But I don’t stop playing.
For the first time in my life, I’m not performing.
I’m not pretending.
I’m not trying to please my father, or repair my family name, or survive Dimitri’s storms.
I’m just…here.
Falling apart softly, quietly, honestly.
In a room where no one is watching.
Or…I think.
Because when the melody ends, soft and trembling, someone claps. I whirl around so fast the bench screeches.
Dimitri stands in the doorway—hands in his pockets, tie loose, eyes unreadable. But the softness in them? I feel it like a warm hand around my ribs. He steps forward slowly.
“You play beautifully,” he says, his voice rough, like he hasn’t spoken in hours.
I shrug, wiping my cheeks with the back of my wrist. “It’s the only thing I know that doesn’t lie.”
He pauses, the line hitting him somewhere deep. Then he sits beside me on the bench, close enough that our knees touch. His thumb brushes under my eye, wiping a tear I missed.
Gentle. Too gentle.
“I didn’t know you liked music.”
I swallow. “It was my mother’s passion. It…reminds me of her.”
“You miss your mom?” he asks quietly. “I can take you to see her.”
I blink. Hard. He’d risk that? After what happened? After everything he said?
“Even after finding out my family was involved in the shooting?”
He nods, jaw tight, eyes steady. “Yes. As long as it’ll make you happy.”
As long as it’ll make me happy?
What version of Dimitri is this?
I don’t trust it. I don’t know it. But I feel it.
I shake my head. “Let’s hold on until we get to the bottom of this. I don’t want to put you in danger too.”
He studies me for a long moment. Then—
“Can I show you something?”
“Yes,” I whisper.
He chuckles softly, like he expected me to say no.
Then he turns to the piano, rests his fingers on the keys—and plays. God. The music that pours out of him steals the air from my lungs. Rich. Dark. Devastatingly beautiful.
I gasp, hand flying to my chest.
