling to hold onto my bag. Daisy reached down, pretending to help me, but whispered in my ear: "Give up. Lennon is mine. You’re nothing." She snatched the phone from my hand and, with a practiced flourish, connected it to the ballroom’s giant projection screen. "Let's see Regina's 'evidence'!" she announced. The screen flickered to life. But it wasn't a music file. It was a photo of a woman in a stunning lace wedding gown, standing in a sun-drenched cathedral. She was laughing, and a man in a tuxedo was leaning in to kiss her forehead. The room erupted in laughter. "Oh my god, she actually photoshopped herself into a wedding!" "This is tragic. I’d kill myself if I were that pathetic." Lennon looked like he wanted to disappear. He stepped forward to shut it down, but then someone in the front row gasped. "Wait... that's not Lennon in the photo."
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