Hiding His Sick Child From The CEO

The sound of the breaking plastic shattered the dead silence in the room. Charis frowned, her eyes darting to Carla. Carla's chest heaved. She scrambled to shove the broken pieces of the clipboard back into her canvas bag. "I apologize," Carla said. Her voice came out raspy, scraping against her dry throat. Charis looked her up and down, her nose wrinkling in disgust. "Why did the front desk send someone so incredibly unprofessional? Where is Alice?" Carla swallowed the thick lump of humiliation in her throat. She reached into her pocket with trembling fingers and pulled out her business card. "Alice is sick. I am her substitute. I am fully certified by the American Music Therapy Association," Carla said, holding the card out. Julien didn't look at the card. His dark eyes were fixed on Carla's shaking fingers. His jaw ticked, the muscles jumping beneath his skin. The darkness in his eyes deepened. Charis snatched the card from Carla's hand and tossed it carelessly onto the top of the Steinway. She leaned her head against Julien's shoulder, a deliberate claim of ownership. "Julien pushed back his Wall Street board meeting just to be here with us today," Charis said, making sure her voice was loud enough for Carla to hear. Carla dropped her gaze to the floor. She bit down hard on the soft tissue inside her cheek. She bit it until she tasted the metallic tang of blood, using the physical pain to stop the tears from forming. "How do you plan to start the session?" Julien's voice cut through the room. It was devoid of any warmth. It sounded like metal scraping against ice. Carla took a sharp breath through her nose. She turned her back to them and faced the piano, desperate to hide her face. "I will start with a soothing Mozart sonata for Eleni. It helps with selective mutism," Carla said, keeping her voice flat. "No," Charis interrupted sharply. Her tone was dripping with disdain. Charis pointed a manicured finger at the keys. "Play Wagner's Bridal Chorus." Carla's head snapped up. A physical jolt of pain shot straight through her heart. "Next month is our engagement anniversary," Charis smiled, looking up at Julien. "I want to get into the mood." Carla's eyes darted to Julien. She looked at him, silently begging him to stop this. Julien stood there, his hands shoved deep into his suit pockets. His face was a blank, unreadable mask. He stared right back at her, offering no help. He was allowing this. His cold eyes sent a clear message: You chose this when you took the money. Carla looked away. Her hands hovered over the black and white keys. They were shaking so badly she could barely keep them straight. She pressed down on the first chord. She pressed so hard the tips of her fingers turned white. The heavy, grand sound of the Steinway filled the room. The familiar melody washed over her. Instantly, the memory of a Brooklyn rooftop five years ago crashed into her brain. Julien on one knee. The cheap string lights. The promise of forever. Carla's vision blurred. The back of her throat burned like fire. She bit her cheek harder, refusing to let a single tear fall in front of him. Behind her, Charis sighed happily, leaning her weight against Julien's chest. She looked like a victor claiming her prize. But Julien wasn't looking at Charis. His eyes were nailed to Carla's rigid back. He watched the way her shoulders shook with every note. A violent fire burned in his chest. Eleni sensed the suffocating tension in the room. The little girl shrank back, retreating to the far corner of the velvet sofa, clutching her rabbit. The final chord rang out. Carla ripped her hands away from the keys as if the ivory had burned her skin. She stood up abruptly. Her chest was rising and falling rapidly. "The music introduction is over for today," she choked out. Charis clapped her hands together in a slow, mocking rhythm. She reached into her designer bag, pulled out a sleek black credit card, and tapped it against the edge of the piano. "Here is a tip," Charis sneered, her eyes raking over Carla's clothes. "Go buy yourself a decent coat. You look like a beggar." The sharp words hung in the air. It was the ultimate insult. Carla didn't look at the money. She grabbed her canvas bag by the straps. Without looking back, she bolted for the heavy suite door and ran.