Chapter 1

My husband, who couldn't even read a musical note, turned out to be The Piano Prince.

Three years into our marriage, my husband Tristan Rook still couldn't name more than five notes on a staff. Classical music gave him headaches.

I always thought he was just a man without taste, someone carved out of stone who could not appreciate beauty.

Then one night I reached into the pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out a ticket. It was a VIP admission to the Chopin International Piano Competition. And his name sat there in bold print.

I showed him the ticket. He barely glanced at it, snatched it from my hand, crushed it and tossed it into the trash. "Just a guy with the same name. I am not going."

That same night a blurry mall video exploded across the entire internet.

In that video, my supposedly tone-deaf husband was sitting at a Steinway in the center of a shopping mall.

His fingers drifted across the keys like butterfly wings while he played the most heartbreakingly tender version of Castle in the Sky I had ever heard.

The comment section exploded. [Has The Piano Prince Tristan Rook made a comeback? The Golden Couple is finally returning. Aurora and TR forever.]

Only then did I understand. He did not hate music. He simply never wanted to play it for me.

*****

It began while water roared in the bathroom.

I was gathering Tristan's clothes for dry cleaning, checking the pockets like I always do. My fingers brushed against a hard edge. I pulled it out, expecting a parking ticket.

Instead, golden letters nearly blinded me. [Chopin International Piano Competition, Varialand Finals, VIP Jury Ticket.]

And beneath it, the judge's name: Tristan Rook.

Cold crept across my fingertips.

For three years he had avoided every melody in existence. He flinched when I hummed. He told me the piano made him physically ill.

He said his mother forced him to practice until his fingers gave out and that the sight of black and white keys made him nauseous.

I believed him.

Believed him so completely that my mother's old piano had collected three full years of dust.

Footsteps approached from a distance as Tristan Rook walked out of the bathroom, drying his wet hair.

He immediately saw the ticket in my hand, and his gaze froze for a second.

Only for a heartbeat, yet it was enough.

The next moment, he very naturally took the ticket from my hand, crumpled it into a ball, and accurately tossed it into the wastebasket in the corner.

"Client shoved it at me. Name just happens to match," he said.

He acted like the ticket was meaningless. As if a jury seat at an impossible-to-get competition was nothing but trash.

I suppressed the strange feeling bubbling up inside me and jokingly suggested with a smile, "Maybe you should go. I heard scalpers are selling those seats for five figures."

He kept his eyes glued to his phone. "Do not joke. That kind of noise makes me annoyed."

In the afternoon, we went to the mall to look at baby cribs.

Tristan stayed distracted, restless, checking his phone every few minutes.

We had barely entered the store when he let go of my hand.

"Stomach feels weird. I need the restroom. Look around first," he said.

He did not walk toward the nearest restroom. Instead, he turned sharply toward the elevators.

I kept browsing nursery furniture, trying not to overthink it. About ten minutes later, a roar of excitement burst from downstairs.

Then the music arrived. Clear notes, smooth as water and devastatingly beautiful, rose through the air.

The melody of Castle in the Sky floated up to the third floor and wrapped around my heart.

The melody was incredibly simple, yet it conveyed profound sadness and ethereal beauty, with each note seemingly narrating a grand, hopeless romance.

Even the salesgirl leaned over the railing. "Oh my God. Whoever is playing sounds better than the masters."

I walked to the balcony and looked down.

The ground floor atrium was packed with people, completely obscuring the million-dollar Steinway piano on display.

I couldn't see the performer, but the piano music felt so familiar it made my heart tremble.

When the piece ended, the thunderous applause almost brought the house down.

A few more minutes passed, and Tristan Rook returned.

The wisps of hair on his forehead were slightly damp, and his breathing was a little ragged, as if he had just finished some strenuous exercise.

But the gloom that constantly shrouded his eyes seemed to have dissipated somewhat, replaced by a sense of exhilaration after being suppressed.

"What is going on downstairs?" he asked. He feigned ignorance, taking the order form from my hand.

"Someone played the piano. It was beautiful," I said casually.

His jaw tightened. His tone stayed cold. "Probably another show-off trying to get attention. It is noisy. Let us go home."