A list.
No. He wouldn’t do that to me.
“Are you sure that’s what it was?”
Cesare’s tone is gentler than I’ve ever heard him. “I couldn’t think of another reason he’d write down the names of young heirs from families we need alliances with.”
But I can. I can think of many reasons, in fact—like having them killed, or…or…using them as leverage. What I cannot fathom is the idea that my father’s cruelty truly knows no bounds. Because he promised me.
The memory slams into me all at once, disarming me: my father kissing me goodnight when I was little, hovering in the doorway like he had something important to say.“I’ll take care of you, stellina mia. You’ll shine bright for the world to see because you are extraordinary, and I will give you everything you need to succeed in this life.”
It was the last promise he made before my mother died, the only thread of the father I once adored.
Now, that’s gone too.
Cesare’s pitying gaze makes it hard to look at him again. I don’t want his sympathy. I just want the father I used to have, or at least the lie that kept my head above the water.
“I can ask him when he gets back from Rome,” Cesare says carefully.
I nod, but the motion feels robotic, like I’m watching myself from somewhere far away. Voices from the stage room float toward me as we enter, murmurs and laughter. Life going on while mine collapses. Only the urgency to press my fingers to the piano keys manages to pull me forward.
Familiar faces come into view, and I forget all about forcing smiles. I don’t even realize I’ve made it backstage until I take in the lights illuminating the piano in front of the audience. The kind of sight I used to dream of. Pray for. Now, it feels rather pointless. It seems I’m never going to make it too far.
The gallery director welcomes me then disappears, leaving me in another small hallway for a few minutes. My heartbeatdrums in my ears as people take their seats. I breathe in and out, trying to come back to myself, because even if Cesare is right, this is still the very first time I’ll be performing on stage. I should cherish it.
One last time, I flex my fingers.
G-sharp to B. Don’t overpedal. Crescendo. Breathe.
Muffled coughs and murmurs rise and fall. I swallow hard, the sting of nerves keeping me wired.
And then?—
My eyes round at the corners in shock before I even turn.
No.
Not here. Not now. “Oh my God…”
The low whistle—the same whistle that has followed me for weeks—reaches over from behind. I turn slowly, squinting my eyes into the dimly lit hallway, but it’s empty.
“Ten seconds, Cecilia,” the director calls from the opposite direction.
“Wait. Can you bring Cesare? Or someone?—”
“Come on, come on,” he chirps, oblivious. “You can do this.” He takes my hand, dragging me toward the edge of the stage. “You don’t want to disappoint your first audience, do you?”
I hold his stare, throat tightening, his words touching a part of me I hate looking at—the one that still yearns to be enough. Maybe the whistle is in my head. Maybe I am losing it.
Maybe—
My name echoes through the room as someone introduces me on stage. Too late to back down now.
I force my feet forward, and just for good measure, I look back into the hallway one last time.
There’s no one there.
Pull yourself together, dammit.
