The morning air was crisp as we stepped outside the mansion. Amelia had asked me to accompany her today, and for once, she was the one deciding where we were going.

"Where are we headed?" I asked as I settled into the passenger seat, watching her through the rearview mirror as the driver pulled onto the road.

She hesitated before answering, as if debating whether to say the words out loud. "I want to visit my family," she said softly. "My grandparents."

I glanced at her, surprised. Amelia rarely spoke about her family.

Leonard and Eleanor Palvin—her only remaining family. Unlike the Valemonts, the Palvins weren't dripping in wealth and power, yet they had built a legacy of their own. Leonard Palvin was once a world-renowned conductor, his name echoing through the grandest concert halls. Eleanor Palvin, his wife, was a celebrated opera singer in her prime, her voice once capable of bringing audiences to tears.

But now, they lived in Darien—a quiet, unassuming place far removed from the world Michael belonged to.

The novel never delved too deeply into her past, only mentioning in passing that she had no parents, that she had been raised by her grandparents. But one thing I knew for certain was that since her marriage to Michael, they had been the ones to visit her—not the other way around. And even then, it had only been three times a year, always with Michael by her side.

This was her first time visiting them alone.

She was nervous—I could tell by the way her fingers twisted the fabric of her dress as we neared their home. Just before we stepped inside, she hesitated, her breath shallow.

I reached out, resting a hand gently on her back. "I'm right here," I murmured.

She inhaled deeply and nodded.

A caretaker welcomed us in, leading us through the modest yet well-kept home. When we finally reached the sitting area, Amelia's steps faltered.

Then, without another moment's hesitation, she rushed forward.

"Grandpa," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion as she wrapped her arms around the frail man in the wheelchair. He chuckled softly, his weathered hands patting her back before she turned and embraced her grandmother.

"My dearest Amelia... it's been a while," Eleanor said gently, cradling Amelia's face as if trying to commit every detail to memory.

Amelia blinked rapidly, swallowing the lump in her throat. "I'm sorry I haven't come more often."

Her grandmother's smile was warm, understanding. "It's alright, my love. I understand. Michael is a busy man."

That single sentence was enough to send a storm of emotions through Amelia's eyes. She smiled weakly, but the tightness in her grip on her grandmother's hands gave her away.

"I promise I'll visit more often," she said, glancing at me. "I'll have the driver bring me."

I smiled, giving her a reassuring nod.

As they spoke, I remained in the background, quietly observing. Amelia laughed as she recounted memories, but what struck me the most was that the stories she told them weren't about Michael.

They were about me.

About the places we had visited together. The music we had listened to. The small joys she had rediscovered in my company.

Not once did she mention Michael.

Leonard, who had been silent for most of the conversation, finally spoke. "Amelia," he said, his voice heavy with emotion, "it's been a long time since we've heard you play."

Amelia stiffened slightly.

"There's a piano in the next room," he continued. "Would you... play something for us?"

She hesitated, but when she looked at her grandfather—at the quiet plea in his eyes—she nodded.

I helped push his wheelchair into the adjoining room while she held onto Eleanor's hand.

The grand piano sat in the corner, polished yet untouched, waiting for her.

Amelia ran her fingers over the keys, a soft smile forming on her lips. Then, without another word, she began to play.

Mariage d'Amour.

The room shifted with the first note. A sorrowful melody, delicate yet weighted with unspoken emotions.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Eleanor's eyes well up with tears. I didn't know if they were tears of joy or sorrow, but something about the way she clutched her hands together told me that she knew.

She knew about her granddaughter's pain.

She knew about Michael.

When Amelia finished, there was a pause. A quiet stillness that seemed to hold the weight of everything left unsaid.

Then, a gentle clapping broke the silence. I turned to see that others had gathered at the doorway—staff, residents, strangers who had been drawn by the music. They clapped, murmuring in awe about the beauty of her playing.

A faint blush dusted Amelia's cheeks as she turned back to her grandparents.

"Play one more?" Leonard asked softly.

She hesitated only for a moment before she smiled and nodded.

This time, she played Mozart's Sonata Movement 1—Allegro. A stark contrast to the first piece, its lively energy filled the space, lifting the weight that had settled moments before.

When it was over, the small audience dispersed, leaving just the four of us.

Leonard was the first to break the silence. "Amelia," he said, his voice measured, careful. "Do you ever think about going back?"

She blinked. "Going back?"

"To music," he clarified. "To the life you had before."

A shadow passed over Amelia's face.

"I don't know," she admitted. "It feels... distant now."

Eleanor reached for her hand, squeezing it gently. "It's okay," she said. "It's okay if you don't want to hold on to something that's hurting you."

Amelia's breath caught.

She stared at her grandmother, frozen, as if unable to process the words.

For a moment, she looked lost. As if she had spent so long convincing herself to endure her life with Michael that the idea of letting go had never truly occurred to her.

Leonard exhaled slowly, shaking his head. "It was my mistake," he said, his voice hoarse. "I thought he would make you happy. I thought I was doing what was best for you." He paused, closing his eyes briefly before whispering, "I'm sorry, Amelia."

Tears slipped down Amelia's cheeks. She shook her head, gripping his hand. "It's okay, Grandpa," she said softly. "I can handle it."

No, you can't, I thought bitterly.

For a moment, there was only silence. Then, Eleanor spoke again, her voice steady. "We will support whatever choice you make, my love."

I saw the way Amelia's hands trembled, how she bit her lip as if afraid to even entertain the thought.

But the seed had been planted.

And maybe, just maybe, this was the moment where she would begin to realize—

She did have a choice.