Broken in Their Hands

Chapter 1

The Ruining

Jenna

Age sixteen

“And now, for the senior division, ages sixteen to eighteen, the winner is...”

I wring my hands as the announcer opens the envelope. I already know which name he’s going to call. Killian Ashcroft. It’s always him. Every single time since I started competing four years ago. Yet I can’t stop hoping.

He pulls out the piece of paper, and disappointment churns in my stomach even before he reads the name.

“Jenna Winters,” he announces.

It takes me a moment to realize what he’s saying, and when the words register, they stun me into place. I just sit there, gawking.

“Jenna, where are you? Come up here,” the man on the stage says.

The girl beside me, who won the intermediate division for her beautiful interpretation of Chopin’s Nocturne in A-flat Major, leans in. “Isn’t that you?”

Turning my head, I meet a warm, friendly smile.

“Congratulations,” she says. “I was rooting for you. Now get up there and claim your prize.” She waves her own trophy.

I get up on shaky legs and approach the stage. The concert hall becomes a blur around me, clapping beating all around me, urging me on. My multi-layered dusty pink dress sways around my hips as I ascend the stairs, the silver streaks glittering under the lights.

Realization kicks in when I set foot on the stage and walk toward the trophy the announcer is holding toward me.

Taking it in my hands is surreal. My first golden trophy.

I have plenty of silver and bronze ones on my shelf at home, but I’d almost given up the hopes of adding a golden one to the collection.

A smile spreads over my face when I turn toward the audience and take a bow. Finally. Hours upon hours of arduous practice since I was six have paid off. My heart skips a beat as I take in the moment. My moment. The clapping, the sleek metal in my hand, and the lights.

But my smile withers when I straighten and my eyes catch on Killian.

The guy who always beats me. The guy whose attention I crave even more than this trophy.

I thought winning would finally make him look at me differently, but his expression remains hard and unforgiving as usual. No, worse. Almost angry.

Why couldn’t I be one year younger than him, so I could win without beating him?

Guilt washes over me as I walk over the stage, feeling his gaze fix on me. This is his trophy, and I somehow took it.

When I reach the floor and look again, his dad is watching me too. Ian Ashcroft. World-renowned pianist and the one massive advantage Killian has over me, making him unbeatable.

Meeting Ian’s gaze knocks the air from my lungs. It’s even worse than Killian’s. Severe, almost castigating, bearing the weight of mature authority. I feel it lingering—a palpable threat—even as I avert my gaze.

I swallow hard, feeling like I’ve done something wrong.

Yet I can’t help looking again, pausing by my seat.

Something about him draws me in. Maybe it’s the eerie similarities to his son—my crush since I was six.

If it wasn’t for the white streaks in his dark hair, the lines in his face, and the competent authority he exudes, it would be easy to mistake the two for brothers.

They share the same sharp bone structure, piercing blue eyes, and an arrogant dismissiveness toward people they consider below them.

Even their dark hair is combed back in the same sleek hairdo, and their suits are the same deep blue color.

Swallowing hard, I sink into my seat. The trophy is heavy in my hands as the girl beside me clinks hers against it, lifting her shoulders and smiling excitedly.

I only manage a half smile. I feel like I’m holding something that doesn’t belong to me—like I’ve stolen it.

The feeling lingers when the event ends and I make my way out of the concert hall, down the pavement, toward my bus.

I’m surprised when I hear a familiar voice call out for me.

“Congratulations. You finally beat me.”

Turning on my heel, I find Killian leaning against a black Mercedes, arms crossed over his chest, smiling at me.

“Um, thanks,” I say, taking a few hesitant steps toward him.

Flashing an even brighter smile, he pushes off the car and approaches me. “Choosing that Rachmaninoff nocturne was a bold choice, but also what made you win. Who knows, maybe you’ll beat me again next time.”

Heat spreads into my cheeks. “Nah, I can’t possibly do that twice in a row.”

“Sure you can.” Something dark flickers across his face, but it’s gone before I can get a good look.

“If you continue like this.” He closes the distance between us with another few steps, and I lower my gaze, my heart picking up speed.

For years, he hasn’t been this close while watching me. “Can I see your trophy?”

I reach into my bag and take it out, watching his perfect, long pianist’s fingers wrap around it.

Sighing, he turns it over in his hands. “I must say, I’m a bit disappointed not to bring this one home myself.” He meets my gaze again, head tilting slightly. “But it’s almost worth it, knowing it goes to someone who plays as beautifully as you.”

I bite my lower lip, my breathing coming fast. I can’t believe he’s finally seeing me. When I walked off the stage, I thought he hated me, but maybe winning was what I needed to make him see me, after all.

He reaches toward my face, and the world stops when he brushes his fingertips across my skin and tucks my hair behind my ear.

“Do you want to come back to my place?” He tilts his head toward the idling Mercedes behind him.

“I’d love to hear you play the nocturne again and talk about your interpretation. ”

I nod, unable to find the words. Suddenly, all my dreams seem to be coming true.

He gives me the trophy, takes my other hand, and leads me to the car. Memories from the first time I met him flicker through my mind as I watch our connected hands. It feels right. Like something I, deep down, always knew would happen again.

He opens the back door for me, and there’s that bright smile again as he scoots in beside me.

His dad doesn’t say anything, just casts a quick, impassive look at us in the rearview mirror, then takes off.

***

I can’t help gawking as Killian leads me through a soaring entryway with a black-and-white tile floor and an iron staircase that curves in elegant contours, modern art on the walls and spotlights embedded into the ceiling.

“My room is up here,” he says, leading the way up the stairs. “Actually, I have the whole floor to myself since Dad has everything he needs downstairs.”

He shows me his bedroom, the spacious bathroom, a workout room, and a gaming room. Each room is at least twice the size of mine and equipped with everything a teenage boy could dream of.

“Do you even have time to use all of that?” I ask when we leave the gaming room.

“Not really. Only when I have friends over.” He takes me by the hand and leads me over the landing to the last room. “This is where I spend most of my time.”

He opens the door, and I slap a hand over my mouth at the sight that meets me.

It’s an open room with white paneled walls, polished pale wooden floors, and tall windows that offer a breathtaking view overlooking the city.

But it’s not the view of the city shimmering at dusk, the tall bookcases full of sheet music, or the magnificent paintings of Liszt and Beethoven that have me gasping.

It’s the grand piano in the middle of the room.

I take two steps forward, then pause. “Can I touch it?”

“Please.” He gestures to the piano bench in a chivalrous manner that makes him seem more like a grown man than a sixteen-year-old boy.

I carefully sink onto the bench, stroking the soft surface. Even the fabric seems more expensive and delicate than my bench at home. Roaming my gaze over the instrument, I take it all in. The glossy surface, the raised lid, and the golden letters above the black-and-white keys. Steinway & Sons.

I gently trace a finger over the letters. “I can’t believe you have a Steinway in your home.”

“We have two. Dad has one downstairs too.”

“Really?” I caress the polished surface and touch a few keys without pressing.

“It’s as good as the one we played at the concert hall. You should try it. Play the Rachmaninoff piece again.”

I barely notice him moving through the room and settling onto the couch by the windows.

All I see is the instrument of my dreams, and it’s every bit as magnificent as I imagined when I press my fingers to the keys and begin to play.

It’s like soaring. The instrument responds effortlessly to every nuance I shape, letting me breathe new life into the music in a way I never can at home.

Even the room seems to embrace the sound more openly, its vastness allowing it to travel and expand the way it’s meant to.

I let it all sweep me away into another world. Five magical minutes.

When I lift my hands from the keys, I’m speechless.

I vaguely notice Killian getting up while I remain in place, staring at the monochromatic pattern, breathing hard from the outlet of emotion.

It’s only when he’s right behind me that I truly notice him.

Notes of eucalyptus drift through the air.

His scent. The one that always has butterflies flapping in my belly.

I gasp when he brushes my hair behind my shoulders. “You look beautiful when you play. All lost in the music.”

His fingers move to my neck, trailing down my sensitive skin. I can’t even think. My focus narrows to him and his touch, and I forget everything as tiny shudders erupt down my arms, drawing up goosebumps.

“You have a beautiful neck. Would you mind if I decorate it a little?”

I make a hesitant shake of my head, having no idea what he means, but knowing that whatever it is, I want it.

“Stay here,” he says softly, trailing his hands over my shoulders as he steps back.

I remain in place while he’s gone, watching the city lights glittering in the darkening evening.