Five years ago...
Narrator
One cool evening, Elizabeth attended the Holy Communion service at church.
She sat among her fellow nuns, quietly listening to the priest as he preached the gospel. She opened her Bible at the appropriate times, jotting down key points in the margins.
When the sermon ended, the priest invited her to the pulpit for the benediction.
She stepped forward, quoted several scriptures, and then called on the congregation to rise for the final prayer.
> "The Lord's Prayer:
Our Father, who art in heaven,
Hallowed be Thy name.
Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done on earth, as it is in heaven.
Give us this day our daily bread,
And forgive us our trespasses,
As we forgive those who trespass against us.
Lead us not into temptation,
But deliver us from evil.
For Thine is the kingdom,
The power and the glory,
Forever and ever. Amen."
"...Shalom," she added, blessing everyone present before stepping down from the pulpit.
People flooded out of the massive cathedral like water from a breached dam. Elizabeth stood just outside the hall, pulling out her phone to book an Uber when a sudden, sharp pang struck her chest.
Her asthma.
It was happening again—after months of silence.
Frantically, she dug into her black satchel, gasping for breath as the attack escalated. Her hands trembled as she searched deeper. She hated this. Hated making a scene, especially at church.
At last, her fingers closed around the inhaler. She pressed it to her lips, inhaled deeply, and waited as the relief slowly settled in.
She straightened up, catching her breath. A mixture of embarrassment and fear washed over her. Had anyone seen that?
"Elizabeth."
Startled, she turned to the familiar voice. It was her priest.
"Hi, Father," she said, exhaling.
"You look troubled. Is your asthma acting up again?" the old man asked, his tone gentle.
She gave a small, tired smile. "I'm managing, Father. It's getting better."
He took her hands in his, closing his eyes. "Father Lord, this is Your daughter. Please heal her and remove every trouble from her life. In Jesus' name we pray—Amen."
"Amen..." she echoed, just as her phone buzzed in her satchel. "Sorry, I have to take this," she said quickly.
The priest nodded and moved on to attend to another parishioner.
She pulled out her phone, but the call had already ended. She glanced at the screen: no name, no ID.
Then, it rang again. Same number. Still no caller ID.
She hesitated, debating whether to answer, but then a familiar voice came through:
"Raven. Send the instrumentalist to my humble abode. Fifteen minutes. Don't worry about the funds—they're very attractive."
Click.
It was Sebastian.
Elizabeth stood frozen.
He sounded out of breath, like he was mid-workout—or something more sinister. In the background, she thought she heard a woman crying softly.
What was going on?
Then it hit her.
Oh God. The instrumentalist.
She remembered the lie—how she'd casually mentioned it in the car, never expecting him to remember. But he did. Apparently, Sebastian didn't forget anything.
How was she supposed to explain now? That she was the instrumentalist?
Panic crawled up her spine. She prayed for a revelation, a way out. Nothing came.
"Shit," she whispered, sweat beading on her forehead. Two minutes already gone.
She had no other option—she had to go there herself and act the part.
She quickly booked an Uber, and within ten minutes, she arrived at Sebastian's mansion.
It was grand, powerful, commanding. The kind of place that whispered of danger through its silence.
Men in black patrolled every corner. Some stood completely still, like statues.
She had only been here once—when she drove Sebastian home. And now she was back, for a far different reason.
The Uber dropped her in front of a massive, high-tech gate. She swallowed hard.
She had driven in before, but never set foot on the actual grounds.
The atmosphere was oppressively calm. The kind of solemn silence a reader or monk would adore—but also the kind that made her skin crawl.
As she stepped toward the gate, a red laser beamed from above, scanning her.
Shielding her eyes with one hand, she clutched her satchel with the other.
A moment later, the gate opened on its own.
Should she go in?
Slowly, she stepped forward, her footsteps echoing in the eerily quiet compound. The walls were high and unforgiving. Escape would be impossible.
Her eyes scanned the sculptures placed at different corners—strong men, warriors, legends. Each spoke of dominance and control.
She fastened her steps and arrived at a massive brown door.
Just as she raised her knuckles to knock, it opened.
An old Polish man, dressed in a white shirt and black pants, stood there.
How did he know she was about to knock?
This place was creeping her out.
The old man's eyes trailed down her outfit: the white cloak, rosary, coif, and the high black boots. Her ankles were hidden beneath the hem of her long garment.
"Come in," he said with a thick accent.
She offered a polite smile and walked in, her eyes absorbing the interior—dark, masculine, void of anything remotely feminine.
"Follow me. The boss is waiting," he said, leading her down a different corridor.
The design shifted—sleek, modern, grey and white. From where she stood, she could see the ocean, its breeze sweeping through the open floor-to-ceiling windows.
In one corner stood a collection of instruments: cello, guitars, violins, a grand piano.
Elizabeth's heart lit up. It was like seeing a long-lost friend.
She had loved instruments since she was five. She could play almost all of them—except the saxophone and xylophone.
"Wait here. He'll be with you shortly," the man said before leaving.
She barely noticed him go. Her eyes were locked on the grand piano.
Drawn like a moth to flame, she approached it. Her fingers traced the dust-laden surface. It hadn't been played in a long time.
She blew gently on it, sat behind the keys, and opened the lid.
Perfect.
Without thinking, she placed her fingers on the keys and began to play Carol of the bells by Lindsey Stirling.
She didn't need to look. She was a natural.
Eyes closed, soul open, she let the music flow. The ocean breeze carried the melody, and for a moment, she felt free.
Unbeknownst to her, someone was watching from the shadows.
Sebastian stood, arms folded, observing in silence.
As the piece ended, he began to applaud—slowly, deliberately.
Startled, Elizabeth pulled her hands away from the keys. Her heart skipped.
Sebastian.
He was shirtless, covered only in tattoos and a towel wrapped loosely around his waist.
She quickly averted her gaze.
"Forgive me for playing without permission, sir," she said, still looking down.
He stepped closer. "Your dress tells me today was Sunday?"
She nodded slightly but didn't raise her eyes.
He frowned. "Is there something wrong with my face?"
"No, sir," she said quickly. "It's just... my religion forbids being in the presence of a half-naked man."
"Ah." He raised a brow. "One moment."
He left and returned moments later in a white T-shirt and cotton shorts. "You may stop staring at the floor now. The devil isn't coming out of it."
Elizabeth glanced up, slightly relieved, but still too shy to meet his gaze.
"What's your name?" he asked.
She hesitated. A fake name would be useless—he'd find out eventually.
"Elizabeth," she said softly.
He nodded as if noting it mentally.
Then he sat on a nearby sofa and lit a cigarette.
Smoke filled the room.
Elizabeth cringed inwardly. As an asthmatic, this was her worst nightmare.
"You know," he said between puffs, "you remind me of someone—Raven. The guy who drove me home yesterday. He smelled of lavender... like you."
Elizabeth froze.
"He had your eyes. Same feminine voice. Same Brazilian accent."
She panicked.
He continued, "I want you to play for me whenever I'm in the country. My chauffeur, Luca, will pick you up and drop you off. You'll be well paid."
She simply nodded.
"Leave your account details with the doorman. You may go now."
"Okay, sir," she said, clutching her satchel, rushing for the door.
"Stop," he said suddenly, putting out the cigarette.
His face darkened, gaze sharp.
"Sir?" she asked, her voice trembling.
He didn't respond. Instead, he picked up his phone and called someone. The conversation was in Polish—smooth, sharp, and impossible for Elizabeth to decipher.
Less than five minutes later, a woman in her late fifties entered the room. She wore a traditional black and white maid uniform and held a fancy paper bag in her hands.
"Your order, boss," she said with a small bow.
With a slight wave of his hand, Sebastian dismissed her.
The woman turned to Elizabeth and handed over the bag.
Elizabeth blinked, confused. "What's this?"
"In that bag are some personal necessities," Sebastian said flatly, still not meeting her gaze. "Go to the last room on the right side of the passage. Handle what you need to before you leave."
His voice was calm, emotionless—but firm.
Elizabeth, too stunned to speak, simply nodded and followed his instruction.
When she entered the room and opened the bag, her heart skipped.
Sanitary pads. Fresh towels. A change of clothes.
She stared at the contents, dumbfounded.
Then it hit her.
Oh God. My period.
She hadn't noticed it earlier—not with everything that had happened. But now, as she began to change, she saw it.
A deep red stain soaked the hem of her white cloak.
She stood still for a moment, stunned with disbelief and embarrassment. "Shit," she whispered through clenched teeth.
First the asthma, now this?
Was life out to humiliate her?
She pulled out the new cloak and coif from the bag. It was identical to the one she'd worn earlier—same fabric, same religious cut, same perfect fit.
How did he know her exact size?
She looked at her stained robe again—anger and shame surging up her spine.
And yet, somewhere beneath the heat of her embarrassment, a strange thought pressed through.
He noticed. And cared. Without a word, without judgment.
A man like Sebastian—distant, cold, fierce—had gone out of his way to take care of something so personal, so sensitive.
That confused her more than anything.
He was unreadable. Dangerous. But also... considerate?
With the fresh cloak wrapped around her and her pride slightly restored, she gathered her things and prepared to leave.
She didn't say a word to him. But in her heart, she whispered a quiet thank you.