The Kind of Love That Breaks You

My wife is the daughter of a top jewelry tycoon. She accused me of pushing her mother down the stairs to steal the family fortune and had me thrown in prison.

While I was locked up, her people disfigured my face and crushed my hands—the same hands that once played the piano.

After my release, I run from her like a madman. Just like she said I would, I give up and start mooching off a wealthy woman.

But then, she clings to me and begs me not to leave.

With insufficient evidence to hold me, I drained my savings to get out of prison and landed a job at a bar. On my very first day, my ex-wife showed up at the place where I worked.

"Well, if it isn't the great piano prodigy, slumming it here?" My ex-wife, Helga Steele, perched on a barstool, sneering. "Get me a whiskey."

In the past, I would've reminded her that her stomach couldn't handle alcohol. But after her people broke my hands and ruined my face, I knew the more I spoke, the less she'd listen.

I set the freshly mixed whiskey down right in front of her. Sure enough, she took one sniff before slinging the icy drink straight at my white button-down.

"It tastes yucky. You are bad at this."

I didn't care. She had money, so I kept mixing. After all, I made 20 bucks off every drink I mixed.

Mom was in the hospital, racking up thousands in medical bills every day. I didn't have any better way to make money.

A single piano gig would've paid me hundreds of thousands back then. Medical bills? They wouldn't have even been an issue.

I kept mixing drinks as Helga kept splashing them on me.

My white shirt was completely soaked by now. The freezing alcohol seeped through the fabric and clung to my skin, sending chills down my spine. I gritted my teeth, struggling to keep my cool.

"What, you trying to get soaked to charm some rich, pretty woman in here?"

She grabbed my white shirt suddenly, yanking me close, her face twisted in disdain. Then, she threw the drink I'd just made for her right in my face.

The foundation covering my scars streaked away, revealing the ugly marks beneath.

"How'd you even manage to seduce some heiress with disgusting scars like these?"

Her long acrylic nails traced my scars, the light touch sending an electric shiver through me. Even now, as I stared at her flawless face glowing under the lights, my pulse refused to slow.

Helga let out a triumphant snicker. "Let me make this clear, Xavier—I hate you. I'll keep you in the dirt where you belong. And don't you dare fantasize about me!"

I barked out a bitter laugh. "Pretty sure I'm six feet under as it is. The only thing I'm getting out of today is you dumping drinks on me. It's putting some extra cash in my pocket."

Her smile dripped with satisfaction. "You got what you deserved. Still, I guess I could throw a little business your way for old times' sake."

Helga turned around and made a quick call.

Before long, her friends, including her childhood friend Zeke Lanning, showed up and booked the biggest private room in the place.

The manager, Arthur Wilder, said they had specifically requested me to serve in the VIP room.

VIP rooms guaranteed 500 bucks in tips, so there was no way I was turning that down. I needed the money even if they were just there to mock or humiliate me.

In the VIP room, attendants were required to serve on their knees. So there I was, kneeling on the carpet, pouring drinks while everyone stared at me in shock.

"I never thought I'd live to see the day the proud Piano Prince would be on his knees serving us drinks."

Helga's best friend, Maeve Sommer, took the glass, her hand brushing against mine. There was something odd in her gaze before she turned to Helga with a teasing smirk.

"No wonder you dumped him, Hel. Even his touch feels worse now that he's out of prison."

A sudden, sharp heat flared across my cheek. Helga had slapped me.

I stared into her furious eyes, completely bewildered.

Her jaw tightened as she glared. "Xavier, you even hooked up with my bestie?"