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"Same thing, really."

He noticed her before she sat down. Not because she was the only woman in the room — though she practically was — but because she was the only one who wasn't pretending. Her smile was tired at the edges. Her wedding-set diamond sat on the table like a paperweight.

The piano was gone. In its place, a small stage for flamenco dancers. But behind the bar, washing glasses, was a man with rolled sleeves and tired eyes.

"You look like someone who understands minor keys," he said between sets, sliding a glass of amber liquid toward her.

Emma looked at him — really looked — and saw a man who had never once asked her what key she was in.

"That's not me," she whispered.

Over the next three weeks, Emma did something she never thought herself capable of: she lied. To Mark. To her mother. To her assistant, who kept asking why she was leaving work at 6 p.m. on the dot. She told herself it was innocent. Leo was just a friend. A musician. A fascinating disaster of a man who lived in a walk-up with no dishwasher and a cat named Debussy.

But then came the night he played her a song he'd written. No lyrics yet, just a melody that rose and fell like a confession. He said, "It's about a woman who's afraid to be happy because she's spent so long being perfect."

Inside, the air was thick with aged bourbon and the sound of a piano playing something aching and unresolved. The man at the keys wasn't handsome in the way Mark was handsome. He was rumpled, with shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows and dark circles that spoke of sleepless nights spent composing rather than closing deals. His name, she later learned, was Leo.

"Took you long enough," he said.

He opened it to the last page. The staff lines were filled in. And at the very bottom, where the lyrics should have been, he had written just three words:

She left the ring on the kitchen island. She left the penthouse keys in the bowl. She left her designer heels by the door and walked barefoot to the subway, because that's what people in movies did, and for once, she wanted to be the kind of woman who lived her life like a scene she'd actually choose.

Emma's hand found his on the piano keys. Her ring left a scratch on the lacquer.