“You don’t have to go back at the end of the week,” I tell her quietly. “You’re not a contract. You’re a person.”
Her hand comes up to cover mine. “I know.” She hesitates, voice trembling. “But saying it to them is like learning a new instrument. The notes exist; my mouth doesn’t know them yet.”
“Then we practice,” I murmur.
When she leans into me, it’s like the first genuine note of something new—uncertain, beautiful, ours.
The touch must give her permission to feel, because she melts, her body shaking with silent sobs. I calm the surge of anger that flashes through me—at the mother who just eviscerated her.
Google said that her family was wealthy and influential. It didn’t mention how they’d carved the softness out of her, one expectation at a time.
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” I murmur, running a hand up and down her back. “Your mom, on the other hand…”
Ana lets out a watery chuckle. “She means well, she just—”
“No,” I interrupt gently. “That’s not meaning well, Ana. That’s control. That’s manipulation. That’s soul-destroying rhetoric designed to keep you under her thumb.”
She pulls back enough to look at me, eyes still damp. “It’s always been like this. The pressure to be perfect, to live up to the family name. I thought… if I just worked hard enough, practiced enough, I could—”
“Could what? Make her happy?” I ask, brushing a strand of golden hair behind her ear. “People like that are never satisfied. Trust me, I know a thing or two about disappointing parents.”
Her brows lift slightly, curious, but I’m not ready to unpack that mess yet.
“You’re incredible, Ana,” I say instead, holding her gaze. “Your talent, your discipline—that’s all you. You don’t owe your success to anyone else.”
She blinks, new tears slipping free. “I don’t know who I am without all of this. Without her expectations. Without the structure.”
I smile, brushing away a tear with my thumb. “Then lucky for you, you’ve got a professional rule-breaker right here to help you figure it out.”
That earns me a real laugh, small and raw but true. Something in my chest eases.
“Thank you, Nyxx,” she whispers. “For listening. For understanding.”
“Anytime, princess,” I tell her, drawing her back into my arms.
We sit here as morning light filters through the curtains, the world still turning quietly around us. I make a silent vow—whatever it takes, I’ll help Ana find her voice. Not the one her mother trained into her, but the one that’s hers alone.
And maybe I’ll find a new one of my own.
Chapter Eleven
Anastasia
For a while, we just sit here. I’ve moved to sit cross-legged on the rug. Nyxx is sprawled on the couch, his guitar resting across his lap like a sleeping animal. The silence feelsthick, full of things neither of us is ready to say.
I gather the sheet music on the coffee table into a neat stack—because doingsomethingkeeps my emotions from crashing. Six days here, and I’ve already alphabetized the spice rack, organized the kitchen drawers, and color-coded the towels. Control is hard to quit cold turkey.
When I glance up, he’s watching me, one knee drawn up, that unreadable half-smile tugging at his mouth.
“You’re still buzzing,” he says. “You can’t just straighten your way out of feelings, princess.”
“Old coping mechanisms die hard,” I admit, aligning the pages one last time. “What now? You going to psychoanalyze me again?”
“Nah, I’ve got something better.” He stretches, the movement lazy and unguarded, like a cat in sunlight. The stretch pulls his shirt taut across his chest, exposing a sliver of skin at his waist. The sight shouldn’t make my breath hitch—but it does. He catches the flicker of my gaze and, for one suspended second, the air changes. His mouth tilts in that slow, knowing way that says he noticed, but he doesn’t call me on it. He just lets the moment hum quietly between us.
“You’ve spent your whole life saying yes to everyone else. Time you learned to say no.”
My brows lift. “And how exactly do you propose I do that?”
