Service Was Mediocre: Reviewing My Billionaire Lover

The Blue Velvet was a sanctuary of shadows. The lighting was low, amber-hued, designed to make everyone look beautiful and secretive.

Avery spotted him immediately. Arnoldo Young. He was sitting in a corner booth, wearing a fedora that would have looked ridiculous on anyone else. He was nursing a bourbon, looking bored out of his mind.

On the small stage, the current pianist was finishing a rendition of "Misty." It was technically proficient, but soulless. The applause was polite, tepid.

"Stay here," Avery whispered to Zoe. "Order a drink. Look mysterious."

Avery walked to the bar. She pulled a fifty-dollar bill from her clutch-one of the crisp new bills from the emergency stash in her safe, a world away from the crumpled ones she'd thrown at Cullen. She slid it across the mahogany to the bartender.

"Tell the band leader I'm a friend of the owner," she lied, her voice confident. "I just want to play one song."

The bartender looked at the fifty, then at her dress. He shrugged. "It's open mic night anyway, honey. Go ahead. Just don't clear the room."

Avery walked to the stage. The Steinway grand piano sat there like a beast waiting to be tamed. She sat down on the bench. It was still warm from the previous player.

She adjusted the height. The spotlight hit her face, blinding her to the audience. That was good. She didn't want to see them.

She closed her eyes. She reached into the deep well of memories-the original Avery's pain, the rejection, the fear of the last twenty-four hours. And her own past life, the years of discipline, the music she had lost.

She placed her hands on the keys.

She didn't play a standard. She played an improvisation in D minor.

It started slow, a single, haunting melody that sounded like rain against a windowpane. Then, her left hand joined in, adding a heavy, dissonant bass line that rumbled in the chest.

Her fingers flew. The tempo increased. It became a storm. It was angry. It was desperate. It was a musical suicide note turned into a battle cry.

The chatter in the room died. The clinking of glasses stopped.

Arnoldo Young sat up in his booth. His glass froze halfway to his mouth. He squinted at the stage, trying to see who was making that sound.

Zoe watched from the bar, her hand covering her mouth. Tears pricked her eyes. She had known Avery for years. She had never known this.

Avery poured everything into the keys. The betrayal. The cold apartment. The look in Cullen's eyes.

She transitioned into a softer, resolving melody. A final, lingering question.

She hit the last chord. She let the pedal hold the note until it faded into absolute silence.

For three seconds, nobody moved. The silence was heavy, electric.

Then, a single pair of hands started clapping. Slow. Rhythmic.

Arnoldo Young.

The rest of the room joined in. The applause swelled, genuine and thunderous. It wasn't polite. It was impressed.

Avery stood up. She offered a slight, professional bow. Her legs felt shaky, but she locked her knees.

She stepped off the stage, intending to head back to Zoe.

Arnoldo intercepted her path. He moved fast for a man who looked half-asleep.

"Who are you?" he demanded. His eyes were intense, searching her face.

"Avery Hall," she said. She didn't look down. She reclaimed her name.

Arnoldo frowned. Recognition flickered. "The tabloid girl? The one who throws drinks?" He shook his head. "No. You play like an old soul. You play like you've died twice."

"Don't believe everything you read, Mr. Young," she replied smoothly.

As they spoke, the heavy metal doors of the club opened.

Cullen Hunter walked in. He stopped dead. He saw Avery. He saw Arnoldo standing inches from her, looking at her with fascination.

Cullen's hand clenched at his side. The jealousy hit him before he could name it.