I ran into my ex-husband while shopping for a piano for my daughter. We'd been divorced for seven years.

The sales associate spotted him and hurried over with a bright smile. "Mr. Simmons! Back again to pick out a new piano for your wife? She's so lucky to have a husband like you."

Wyatt Simmons looked past the associate, his gaze landing squarely on me. After a beat, he said, "Pick one out for her too. Put it on my account."

I smiled and shook my head, letting him know I'd already made my choice.

But he went ahead and pressed a black card into my palm. "Your dream was always to own a Steinway. But with what you're making now, you could scrub floors for the rest of your life and still only get close enough to touch one. How would you ever afford it?"

"Mildred, it's been seven years. Stop being stubborn with me."

My mind went blank for a moment.

A world-class Steinway? I already owned one.

And him? I'd let go of him a long time ago.

——

"You're overthinking this. I'm not being stubborn."

I stepped past Wyatt and said quietly to the associate, "I'll take the one we discussed. Please have it delivered to this address."

He clearly didn't believe me. His gaze was dark and heavy as he watched.

A moment later, he snatched the slip of paper from my hand. "Harmony Academy?"

His brow furrowed. "Mildred, I know the headmaster well. I'll put in a word—have them assign that kind of work to someone else."

"You're already doing janitorial work, and that's already—"

His voice faltered. The rims of his eyes had gone red. "Mildred, if things have been this hard for you, why didn't you come to me?"

I blinked.

Janitorial work?

I glanced down instinctively and caught my reflection in the polished surface of a piano. The shirt I'd thrown on today was a little faded.

It did look a bit like a cleaning uniform, now that I noticed.

Of course.

In Wyatt Simmons's eyes, I'd always been someone barely scraping by.

But I had no interest in explaining myself. I offered a faint smile. "I'm buying the piano myself. There's no need to bother the headmaster."

Then I walked to the counter and paid.

Tonight was the night my daughter had won first place in the National Youth Piano Competition.

I needed to get home and celebrate with her.

Autumn had arrived early in Riverton that year, sharp and sudden.

I hadn't even made it to the parking lot before I was hugging my arms against the chill.

When I looked up, a dark figure stood in my path.

Wyatt shoved a purchase order into my bag.

He was breathing hard, and there was a stubbornness on his face I'd never seen before. "Mildred, I returned the piano you just bought. I exchanged it for the Steinway—the one you always wanted."

His fingers trembled.

"I still remember. Your dream was to play your own concert on one."

"Consider this piano a gift from me. Please... stop resenting me. Can you do that?"

When I heard those words, I slowly pulled off my gloves.

I hadn't said a single word. But the moment his eyes fell on my hands—covered in scars, every finger—he went silent.

After all, he knew better than anyone that I could never perform in a concert again.

Eight years ago, I had been the most talked-about competitor in the National Piano Competition.

But the day before the finals, he stole my original compositions and gave them to his protégée, Vera Swanson—all to make her famous. And when she deliberately poured boiling water over my hands, he did nothing to stop her.

My fingers were scalded beyond recognition, flesh raw and ruined. And still, he shielded Vera behind him. "Mildred Fox! It's one competition. Did you really have to fight Vera for it?"

He dragged me to the hospital. "You want a championship? I'll arrange another competition for you next year."

"But this time, you step aside for Vera."

I cried the entire night. Stubbornly, I peeled the blood-soaked bandages from my hands.

But even with blood staining the keys, I couldn't play even the simplest piece all the way through.

I lost my chance at the competition. Then the entire internet turned on me, calling me a plagiarist.

I went to Vera Swanson's apartment like a woman possessed, desperate to make her admit that she was the one who had stolen from me.

But the moment I threw open the door, I saw two naked bodies tangled together.

All I remember is Wyatt pressing Vera into his arms, shielding her, his eyes bloodshot as he roared at me: "Mildred! If you still want to be Mrs. Simmons, get the hell out!"

But I had been someone he once held in the palm of his hand. Someone he'd loved. How could I just let it go?

So I lost all composure. I screamed. I raged through that apartment like a hurricane.

I even started a livestream, shrieking until my voice gave out that I was the one who'd written those compositions.

I thought that would be enough—that she'd back down and return my music and my husband.

But what came instead was her trembling, pitiful little sob. "Wyatt! I'm not afraid of her!"

"Don't you remember? I'm your brave little lamb! I love you! I want to be with you!"

"If Mildred is willing to give you up, I'll kneel on camera right now and admit the compositions are hers!"

Those words sent Wyatt's protective instincts into overdrive.

That very night, he held a press conference as CEO of Simmons Group.

"My wife, out of extreme jealousy toward Vera's piano talent, stole her compositions before the competition. I discovered the theft in time and had them returned."

"The truth is, my wife knows nothing about piano. I spoiled her too much in the past—bought her accolades she never earned—and she developed the delusion that she was a gifted pianist."

"As for the alleged relationship between Vera and myself, my wife fabricated it entirely to frame an innocent girl."

"Please don't misunderstand Vera. She is a hardworking, dedicated young woman."

With a few simple sentences and a forged psychiatric evaluation, he pinned the label of mental illness on me.

And just like that, the name Vera Swanson exploded overnight.

She became the hottest young piano prodigy in the country.

And I fell into depression.

On the worst day, my body moved without my mind's permission, and I fell from the third-floor balcony.

When I came to, the first thing I saw was Wyatt standing over me—holding divorce papers. "Mildred, do you have any idea how terrifying you are?"

In that moment, it was like waking from a long, suffocating dream. I picked up the pen and signed without a second's hesitation.

So he was the one who destroyed my dream with his own hands.

And now he wanted to buy it back.

How laughable.

My thoughts snapped back to the present. I pulled out the order form and handed it back to him, then dialed the sales associate right in front of his face. "Deliver the piano I originally ordered."

"And if you ever let a stranger alter my order again, I will file a formal complaint."

I hung up and moved to walk past him.

He reached for my arm. I sidestepped, then lifted my gaze to the space behind him. "Mr. Simmons, spending money on other women like this—doesn't your wife get jealous?"

He turned to follow my line of sight. A woman was approaching from across the way, a cup of milk tea in hand.

Vera Swanson.

The same wide-eyed little protégée from all those years ago—now polished into the pampered, imperious Mrs. Simmons, courtesy of Wyatt's money and indulgence.

But after all these years, that cloying perfume of hers hadn't changed one bit.

She wasn't even close yet, and I was already sneezing.

Wyatt moved instantly, shrugging off his jacket and draping it over my shoulders. "You always get sick when the seasons change. Let me take you to the hospital—"

I didn't even get the chance to refuse.

Vera had already stepped between us, blocking his path.

She looped her arm through mine with practiced familiarity, gasping in delight. "Mildred! It really is you! I almost didn't recognize you!"

Her smile was radiant.

But her eyes were burning with jealousy.

"I don't mean anything by it—I just never expected to run into you at such a high-end piano shop."

"Oh, and my husband is the sentimental type. If you're ever in trouble, just reach out to him. He'd definitely help."

She drew out that last word, letting it hang in the air.

Wyatt's gaze turned cold. "We just happened to run into each other. Drop it."

But Vera stamped her foot, pouting in mock indignation. "Honey! How can you say that?"

"Mildred was practically my mentor back in the day. If she's struggling now, what's wrong with lending a hand?"

She leaned in and pressed a kiss to Wyatt's cheek. "Didn't you say you'd support me no matter what?"

I understood perfectly. This little performance was for my benefit.

I calmly slipped off Wyatt's jacket and handed it back to her. "You've got the wrong idea. I'm doing just fine."

Her gaze—just like Wyatt's—drifted to my clothes.

I understood immediately. "This outfit was a birthday gift from my mother. I just can't bring myself to throw it away."

At that, Wyatt's brow darkened.

It seemed he still remembered.

The day I fell from the building—that was my birthday.

That day, he'd left me at home alone, emotionally unstable, so he could accompany Vera to a variety show taping. He'd even taken every housekeeper with him because Vera had low blood sugar, positioning them all on standby to attend to her at a moment's notice.

It was my mother who'd been worried enough to come check on me. She was the one who found me after the fall.

All I remembered was her wrapping me in this coat through the haze of fading consciousness. "My sweet girl! How could you do something so foolish!"

"Open your eyes! Look at what Mama bought you for your birthday!"

"You still have your mother!"

"Silly girl, I told you so many times not to choose Wyatt Simmons..."

"Wake up, baby. You're all Mama has left..."

Later, after the divorce, my mother was so furious she went to confront him and demand answers.

She stepped out the door and was hit by a car. She never came back.

Wyatt seemed to snap out of a memory. He exhaled slowly.

He looked almost guilty as he changed the subject. "Mildred, Vera meant well."

"So—where are you working now?"

"If you don't mind, my company could—"

"I'm a piano teacher." I lifted my chin and cut him off. "A student of mine at Harmony Academy won first place in the National Youth Piano Competition this year. I trained her."

My hands could never grace a concert stage again. But I could still teach.

What they didn't know was that I'd become one of the most sought-after piano instructors in the world. People lined up at my door, and most of them still couldn't book a single lesson.

And my daughter was my finest student.

That piano I'd been looking at was simply for her to use during private training sessions at the academy.

When I said this, Wyatt visibly relaxed, as though he finally understood why the slip of paper had Harmony Academy's address on it.

But Vera's smile froze—just for an instant. "Well, congratulations, Mildred."

"Though... a youth piano competition. The prestige isn't quite the same, is it?"

"Not like the national competitions from back in the day..."

She didn't finish.

Because I smiled. "Oh, you're right. Those national competitions—you must remember them vividly."

"After all, you won yours using someone else's compositions."

Vera went rigid. She turned to Wyatt, her eyes brimming with wounded innocence. "Honey, after all these years, Mildred still thinks I stole her—"