Yuri strides in, laughing too loudly, Nadia clinging to his arm like a shiny new toy. She’s barefoot, wearing one of his shirts and nothing else. His pupils are blown wide… cocaine, maybe worse. He looks around as if expecting applause.
“Morning, my boy!” he slurs. “What a party, eh? Our Anya’s all grown up.”
I swallow the disgust threatening to rise. “She’s already gone.”
He blinks. “Gone? Where?”
“California. Then London. She won’t be back.”
Something flashes in his eyes—interest, irritation, maybe both—but it’s gone before I can get a better read on it. He waves a dismissive hand. “Good for her. Waste of talent staying here.”
Nadia giggles and curls into his side, whispering something that makes him smirk. Their laughter fills the space between us, ugly and hollow.
I set my cup down carefully, every muscle in my body wound tight. Watching him touch her, a woman I had once touched in the same way… It’s a bitter reminder of what kind of man he is. What kind of monster he would become if he ever turned that interest toward Anya.
No. It’s better this way.
She’s out of his reach. Out of mine.
And for now, that’s enough.
Still, as I leave the table, her voice comes back to me, soft and trembling,“I love you, Alexei.”
I don’t let myself look back. Not yet. Not until the world is mine to control, and no one, not my father, not his ghosts, can ever touch what is mine again.
That day will come.
And when it does, I’ll find her.
Chapter One
Anya
The hem of my satin gown brushes against the floor as the line shuffles forward, a sea of black robes and nervous smiles. The vaulted ceiling of the Royal College of Music auditorium gleams under chandeliers, every crystal reflecting light like a thousand tiny suns.
It’s over. Four years of breathless rehearsals, stage lights, cracked notes, and endless cups of tea gone cold beside the piano. I’ve done it… I graduated with honors from one of the best music programs in the world.
But somehow, all I can think about is what comes next.
My fingers tighten nervously around the rolled program in my hands. I've got two offers waiting for me:
The Metropolitan Opera in New York.
The Los Angeles Opera in California.
Both dazzling. Both terrifying.
California would mean being close to Katya—my sister, my anchor, the one person who’s always believed I could be more than a frightened girl hiding in her own skin. I can alreadypicture her: messy bun, sunglasses, a latte in one hand, waving me into her sunshine-soaked world.
New York, though…
New York would mean going back to the ghosts of my past. Going back to him…
Alexei Balshov.
I swallow hard. I shouldn’t even think his name.
For four years, I’ve tried not to.
