A/N: My thank yous to Team Jazzward for your help with this chapter. xx

DISCLAIMER: Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight, but if you're here, you knew that already. ;)

-FONO-

The next morning, I can hear her before I see her, and I know I haven't had enough sleep for what I'm about to endure. I suppress a yawn as I listen to their conversation, which is more like her on a warpath.

"Michael, where is your piano player?" She huffs. "I warned him yesterday that tardiness would not be acceptable."

"I-I don't know, Miss Swan. Edward is normally very punctual. Can I get you some coffee while we wait?"

"I don't drink coffee, Michael. Do I look like an amateur?"

"Not at all. If I may be so forward in saying, you look very beautiful this morning and I'm grateful you've agreed to perform for us."

He's right. She looks beautiful in her fury, kind of like an angry kitten. Her dark brown hair is neatly gathered, as it was yesterday, but no longer hidden under a fashionable hat. I don't miss her rosy-colored cheeks as her ire spews from her full red lips. My eyes wander over her appreciatively from the fur scarf tied around her neck to another perfectly tailored suit. This one is dark gray and the hemline teases along the silky stockings, hugging the gentle curves of her lower legs. She has on high heels again, but this pair is red and may be my new favorite compared to the black ones I enjoyed yesterday. I keep waiting for her to stomp her foot, but Mike's compliment softens her hard edges, at least for a moment.

Mrs. Swan releases a sigh loud enough for me to hear from the doorway where I'm standing, waiting to make my presence known.

"No wonder your business is failing. You surround yourself with irresponsible saps. Your uncle would never accept this behavior, and you shouldn't either."

"You're right, Miss Swan."

I wonder if I've heard him correctly, when he calls her Miss Swan, but maybe he hasn't met her husband yet.

"Mr. Volturi said there would be a band, and I can't believe you're telling me I'll only have a piano player."

"A band?"

"Yes, Michael—a band. You know . . . musicians who play other instruments like a saxophone, cornet, or bass. And when was the last time you had this piano tuned?"

"I-I don't know. We probably have a record or something in the office, but Uncle Aro didn't mention you needed a band. I apologize and hope we can keep this misunderstanding between us. I had a poster made, announcing your performance, and have been spreading the word about it around the city. I think we'll have a full house, and I promise I'll do what I can to assemble a band for you on short notice."

Mrs. Swan turns toward another man I hadn't noticed sitting nearby.

"We'll see. Felix, what time is it?"

"Nine-thirty," the man responds without looking up from his newspaper.

There he is—the husband, sitting like a sentinel and waiting for her next demand as he gulps his morning coffee.

"Thirty minutes, Michael. Thirty minutes! You should fire him too."

Thank goodness, Mike sent Jimmie, the barkeep, to my apartment, waking me before she stormed over there herself, unleashing her wrath. I had no time to shower or shave and wore my suit from last night without my usual tie, as I couldn't find it. I don't have her music memorized, but let's hope that doesn't set her off too.

"Good morning, everyone." I step from the shadows and make my way to the piano.

"Unbelievable." She throws her gloved hands into the air, shaking her head at my appearance.

"Bad day to be late," Mike grumbles as I pass him.

I set her portfolio filled with sheet music on the stand. "Mrs. Swan. It's good to see you so early this morning. I trust you're ready to work."

She points an accusatory finger in my direction. "Late. You're late. What did I say about being late? It doesn't matter. We're finished here. There's no way I'm performing with someone like you."

"Me?" I'm shocked at her refusal.

She has a lot of nerve blaming me when she's the outsider here, making outlandish demands, and forcing everyone to bend to her will.

"Felix. Let's go. I need to phone Mr. Volturi and get us on the next train to New York. We are wasting our time here."

"Miss Swan—please, reconsider." Mike's eyes widen as his panic grows, and he rushes to stand between her and the doorway. "Perhaps you would afford me some time . . . t-to accommodate your requests and locate musicians who will undoubtedly be up to your standards."

At the mention of standards, she focuses back on me, storming over to the piano, closing the leather folder of sheet music abruptly, and handing it to her husband who tucks it away in a bag.

"I gave you one chance, Mr. Masen. You're out. I will not tolerate this blatant disrespect. If it was up to me, you would never work in this city again."

"Miss Swan, please don't go. I just need a little time," Mike pleads, following closely behind as she prepares to depart.

"I'll be back at one. I trust you will have everyone in place?" She tilts her head, lifting her chin.

"Yes, ma'am. I'll do my best."

"Let's hope that's good enough this time, Michael." She points in my direction. "And I don't want to see him again."

"As you wish. I'll get right on it." Mike leaves the main room for his office where there's little doubt to the number of favors he will need to call in for filling Mrs. Swan's requests before this afternoon.

After he's out of earshot, I focus on her departing figure, not willing to let her get away so easily after sabotaging my job and possibly my career. "You wait right there."

She pauses in the doorway with her back to me.

"Mrs. Swan." I attempt to regain her attention, but there's a tremble to my voice when I only garner the interest of her husband whose eyes narrow as he crosses his arms over his broad chest, waiting for me to continue.

"Masen."

"Sir, if I could speak with your wife for a moment. I'm sure we can resolve this morning's misunderstanding."

Something in my request grabs her attention because she turns around stalking back to where I'm standing near the piano. Her smoldering, beautiful brown eyes relight with the fire from earlier.

"For heaven's sake. This has gone on long enough." She huffs. "Mr. Masen, I have never met someone so inept and misinformed as you. Listen closely, because I won't be repeating myself: I am no one's wife. It's Miss Swan. Felix is my bodyguard, not my husband. He's here to do his job, unlike you, who claims to be a piano player, but has yet to play a single note. Your unprofessionalism cost you this job, and knowing what little I do about you, I am not surprised."

"You know nothing about me."

"I don't?"

"No, ma'am, you don't."

There's a slight smirk as she stands taller, ready for the challenge I've given her unknowingly. She's no pushover, and I'm more than a little worried about what she thinks she knows.

"You are the only son of Edward and Elizabeth Masen who died during the Spanish Influenza pandemic five years ago. Despite inheriting their fortunes and massive estate, you live and dress like a pauper."

She waves her hand toward my wrinkled suit and missing tie. I stare down at my shoes, pondering the validity of her assessment, noticing their dull, scuffed appearance while lacking the shine Father always demanded.

"I can smell you from here, and I have no doubt you've decided shaving is optional for a business meeting, which this is—or was. I'm insulted that you didn't take our rehearsal more seriously, and I sincerely hope it isn't because it was with a woman that you decided not to give one thought to your appearance."

"I can expl—"

"Save it." She cuts me off, holding up her hand. "I'm not finished. You hide away from your own ghosts in a windowless bar, playing stale tunes every evening, to a handful of regulars who wouldn't know good gin if a bottle hit them over the head. You have zero ambition, and your work ethic would probably cause your father to roll over in his grave.

"For someone who had everything laid at his feet, you lack one inkling of what it takes not only to survive in this world but also thrive. Congratulations on your pedigree and fine manners, because it has served you well to this point. But that's more of a reflection of your parenting than any effort on your part.

"Unfortunately, you are a man squandering away his life, and soon enough, his family's fortune. I will never find tardiness or laziness acceptable in a lollygagger like you, which is why this is where we will part ways. Good luck, Mr. Masen. At your current rate, you're going to need it."

A/N: It's not easy to choose only one song from Bessie Smith's amazing collection of blues, full of heartbreak and perseverance. She was a fearless and independent woman who began recording music in 1923, pushing the limits and breaking barriers at every turn. Despite the struggles that life threw at her, she was a survivor—similar to our Miss Swan in many ways. Recorded in 1923, my song inspiration for this chapter is "Down Hearted Blues," from Bessie Smith, her first for Columbia Records, which pulled them out of a financial slump, written by two women, pianist, Lovie Austin, and blues singer, Alberta Hunter. A post with a link to listen can be found on my website, kayrichard dot com, if you're interested.

Thanks for reading. xx