Marriage Named Hatred Chapter 15
From that day on, Annelise began to train extra hard.
She rehearsed as usual during the day; when it ended and everyone else left, she stayed behind.
From seven at night until dawn, sometimes until one or two in the morning.
She played one piece over and over, polished one phrase again and again.
She played until her fingers ached, until calluses formed on her fingertips, until her shoulder burned so badly she could barely lift it.
She did not dare to stop; if she stopped, she would remember that sentence.
And once she remembered it, she would doubt herself—doubt whether she truly was not good enough, whether she really did not deserve that seat.
If that was the case, then she would practice until it stopped being true.
The rehearsal hall late at night was quiet, with only the sound of her instrument.
The empty hall amplified everything; every out-of-tune note sounded especially harsh.
She frowned and started over, again and again.
That night, a little after one in the morning, she was playing a new piece again.
It was a modernist work she had never touched before—its rhythm was strange, its harmony awkward, and no matter how she played it, it felt wrong.
She stopped, stared at the score, and rubbed hard at the space between her brows.
Just then, piano notes sounded behind her.
One note, two notes, three notes—it was her line, the piano repeating exactly the melody she had just played.
Then the rhythm shifted slightly, and the phrase she had been snagging on was carried through in a smooth, flowing way.
She whipped around.
A man sat at the piano in a simple white shirt, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
Light fell across him from the side, outlining him clearly—gentle brows and eyes, a clean, quiet bearing, fingers moving lightly over the keys.
When he finished that phrase, he lifted his head and smiled at her.
“It is too late,” he said softly, his voice not loud but his tone very gentle. “If you keep practicing like this, you will ruin your hands.”
Annelise froze where she stood, staring at the man without blinking.
Annelise froze where she stood, staring at the man without blinking.
It was not because of what he said, but because of that instant just now—the light, the piano, the person on the bench, that tone.
She thought she had seen the Bastian from long ago.
Eighteen-year-old Bastian, standing at the practice-room door, telling her, “You are playing too fast,” and then sitting down to accompany her on the piano.
That had been a very, very long time ago.
So long ago that sometimes she even doubted whether that version of Bastian had ever really existed.
But now this scene crashed into her sight without warning, like a fine needle pricking the deepest place.
She steadied herself and asked cautiously, “Who are you?”
The man stood up, came around from the piano, and walked to her.
He was tall, but his posture was relaxed, without the slightest sense of pressure.
“Theodore Moore.” He held out his hand. “The orchestra’s principal pianist. I noticed you during rehearsal today.”
She instinctively took his hand.
His palm was dry and warm, his grip just right.
His palm was dry and warm, his grip just right.
“Annelise.” She introduced herself politely.
“I know.” Theodore smiled and let go. “I saw the roster when you checked in. You came from back home?”
She nodded.
He did not press further—he did not ask why she had come, did not ask the questions she did not want to answer.
He only glanced at the instrument in her hands, then at the score. “I have coached a lot of people on this piece. At first it always feels awkward, but once you find its pulse, you will realize it is not actually difficult.”
Theodore walked back to the piano, placing his fingers on the keys.
“Do you want to try again? I will play with you.”
She looked at him, her throat tightening a little.
After a moment of daze, she nodded, and once again raised her violin into playing position.
The piano sounded, and she followed.
This time, it really did seem a bit smoother.