Alpha's Discarded Luna (Talia) novel Chapter 282

under the weight of true, aristocratic talent.

“Watch and learn, amateur,” Cassian whispers as he

brushes past my shoulder, his voice thick with a smug, oily

confidence.

He takes the stage first, his posture radiating a lifetime of unearned superiority. As he sits down at the magnificent, polished black Steinway piano, a hush falls over the crowd. The flashing cameras capture his every movement, the critics leaning forward with expressions of deep, reverent

expectation.

Cassian lifts his hands, pauses for a dramatic beat, and then plunges his fingers into the keys.

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placed. Every arpeggio is executed with rigid, mathematical

precision, a display of pure, unadulterated discipline that

leaves no room for error.

From the side of the stage, I watch him. He is good. There is

no denying his training, the thousands of hours he has spent

under Master Gerard’s strict tutelage. The piece swells into

a thunderous cascade of high-octane chords, a sonic storm that hits the walls of the grand hall and reverberates through

the polished marble floors. It is a calculated, aggressive flex,

a musical declaration meant to terrify me into submission

before I even strike a single note.

The final, blindingly fast run finishes with a dramatic, heavy

strike on the keys. The sound rings out, vibrating through the crystal chandeliers above.

For a second, there is a stunned silence, and then the elite

critics explode into wild, deafening applause. They stand up from their velvet seats, shouting praises, nodding to one another with satisfied, knowing grins. Imema is clapping

delicately in the front row, her eyes gleaming with a vicious,

triumphant delight. They are all looking at me now, their eyes filled with a patronizing pity. To them, the match is already over. The prodigy has delivered a flawless performance, and there is nothing a common housewife can do to change her

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< Chapter 279

silver insects. The notes are sharp, rapid, and perfectly

placed. Every arpeggio is executed with rigid, mathematical precision, a display of pure, unadulterated discipline that

leaves no room for error.

From the side of the stage, I watch him. He is good. There is

no denying his training, the thousands of hours he has spent

under Master Gerard’s strict tutelage. The piece swells into

a thunderous cascade of high-octane chords, a sonic storm

that hits the walls of the grand hall and reverberates through

the polished marble floors. It is a calculated, aggressive flex,

a musical declaration meant to terrify me into submission

before I even strike a single note.

The final, blindingly fast run finishes with a dramatic, heavy

strike on the keys. The sound rings out, vibrating through the

crystal chandeliers above.

For a second, there is a stunned silence, and then the elite

critics explode into wild, deafening applause. They stand

up from their velvet seats, shouting praises, nodding to one

another with satisfied, knowing grins. Imema is clapping delicately in the front row, her eyes gleaming with a vicious, triumphant delight. They are all looking at me now, their eyes filled with a patronizing pity. To them, the match is already over. The prodigy has delivered a flawless performance, and Here is nothing a common housewife can do to change her

ther

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< Chapter 279

Cassian stands up, offering a sweeping, arrogant bow to the

cheering crowd. He walks back toward the side of the stage, his face flushed with pride, a mocking grin pulling at his lips.

as he locks eyes with me. “Your turn, Ms. Johnson. Try not to

embarrass your mother’s ghost too badly.”

I don’t look at him. I don’t give him the satisfaction of a single

glance.

I step out from the wings and walk toward the center of

the stage. The applause instantly dies down, replaced by

a suffocating, heavy silence. The spotlight hits me, warm

and blinding, casting a long, slender shadow behind me. I

can feel the weight of a thousand judgmental eyes boring

into my skin. I can see Raymond in the front row, his hands

gripped tightly against the edge of his seat, his face pale

with a suffocating anxiety. And in the dark corners near the limestone pillars, I can feel Aires’s intense, burning gaze tracking my every step.

I approach the grand Steinway. The keys gleam under the

hot lights, an empty canvas waiting for a soul. I slide onto the

leather bench, smoothing the dark blue silk of my dress over

my knees.

I do not immediately place my hands on the keys. Instead, Pélose my eyes and take a deep, steadying breath. net

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< Chapter 279

Cassian stands up, offering a sweeping, arrogant bow to the cheering crowd. He walks back toward the side of the stage, his face flushed with pride, a mocking grin pulling at his lips as he locks eyes with me. “Your turn, Ms. Johnson. Try not to embarrass your mother’s ghost too badly.”

I don’t look at him. I don’t give him the satisfaction of a single glance.

I step out from the wings and walk toward the center of the stage. The applause instantly dies down, replaced by a suffocating, heavy silence. The spotlight hits me, warm and blinding, casting a long, slender shadow behind me. I can feel the weight of a thousand judgmental eyes boring into my skin. I can see Raymond in the front row, his hands gripped tightly against the edge of his seat, his face pale

with a suffocating anxiety. And in the dark corners near the limestone pillars, I can feel Aires’s intense, burning gaze tracking my every step.

I approach the grand Steinway. The keys gleam under the

hot lights, an empty canvas waiting for a soul. I slide onto the

leather bench, smoothing the dark blue silk of my dress over

my knees.

I do not immediately place my hands on the keys. Instead, Pálose my eyes and take a deep, steadying breath. 1 let

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<Chapter 279

out the critics, the cameras, the whispers, and the elite wolves who view me as nothing but a piece of entertainment.

I call upon the memory of my mother. I remember sitting on the old, worn bench beside her in our small, quiet room, watching her slender fingers trace these exact, intricate patterns. I recall the song she played only when her heart was too heavy for words-one of her most notoriously difficult, unreleased masterpieces. A composition so complex it requires impossible, lightning-fast finger work, but more importantly, a profound, bleeding emotional depth that no rigid machine could ever replicate.

I open my eyes. The coldness in my veins transforms into a burning, absolute focus.

I lift my hands and let my fingers drop onto the keys.

The first chord strikes the air like a solitary drop of rain hitting a still lake. It is a deep, resonant, and achingly beautiful note that seems to instantly alter the atmospheric pressure of the entire ballroom. Before the crowd can even

process the sound, my hands begin to fly.

The music rises, a breathtaking storm of raw, unbridled

emotion paired with an effortless, flawless technique. Where

Cassian’s performance was loud and mechanical, mine is

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complex, intricate tapestry of sound that wraps around every single soul in the room. My fingers move with an impossible, supernatural speed, executing the notoriously difficult shifts

and lightning-fast trills with a sovereign, absolute grace.

I don’t just play the music; I let it consume me. The grief of

my past, the betrayal of the man who threw me away, the

fierce, protective love I have for my sons, and the burning

fury of my mother’s insulted memory-all of it bleeds directly

into the ivory. The keys become an extension of my own

voice, a declaration of my independence and my survival.

The melody swells into a grand, magnificent crescendo,

a powerful, emotional tempest that shatters the arrogant illusions of the high-society crowd. I open my eyes slightly and glance toward the audience.

The elite critics are standing completely frozen in absolute

shock, their pens dropping from their limp fingers, their mouths slightly open. The smug, victorious smiles have been thoroughly wiped from their faces. Cassian stands in the wings, his face turning a ghostly, horrific pale as he watches my hands execute a movement he knows his rigid technique

could never master. Imema is frozen in her seat, her eyes

wide with a sudden, suffocating panic.

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