When Layla stepped off the stage, applause still echoing in her ears, it felt as if the entire estate shifted a fraction on its ancient foundations.
She didn't smile. Not right away.
Instead, she walked off slowly, quietly, letting the applause wash over her like an unfamiliar tide. A lifetime of feeling invisible had taught her that when people looked at you—really looked—you had to decide who you were before they did.
Behind her, Adam watched. Not as a boyfriend. Not as an heir. But as someone utterly in awe.
"She just rewrote the room," Yusuf murmured beside him.
Adam nodded. "She always does."
The next morning was unusually quiet.
Layla wandered the west wing of the estate alone, sketchbook in hand, bare feet whispering across creaky wooden floors. Her phone buzzed with new followers, DMs from boutique buyers, a voice message from Mira screaming incoherently with joy—and a missed call from The Fashion Institute of Paris.
A place she'd dreamed of once.
Before he happened.
She sat on a velvet bench by the window, staring out over the gardens.
She should've been thrilled. She'd stood on a stage built by dynasties and made it her own. She'd turned a family weapon into an invitation. But instead of exhilaration, all she felt was a dissonant kind of… stillness.
Not fear. Not sadness.
Something quieter. Something unfinished.
Like a song missing its final chord.
In the music room, Adam sat at the piano, fingers still.
The keys waited for him.
He stared at them, motionless. He'd been trying to compose for hours. But his mind kept returning to Layla's speech. Her words.
Art can be a séance.
He ran his hand through his hair and tapped a single G on the keyboard. Then silence.
It was the silence that haunted him.
For years, music had been his secret refuge. But now, with Layla in his world—no, of his world—it no longer felt like hiding. It felt like offering.
But offering meant risk. Letting someone hear not just the melody—but the scars between the notes.
A knock on the door.
Layla peeked in. "You're ghosting a perfectly good Steinway."
He turned. "It's sulking."
She stepped inside. "How's your ego doing?"
"Also sulking."
She smiled and came to sit beside him on the piano bench. Their shoulders brushed, but they didn't speak. Not for a moment.
Then Adam said quietly, "What you did last night… it was braver than anything I've done in years."
Layla shrugged. "I've been making people uncomfortable since Year Nine. Comes naturally."
"No," he said. "You didn't just speak. You disrupted. On a stage built to silence people like you."
Layla turned to him. "And you watched. You didn't flinch."
"I couldn't look away."
Their eyes locked. Her hand brushed his. And then—
A note. Soft, deliberate. A low E, struck gently by his pinkie.
Layla blinked. "That one's sad."
"It's unresolved," he said. "Wants to become something else."
"Then let's help it," she whispered.
He smiled, and played another.
Together, they began composing something wordless, slow, aching—something that didn't need a title yet.
Something that felt like them.
Later, downstairs, chaos reigned.
The Daily Mail had published a photo of Layla's speech. The caption was pointed:
"The Common Girl Who Dared to Redesign a Dynasty: Layla Bennett Shakes the Sterling House."
Sarah Lovell sipped her tea with a smirk. "Bold headline."
Evelyn read it in silence.
A servant cleared their throat. "Ma'am, there's another matter… Mr. David Sterling has arrived. He's waiting in the winter parlour."
Evelyn's eyes snapped up.
Sarah blinked. "David?"
"Who's David?" Layla asked, just entering the room.
"The younger brother," Sarah said. "The Sterling family secret."
The winter parlour was quiet, save for the ticking of a centuries-old clock.
David Sterling stood by the fireplace, lean and sharp-eyed, with a presence that felt like smoke—subtle, invasive, impossible to ignore. He looked like Adam, but with rougher edges, like someone who'd lived through fire and hadn't decided yet whether he regretted it.
When Layla entered, he turned.
"So you're the girl who made the orchestra pause," he said.
She raised an eyebrow. "And you're the ghost I wasn't warned about."
He laughed. "I like her."
Behind her, Adam entered. "What are you doing here?"
"Family reunion," David said. "Or so Mother pretended. Really, she wants a scapegoat."
Evelyn's heels clicked in behind them. "You weren't invited."
David looked at her coolly. "Neither was truth. But it came anyway."
Layla blinked. "Okay. This feels very Succession."
Adam stepped between them. "You're not using him this time."
Evelyn's eyes narrowed. "You're choosing her over your name."
Adam turned to Layla. "I'm choosing me. And she happens to be the best part of that."
That night, as the moon rose, David found Layla on the terrace, sketching in silence.
"You know," he said, "he never plays for anyone. But he's playing again. Because of you."
She looked at him. "Why did you leave?"
David exhaled. "Because no one ever clapped when I walked on the stage. Not until I walked off it."
Layla folded her sketchbook. "And now?"
David smiled faintly. "Now I'm wondering if it's not too late to rewrite the act."
Layla offered a half-smile. "Every song's got a bridge. Maybe this is yours."
Behind them, the house buzzed—headlines spinning, phones ringing, money shifting.
But on that quiet terrace, between two siblings and one woman who wasn't supposed to matter, the future began humming its own melody.