Chapter 4 - THE STOLEN MELODY
The grand auditorium was a breathtaking monument to old-money luxury and high-society success, the air thick with the scent of expensive bourbon and success.
Garrett Whitmore stood near the center of the VIP lounge, his custom-tailored navy suit immaculate, his gold wedding band replaced by a diamond-encrusted corporate signet ring.
Beside him stood his new corporate partner, a prominent real estate heiress named Vanessa, who laughed loudly at a joke he made about his early, "difficult" years in the industry.
"Honestly, Vanessa," Garrett said, lifting his crystal tumbler of scotch to toast the board members around him.
"Success in this town requires an absolute, unsentimental focus... you can't let the liabilities of the past hold back the growth of the firm."
"I spent years managing a household that was nothing but an emotional and financial drain, but the moment I cleared the deck, the numbers finally aligned."
The house lights suddenly dimmed, a low, dramatic hum vibrating through the wooden floorboards of the historic theater.
The three hundred high-profile investors and label executives moved toward their reserved seats, their eyes fixed on the center stage where a single spotlight cut through the dark.
A lone woman stepped into the circle of light, her green silk gown catching the brilliant illumination, her posture rigid, commanding, and completely unbreakable.
She did not hold a microphone; she stood before the grand piano, her fingers resting flat against the keys with a silent, absolute precision.
Garrett took a casual sip of his drink, his eyes scanning the stage with the lazy arrogance of a man who believed he owned the building.
Then, the first chord echoed through the room—a haunting, familiar minor progression that had been written in the old cedar box at the back of Eleanor’s childhood home.
The glass of scotch slipped from Garrett’s fingers, clattering loudly against the hardwood floor as the liquid splattered across his polished leather shoes.
May you like
His face turned an instant, pasty shade of wet ash under the amber lights, his knees buckling slightly against the velvet backrest of his seat.
"Eleanor?" he gasped, his voice choked, his jaw dropping in a state of suspended, paralyzed shock as the dead woman’s voice soared through the auditorium.
