She was stunning, her appearance and presence impossible to ignore. Though her expression was serene, the sharpness in her eyes froze everyone in place.
As she draped her coat over my shoulders, her gaze fell on my injured hand. Her brows furrowed.
"Who did this to you?" she asked, her voice low and laced with concern.
I stared at her, stunned and unable to respond.
Before I could say a word, a familiar figure stepped forward. Alfred Schumann—the renowned pianist and someone everyone here revered—bowed his head slightly as he approached her.
"Miss Lexington, is something wrong?" he asked politely, his tone almost reverent.
The room fell into stunned silence.
Alfred Schumann, the world-famous pianist, was acting deferentially toward her.
Even Margot, who had spent so much time trying to network with him, looked bewildered.
She stepped forward cautiously, her voice shaky. "Who... who are you?"
