"Sit," Alaric commands.
I sit in the chair. It is comfortable, but I feel exposed. Alaric doesn't sit. He paces. He walks around the chair, circling me like a shark.
"Let's talk about the piano," he starts.
"I don't want to talk about it."
"You haven't played in three weeks. Before that, you practiced six hours a day. Every day. Since you were four years old." He stops behind me. "Why did you stop?"
"I didn't stop. My father locked the piano."
"Why did he lock it, Elodie?"
I close my eyes. "Because I was sick. Because I couldn't focus."
"Lie." The word is a whip crack. Alaric leans over the back of the chair, his mouth next to my ear. "He locked it because of what happened at the Winter Gala. The recital."
My breath hitches. No. He can't know that. That wasn't on the tapes. I never talked about it aloud.
"You were playing Rachmaninoff," Alaric whispers. "Prelude in C Sharp Minor. The bells.Dong... Dong... Dong..." He mimics the heavy, dark chords of the piece.
"Stop it," I beg.
"You were perfect. Flawless. The critics were there. The scouts from Julliard were there. Your father was beaming in the front row." Alaric’s hand comes down to rest on my shoulder. He squeezes. "And then... you stopped."
I start to shake. The memory is visceral. The bright lights of the stage. The silence of the audience. The sudden, overwhelming feeling that my hands didn't belong to me.
"You didn't make a mistake," Alaric continues, his voice relentless. "You didn't forget the notes. You just... stopped. In the middle of a measure. You took your hands off the keys. You looked at your father. And you smiled."
"I didn't smile," I gasp. Tears are leaking from my eyes.
"You did," Alaric insists. "I saw the footage, Elodie. It was a small smile. A cruel smile. You realized in that moment that you held all the power. You realized that by doingnothing, you could destroy everything he built."
He moves around to face me. He crouches down so our eyes are level. "It wasn't a breakdown. It was a strike."
I stare at him, stunned. No one has ever said it. Everyone—the doctors, my parents, the press—called it a "nervous collapse due to pressure." They medicated me for anxiety. They treated me like a broken doll. But Alaric... Alaric saw the truth.
"I hated him," I whisper. The confession rips out of me, painful and liberating. "I hated the piano. I hated the practice. I hated that he loved the music more than he loved me."
"Yes," Alaric breathes. He looks delighted. He looks like he just found gold. "Go on."
"I wanted to hurt him," I sob. "I wanted to embarrass him. I wanted to show him that I wasn't his machine. So I stopped. I just stopped."
"And it felt good, didn't it?"
"It felt... powerful."
"And then?"
"And then he looked at me." I shudder. "The look in his eyes. It wasn't anger. It was... nothing. He looked at me like I was a bad investment. Like I was dead."
"And that broke you," Alaric concludes. "You tried to assert power, but his indifference crushed you. So you spiraled. You stopped eating. You started hearing the metronome in your head. You wanted to disappear."
He stands up and walks to the metronome on the table. He winds it.Click. Click. Click. Click.The sound fills the room.
"You aren't crazy, Elodie," Alaric says. "You are just a weapon that backfired on its owner."
He walks back to me. "But here... here, we don't backfire."
