Chapter 2 - The Piano and the Ghost
We drove to my downtown condo—or rather, *Grant's* condo, according to the legal documents. It was 2:00 a.m. The streets of Cincinnati were deserted, slick with rain that caught the neon signs of storefronts.
Ethan parked a block away in a poorly lit alley. "Are you sure you want to go inside? He might be there."
"He won't be," I said, unclasping my seatbelt. "Grant is celebrating his 'victory' at his exclusive club or with his mother, Margaret. Besides, I need my things. Specifically, I need my mother's grand piano."
Ethan raised an eyebrow. "Your piano?"
"It's a Yamaha C3. It was my mother's. When we moved into this luxury cage, Grant insisted it be placed in the back study. More importantly, inside the bench..." I paused, a sudden realization hitting me. "...are my original birth certificate, my college diplomas, and my pre-marriage journal. Documents Grant told me were 'lost' during our move eight years ago."
We slipped into the building's underground parking garage using my key fob. Fortunately, Grant hadn't deactivated it yet—or he was too arrogant to think I'd fight back.
The elevator ride to the penthouse was agonizingly slow. When the doors slid open, the opulent interior of our home hit me like a physical blow. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the glittering skyline of Cincinnati. Minimalist white couches, expensive abstract art, and the suffocating scent of expensive sandalwood candles.
It didn't feel like home. It felt like a museum curated by a stranger.
"Keep watch," I whispered to Ethan, who nodded grimly, positioning himself near the foyer.
I hurried down the hallway to the study. The moonlight cut through the massive glass windows, illuminating the glossy black surface of the Yamaha C3. My fingers hovered over the keys. For five years, I hadn't touched them. Grant had discouraged it—*“Darling, your playing is lovely, but my associates prefer light jazz playing in the background, not your heavy classical brooding,”* he used to say.
I dropped to my knees in front of the piano bench and lifted the heavy wooden lid.
Scores of Chopin and Bach spilled out. I shoved them aside, frantically searching the bottom. My fingers brushed against cold metal. I pulled out a heavy metal lockbox.
*Locked.*
"Claire," Ethan’s voice hissed from the doorway. "Someone’s coming."
My blood ran cold. Heavy footsteps echoed in the private hallway outside the study. The jingle of keys.
"The balcony," Ethan whispered, grabbing my arm. "Move!"
We bolted toward the French doors leading to the high-rise balcony as the main study door clicked open.
"Claire?" a smooth, arrogant voice called out into the dark. Grant. "I know you're here. Let's not make this difficult."
We slipped out onto the balcony, pulling the glass door shut just as the interior lights flickered on. Through the sheer curtains, I watched my husband. Grant Mercer looked as immaculate as ever in a tailored charcoal suit, his blond hair styled to perfection. But his face was twisted into an ugly sneer.
He wasn't alone.
Stepping into the study behind him was a woman in a sharp Chanel suit. Her face drained the remaining warmth from my veins.
It was Dr. Evelyn Vance—no, Dr. Evelyn Cross, a prominent pediatric specialist at Cincinnati General Hospital.
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"She's going to fight the asset division, Grant," Dr. Cross said, her voice chillingly calm. "And if she ever finds out about the boy—about *our* son—we're ruined."
***
