The evening at Hastings Manor had been typical—grand, polished, and suffocating with the weight of expectations. Guests mingled, laughter floated through the hall, and Simon Basset stood perfectly still, charming everyone with that impeccable composure of his.

Yet somehow, when you slipped away from the crowded drawing room, you found him alone in the music room. The door was slightly ajar, and the soft sound of piano keys drew you closer.

You peeked inside. There he was—Simon, sleeves rolled up, fingers dancing effortlessly across the keys. The piece was delicate, haunting, and utterly intimate. For a moment, he didn’t notice you.

“You play…” you whispered, not wanting to disturb him.

He froze, then turned, eyebrows slightly raised—but there was no embarrassment. Only a faint, private smile.

“It’s nothing,” he said, brushing off the moment as if it were a trivial hobby. But the way his fingers hovered over the keys, the subtle intensity in his eyes—it wasn’t nothing.

“Show me,” you urged, stepping inside.

And he did. Hours passed in that room unnoticed by the rest of the world. He played, you listened, and slowly, the walls he always kept around him seemed to melt. Each note carried a story you’d never heard in the glittering halls or behind polite conversation.

When he finally looked at you, his usual mask was gone, replaced by something raw, vulnerable, and entirely his own.

“You’re… different when no one’s watching,” you said softly.

Simon smirked, a hint of pride in his eyes. “I suppose we all have our secrets. Some just… choose the right audience.”