Any woman in Stella’s position would have felt the exact same way. She was the homewrecker, and the weight of the labels and judgment others were placing on her was palpable.
Although no one said it outright, she could feel the disdain. She could almost hear their silent thoughts, mocking her. Stella longed to escape, to flee from this suffocating environment, especially with someone like Mr. Kennedy, whom she had admired professionally for so long, now observing her so closely.
Mr. Kennedy broke the silence, his voice calm and steady. “It’s Ella, right? Alright. Since Weston asked, I won’t question it. Come here.”
Stella hadn’t fully processed his words. Her eyes instinctively flickered toward Weston, who stood beside her, adjusting her clothes with gentle care. “Follow him. Don’t worry about anything else,” he reassured her softly.
As though he could sense her unease, Weston leaned in and whispered just for her, “No one will say a word here. Trust me. Go ahead and pick a piano.”
Stella bit her lip, feeling a mixture of uncertainty and fear, but with no other choice, she followed Mr. Kennedy. Still, she hesitated, her steps faltering as if she were afraid of something she couldn’t name.
The woman in the gown, maintaining her graceful posture, leaned toward Weston. “Mr. Kennedy may take some time to understand her. Mr. Ford, would you like to join me for some tea?”
Weston looked at her, then at Stella, before shaking his head. “I’m sorry, but I need to stay with her.”
The woman hesitated. “This has never happened before. It won’t take long. Mr. Kennedy just wants to get to know her better.”
But Weston didn’t say a word. His actions spoke for him as he moved in the direction of Stella, his steps firm. The woman, realizing he wasn’t going to relent, quickly followed him.
“Mr. Ford!” she called after him.
She was forced to compromise, although her voice still held a note of concern. “When customers are evaluating, outsiders aren’t allowed to intervene. I hope you’ll understand and let Mr. Kennedy have some peace. We can’t disturb him.” Her words were an attempt to protect Mr. Kennedy, but they were also a subtle plea for Weston to be reasonable.
Art wasn’t like business. In business, it was all about regulations and interests. But art was driven by imagination, by sentiment, and by personal expression—things that couldn’t be confined to rules.
As Mr. Kennedy’s assistant, it was her responsibility to ensure nothing disrupted the process. If Mr. Kennedy became irritated, it would upset Weston too, and she couldn’t afford to let that happen—not here, not in Musx.
Weston, however, seemed unaffected. He walked past her into a room, and from behind a curtain, he spotted Stella seated before Mr. Kennedy, looking a little out of place, as if she were a child about to face a test.
Mr. Kennedy, though considered a kind man in private, had an air of professionalism that Stella found both comforting and intimidating. He was the first to break the tension, offering her a cup of tea.
“Let me…” Stella began to reach for it, but he cut her off.
“How could I let you do that?” he asked with a smile, his voice warm yet firm. “This is something I do for everyone. Don’t feel obligated to drink it if you don’t like it.”
Stella froze for a moment, surprised by the kindness in his gesture. She slowly retracted her hand and muttered a quiet thank you.
Mr. Kennedy nodded but said nothing. Instead, he pointed to a piano in the corner of the room. “Go ahead, play something for me.”
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