The train screeched to a halt, the brakes wailing like ghosts trapped in steel. Outside the window, the coast of Amalfi revealed itself like a long-forgotten poem—rugged cliffs, olive groves, and an ocean that whispered secrets only the lonely could hear. Elena Vale sat motionless, her hands clutched around the leather handle of her suitcase. Her eyes, the color of autumn leaves, stared into the distance, unblinking.
The scent of sea salt wafted into the train car as the door slid open with a sigh. She stood, her movements fluid but mechanical. The soft click of her heels against the stone platform was the only sound she allowed herself to hear.
Elena hadn't played the piano in sixteen months. Not since the night the world crumbled beneath her fingers.
She stepped onto the platform of a town she had never been to—a place picked from an old postcard found inside her mother's favorite poetry book. A place she hoped would let her disappear quietly. Not die. Just vanish. A soft, beautiful kind of escape.
Porto Di Mare. That was the town's name. A fishing village resting at the edge of cliffs, wrapped in ivy and fog. A painter's dream. A pianist's exile.
A man waited for her at the station. Mid-fifties, crisp black suit, weathered face. He held a placard that read:
> Miss Elena Vale - For Mr. Lucien Ashford
She hesitated.
Lucien Ashford. The name sounded like a secret. She had only spoken to him once over the phone, his voice low and smooth like aged whiskey. The kind of voice that could seduce you into forgetting the dangers of shadows.
"I'm Carlo," the man said, voice thick with an Italian accent. "I'll take you to Villa D'Aria."
She nodded.
The drive up the cliffs was silent. No small talk. No music. Only the rhythmic hum of the engine and the occasional cry of seagulls overhead. As they ascended the winding roads, the town fell away behind them, until nothing but sea, sky, and stone surrounded them.
Then she saw it.
The villa.
A mansion carved into the cliffs, elegant yet ancient. Draped in crawling ivy, it loomed over the edge like a watching god. Wrought iron gates opened to a path of white stones, lined with candle lanterns and wild roses. Elena stepped out of the car, her breath catching in her throat.
It was... too beautiful. Too quiet.
Carlo led her through arched doors into a grand foyer with marble floors and a high ceiling from which hung a chandelier that looked like frozen stars. The scent of sandalwood and forgotten books lingered in the air. Her fingers twitched at her side, aching for piano keys that no longer welcomed her.
"He's waiting for you in the study," Carlo said, then turned and vanished into the shadows.
Elena hesitated at the tall oak door. She smoothed her skirt and ran a trembling hand through her loose curls. She hadn't looked into a mirror since New York. She didn't know what she looked like anymore.
She pushed open the door.
And saw him.
Lucien Ashford stood by a fireplace, his back to her, pouring a glass of wine. He wore black—tailored, elegant, effortless. When he turned, she met eyes the color of rainstorms—cold, commanding, mesmerizing. His face was sculpted, every angle precise, but it was his presence that made her spine tighten.
"Miss Vale," he said, his voice low, melodic, and unhurried. "You arrived early. I admire that."
She swallowed. "I don't like being late."
He offered her a glass of wine. She shook her head.
"I don't drink anymore."
"Even better," he murmured, and sipped his own.
A moment of silence.
He watched her—no, studied her. Like a man who read people like books, and always knew which chapter to start with.
"I didn't expect you to be so... young," he said.
"And I didn't expect this place to look like a forgotten fairytale," she replied, voice soft but steady.
He smirked slightly. "Perhaps we're both in for surprises."
She dropped her eyes to the grand piano in the corner—sleek, black, untouched.
His voice dropped an octave. "You haven't played in a while."
"No."
"Will you?"
"I don't know."
He crossed the room slowly, setting his glass down. Every movement was deliberate. Controlled. Dangerous in its beauty.
"You're here to teach music to my niece," he said. "But let's not pretend that's the only reason I chose you."
Her heart skipped.
"I read your file, Elena. I read the articles. I know about the accident. The silence. The therapy."
She froze.
"I didn't come here to be analyzed."
"No," he said. "You came here to be saved. Or ruined. You haven't decided which yet."
She met his gaze. Fire met ice. Pain met pain.
"I'm not here to be touched," she whispered.
His smile didn't reach his eyes.
"Not yet," he said.