Whenever Guinevere’s name came up in conversation, it inevitably stirred up talk about Weston and Henry. The trio had become a sort of modern myth among their social circle—romance, rivalry, betrayal. Everyone had their own version of the tale, and no one ever seemed to tire of retelling it.
Weston, for his part, found it all tiresome. He always had.
“What’s Henry got to do with anything?” he asked flatly.
Lucas leaned back, the corner of his mouth tugging in a slight smirk. “Is he still refusing treatment? Sitting in that wheelchair, thinking it’ll melt his bodyguard’s heart until she runs back into his arms?”
He genuinely couldn’t figure out what went on in Henry’s head.
Unlike them, Lucas had chosen a simpler life. He had been with Yvonne from the start and had never strayed—not emotionally, not physically. That choice had spared him the emotional chaos the other two were constantly entangled in.
People used to think Henry was utterly devoted to Guinevere. Yet it was the female bodyguard he took everywhere with him—no one else was allowed near her. At first, their friends assumed she was just a rebound, a distraction after his failure to win Guinevere’s heart.
But then he grew serious. Too serious.
Just when everyone thought Henry was ready to make things official with the woman who’d stayed loyally by his side, he pushed her away—viciously, without warning. The blow was harsh, and final. But when she actually left him, Henry spiraled. He searched for her desperately, refusing treatment for his legs, as if holding on to his pain would somehow bring her back.
She never returned.
It had all happened years ago, yet the story clung to them like smoke. Anytime Guinevere’s name was uttered, Henry’s saga followed close behind.
Weston’s expression didn’t change. “Whatever he does with his life has nothing to do with me. If he wants to rot in that chair, let him.”
But Lucas knew better.
Weston may have spoken with indifference, but Lucas remembered clearly—Weston had once asked him to help treat Henry. That alone proved he cared, whether he admitted it or not.
They had grown up together, more like brothers than friends. Even if they occasionally butted heads, even if Guinevere had complicated things, the foundation of their bond remained. When it really mattered, they stood on the same side.
Lucas swirled the champagne in his glass, suddenly thoughtful. “Actually… I’ve always been curious.” He glanced at Weston, amused. “If Henry were to fall for Ella, how would you react?”
It wasn’t entirely far-fetched. They had grown up together, shared values, similar tastes. If Weston could be drawn to her, why not Henry?
Of course, Lucas knew he was testing his luck with that question.
A flicker of something cold flashed through Weston’s gaze. “You seem exceptionally bored tonight.”
Lucas laughed. “Well, if it weren’t for you dragging me here, I’d be in bed with my wife right now. I have to find entertainment where I can.”
Weston said nothing, lifting his glass and taking another sip, the amber liquid catching the light like liquid gold.
Suddenly, soft strains of piano music drifted in from another hall.
Lucas’s ears perked up. “A duet?” he said, intrigued.
Unlike most wealthy heirs, Lucas had a love for classical music. He wasn’t a pianist himself, but he could appreciate good technique when he heard it. It calmed him. Occasionally, he’d attend live performances just to unwind.
He stood up, eager. “Let’s go check it out.”
Weston wasn’t particularly interested in piano music, but he had nothing better to do. With a glance at his phone—still no message from Stella—his expression darkened. He switched the device off with a snap of irritation and followed Lucas.
The two men made their way toward the adjacent hall.
The piano stood under a soft spotlight at the center of the stage. A man and woman were seated side by side, fingers dancing across the keys in flawless harmony.
Lucas paused a moment, eyes narrowing with intrigue. “They’re well-matched,” he commented. “I wonder if they’re a real couple.”
As the words left his mouth, he got a better look at the female pianist’s face.
And froze.
His breath caught.
He turned immediately toward Weston, eyes wide.
Sensing something in his friend’s sudden shift, Weston followed Lucas’s gaze to the stage.
There, beneath the soft lighting, sat Stella—elegant, poised, and entirely immersed in the music. She was seated next to another man, their bodies leaning slightly toward each other as they played in perfect synchronization.
The sight hit Weston like a blow to the chest.
She was supposed to be working.
Instead, here she was, playing the piano with another man—intimately, beautifully, as if the rest of the world had faded away.
Skip to content