As soon as Zephany and Kendrick stepped into the grand hall, a wave of soft music and dim, golden lights greeted them. The chandeliers overhead sparkled like captured stars, their glow bouncing off the polished marble floor.
Rows of velvet-cushioned seats filled the space, already occupied by elegantly dressed guests murmuring among themselves.
At the far end of the hall, a raised stage stood proudly, bathed in warm lighting. A grand piano sat at the center, gleaming under the spotlight, waiting.
Zephany's breath caught. Her hand, laced with Kendrick's, trembled slightly. She tried to steady it, but Kendrick noticed. He looked down at her, brow furrowed, but didn't say anything. He simply squeezed her hand gently.
No one turned to look at her. No whispers followed her name. No gasps or pointing fingers. No recognition in anyone's eyes.
Twelve years.
