Although they smiled and treated her with politeness, Stella could feel the judgment beneath their gaze, as if they had every right to look down on someone like her—a homewrecker.
She closed her eyes and let out a sigh, feeling the weight of her emotions slip away. It was as if her entire mood had vanished. Weston, noticing the change in her demeanor, observed that ever since Guinevere’s name had been mentioned, Stella had become quiet, distant. After the woman left them alone, he suddenly reached out and grabbed her wrist. His voice was low as he whispered, “I’m not married yet.”
It wasn’t the first time he had said this since their reunion. At first, Stella had assumed he was lying to her, but as she looked into his eyes now, she saw sincerity. Yet, she felt nothing in return. “Why are you telling me this?” she asked softly. “Do you want me to give you a present for the wedding? Or would you prefer I attend?” Her words felt hollow, as if she was asking out of obligation, not curiosity.
Weston’s expression darkened. He stood up and stared at her, his gaze intense, but before he looked away, there was nothing but emptiness in his eyes. The moment was heavy, filled with unspoken words.
Just then, Mr. Kennedy entered the room, fifty minutes late, his arrival unmarked by any apology. Instead, a bright smile graced his face as he greeted Weston. “Mr. Ford, I didn’t expect you to have the time to visit. What brings you here today?”
The heater inside the room hummed loudly, and Weston shrugged off his jacket, hanging it over his arm as he glanced at Mr. Kennedy. “I’m here to purchase a piano.”
Mr. Kennedy raised an eyebrow, surprised. “A piano? When did you start playing again? You were always impatient with it as a child. Why the sudden interest?”
Weston, a professional in his own right, had always respected Mr. Kennedy. He remembered how Mr. Kennedy had once expressed his disappointment when Weston stopped playing the piano, given his natural talent. But then, Mr. Kennedy had realized that Weston wasn’t someone who would stick with things unless they held his interest. It was clear to him that Weston was meant to inherit the family business, and the piano was nothing more than a passing hobby, never to be pursued as a career. After all, business was where the money lay.
But what shocked Mr. Kennedy was that after all these years, he was seeing Weston back in Musx. Weston looked toward Stella and said, “No. It’s for her.”
Mr. Kennedy only then noticed the woman standing beside Weston. He adjusted his glasses, looking at her more carefully. His expression shifted, and his demeanor became more serious. “Who is she?”
“This is Ella,” Weston replied, “and she plays the piano really well.”
Ella. The name hung in the air, and Mr. Kennedy’s face grew more solemn. He didn’t speak at first, instead staring at Stella in silence, assessing her.
Stella, feeling the weight of his gaze, couldn’t help but lower her eyes. There was something about the way he was scrutinizing her that made her face burn with embarrassment.
The woman beside Mr. Kennedy, who had been quiet until now, shook her head at him, her face filled with slight embarrassment as she lowered her gaze. The room fell silent, as if everyone was suddenly uninterested in the private lives of those standing before them.
But for Stella, the silence was suffocating. She could feel the heat rising in her face, and she wished she could disappear from the uncomfortable tension surrounding her.
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