Stella set the cup down, her hands trembling slightly as she moved to the piano. It was an old instrument, far from the pristine, high-end pianos displayed outside. She placed her fingers gently on the keys, and an off-key tone echoed through the room. Furrowing her brows, she didn’t speak, but began playing a simple rendition of “Ode to Joy.” The notes faltered, out of tune, and before she could finish the song, Mr. Kennedy’s voice interrupted the silence.
“Weston told me you learned to play the piano before. How could you mess up such an easy piece?” His tone held an edge.
Stella’s face flushed, and she looked down at her hands on the keys. “I’m sorry. I haven’t really mastered the techniques,” she murmured, her voice quiet but apologetic.
Mr. Kennedy’s eyes hardened. “I won’t build instruments for people who can’t play them properly,” he said with disdain. “No matter how exquisite the instrument, if you don’t know how to bring it to life, you’ll never unleash its full potential. People would laugh if they knew you played on one of my pianos.”
For Mr. Kennedy, a piano was not just a lifeless object—it was a vessel of art and soul. He valued mastery, and anyone who could not honor that was unworthy of his craftsmanship. Stella could sense his prejudice, and though his words stung, she chose to maintain her humble attitude.
When she was with Weston, people were polite, but when he wasn’t around, their true feelings came to the surface. As a woman, she knew she would always bear the brunt of the blame in such a situation. Whether she was forced or willing, no one would care. With her expression neutral, she looked at Mr. Kennedy and spoke in a calm, almost detached manner.
“The piano is so off-key,” she said, her voice steady, “I wonder if anything nice could come from it, even if you played it, Mr. Kennedy.”
Mr. Kennedy’s eyes narrowed as he studied her, his gaze piercing. From the moment he had laid eyes on her, he had known she was the strong, resolute type. While she played, he had seen her basic skills and humility, but there was something missing. Her response had revealed her true nature—a mix of defiance and honesty.
“Since you knew it was off-key, why didn’t you say something sooner?” Mr. Kennedy asked, his voice cold. “How am I supposed to know if you’re telling the truth or just making excuses?”
Stella didn’t flinch. “The key is indeed off,” she said simply. “It doesn’t matter if you make a piano for me. I just hope you won’t misjudge the next person who comes through.”
She stood up, her tone calm and composed. “I don’t really want a piano, anyway. I don’t have the time to play it, and I don’t deserve one. Even for Weston’s sake, it would be a waste if you made it for me. It would be better to give it to someone who truly needs it.”
Mr. Kennedy paused, stroking his beard thoughtfully. He smiled, but there was a different kind of warmth in his expression now. “Hold on,” he said, his tone changing. “You said Weston forced you to come here. If you leave like this, he’ll cause trouble for me.”
“I’ll tell him myself,” Stella replied, her voice firm as she turned to leave.
Mr. Kennedy raised an eyebrow, his indifference returning. “You really won’t stay?” he asked, almost as if testing her.
“I thought about it earlier,” he continued, his tone shifting again, “and I was planning to make a grand piano for you. It’s a shame you don’t want it anymore.”
Stella froze, her steps faltering. She turned to face him, her eyes wide with surprise. His words had taken her completely off guard, and for a moment, she was speechless.
Mr. Kennedy’s demeanor softened. “I don’t care about what’s going on between you and Weston. I just want someone honest to play my instrument… to give it life.”
He became serious as he looked at her. “I don’t know what you’re hiding or why, but don’t forget your original intention. Don’t lose yourself in material things.”
Stella stood there, the weight of his words settling on her shoulders. She didn’t respond, her mind racing, caught between her confusion and his unexpected offer.