That evening, Julian didn't order a chef or a stylist. He cooked. It was a simple pasta, but the way he moved—methodical, focused—fascinated Elara. They sat on the terrace under a canopy of stars that felt low enough to touch.

"Tell me about the music," Julian said, pouring a deep red wine from the estate’s cellar. "Not the practice. The feeling."

Elara closed her eyes. "It’s the only time I feel like the world is in the right order. Like every note has a place, and if I play it perfectly, nothing can ever break."

"I felt that way once," Julian admitted. "Before the 'Debt.' My mother was a cellist too, Elara. That’s why your mother was in that building. They were friends. They were practicing together the night it happened."

The wine glass nearly slipped from Elara’s hand. "They knew each other?"

"My father didn't just kill a protestor," Julian’s voice was thick with suppressed rage. "He killed his own wife’s best friend, and let his wife die in the smoke trying to save her. I’ve been living in a house built on their ashes."

He reached across the table, taking her hand. His skin was warm, his grip desperate. In the moonlight, the hatred Elara had nursed felt like it was dissolving into something far more terrifying: empathy.