The Platonic Trap novel Chapter 54

Her voice was like a rush of cold, pristine spring water, instantly washing away the exhaustion and chaos that had clouded his mind.

The tight lines of his brow smoothed out. Alistair's tone softened slightly. "It's me."

"Uncle Alistair!" Celia's voice pitched up in pure, unadulterated delight.

"Mm," Alistair hummed, holding the phone as he leaned back into his leather chair, shifting into a more relaxed posture. "Is the showcase over?"

"Are you done with work?" she asked softly, sidestepping his question.

"Just finished," he replied, his voice deep and grounded. "Do you need Ken to pick you up?"

"Do you still want to come see me perform?"

"Oh?" Alistair's voice grew rougher, an unconscious, gravelly warmth slipping into his tone as the corners of his lips twitched upward. "You haven't gone on yet?"

"Hehe, I got lucky! I drew the very last slot, so I'm up next," Celia paused, her voice turning sweet and vulnerable. "I really want you to be here."

By the time he ended the call, Alistair was already on his feet, letting Ken assist him into his suit jacket.

The private elevator whisked them smoothly down to the lobby.

Ken brought the car around, and the billionaire slid into the backseat.

The headlights flared to life before the sleek vehicle merged into the bustling night traffic, tearing through the city.

--

Capital University, Theater.

Alistair stepped into the back of the massive auditorium just as a few haunting piano chords echoed through the room. Standing at the very highest vantage point, his eyes instantly locked onto the girl on stage.

She wore a pure, unblemished white dress. The fabric had been slashed and torn, yet the chaotic, jagged edges only accentuated her impossibly delicate, slender curves.

The spotlight spilled over her like liquid moonlight, plunging the rest of the theater into total darkness.

At first, it was just the sparse notes of the piano. She rose on her toes, letting her body stretch and flow with the rhythm.

She moved like a wild jasmine trembling in a harsh wind, like ripples blooming across a tranquil lake.

As the tempo picked up, she spun, her cascade of ink-black hair catching the light like a halo. The shredded hem of her dress whipped around her like a bed of thorns—sharp, dangerous, yet agonizingly beautiful.

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