Chapter 18
The reception under the sprawling marquee tent was a masterclass in elegance and unbridled joy. String lights twinkled overhead like a captured night sky, while the clinking of crystal champagne flutes echoed across the manicured lawn. Pavl Gorski, wearing a remarkably well-fitted tuxedo that he looked thoroughly uncomfortable in, stood near the head table raising a glass.
"To the boss," Pavl announced loudly, drawing the attention of the entire room. "And to the only woman in North America who could beat him in a ring, fix his terrible posture, and actually make him smile. May your cellos stay dry and your enemies stay very, very far away!"
A wave of laughter and cheers rippled through the tent. Ezra rolled his eyes good-naturedly, clinking his glass against Nessa’s as she laughed brightly. Later in the evening, the house lights dimmed, leaving only a warm, amber spotlight focused on a small stage in the center of the pavilion. Two chairs sat waiting side by side.
Nessa stood up, unclasped her evening wrap, and walked over to her instrument case. But instead of picking up her cello, she reached inside and pulled out a second, smaller instrument—a vintage acoustic guitar she had secretly spent weeks practicing in her spare time. She walked back to the center stage and looked directly at Ezra, a mischievous glint in her eye.
Ezra raised an eyebrow, walking over to join her on stage, taking a seat in the second chair. "What are you up to, cellist?"
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"You spent months learning how to listen to my music," Nessa smiled, strumming a warm, inviting chord. "Tonight, it’s my turn to learn yours."
To the absolute astonishment of the audience, Nessa began playing a gentle, rhythmic fingerpicking melody—the exact jazz-infused blues tune Ezra used to quietly play on the battered upright piano in his penthouse during his rare moments of solitude. Ezra stared at her, utterly stunned, before a slow, radiant smile broke across his face. Without missing a beat, he leaned into the rhythm, clapping his hands in time with the acoustic groove as the entire tent erupted into rhythmic applause. It wasn't classical Bach, and it wasn't a brutal warehouse sparring session—it was something entirely new, entirely theirs.
