Robert was a talented pianist. He’d toured the world since he was eighteen.
During a tour in New York, he met Ella—the concert coordinator. They fell in love.
Their love was passionate, full of adventures. Romantic dinners in Paris. Tours across Europe. Cultural events in Rome. They both loved art and music.
But after two years, the pattern repeated itself. Ella grew tired of hotels and concert halls.
When they finally returned to New York, Ella tried to convince Robert to settle down. She hinted gently at first.
“New York is full of opportunities. No need to travel across the world.”
But her hints grew sharper. She became jealous of his passion for piano.
Robert would spend days and nights rehearsing, even without immediate concerts. Sometimes he’d leave her at a restaurant mid-dinner, saying, “I have an inspiration. I need to play right now and record it.”
Ella became obsessed with alienating Robert from his piano. “You need rest. You don’t need to rehearse so much.”
She grew jealous not just of the piano, but of his talent. How people recognized him on the streets, asked for photos at restaurants.
She’d refuse to let people approach him. Get angry. Pull him away.
One day, Robert’s agent arrived with great news: an invitation for a piano tour across Asia.
Robert was thrilled.
Ella snapped. “I’m tired of tours and hotels! I want to settle down! It’s time to think about having a family, a baby!”
Robert was surprised. He’d never thought about a baby. He was only twenty-seven, his career still taking off. He was full of energy, not ready to settle.
Ella was three years older, ready for a different life.
She decided to put things straight. She was sure he was passionately in love with her—he always asked her advice, they’d spend entire days in bed together.
“Choose,” she said. “Either me or your piano.”
Robert looked at her. He touched her beautiful face, expression pleading. “Don’t make a scene. I love you. I want to be with you—”
“Choose. Me or your piano.”
Robert backed off. After a minute of silence, he said, “I choose the piano.”
He left.
Ella was shocked. She’d been certain he’d choose her.
She fell to her knees and screamed with rage.
Two days later, Robert had a concert in New York—his final performance before the Asia tour.
When he finished playing, the audience erupted in applause. He stood, smiled, and waved.
Ella walked onto the stage.
She pulled out a gun and shot his hand.
CRACK.
The gunshot echoed through the hall. Robert screamed and fell to his knees, blood pouring from his fingers.
Ella stood over him, rage shimmering in her eyes. “Now you can choose your piano.”
She didn’t fully realize what she was doing. Only one thought consumed her: he would never play again.
Security tackled her. The audience screamed. Paramedics rushed the stage.
At the hospital, surgeons told Robert the devastating news: the bullet had shattered bones and severed tendons. He’d never play professionally again.
Robert sat in his hospital bed, staring at his bandaged hand.
He realized he’d never truly known Ella. She hadn’t loved him—she’d loved his fame. And when she grew tired of that fame, she tried to imprison him.
But he’d been too free. And she couldn’t accept his freedom.
So she’d destroyed what made him free.
The piano. His career. His hands.
Ella was arrested, charged with assault with a deadly weapon. Ella was convicted. Three years in prison.
Robert underwent months of physical therapy. His hand healed partially, but the damage was permanent. He could play simple pieces, but never again at a professional level.
Ella had made sure that if she couldn’t have him, the piano couldn’t either.
In the end, they both lost.
