Only later would he understand that she had never needed him to finish what he started. One lash had been enough. Once he’d crossed that line, she could always push him further the next time.
24
Cecilia
The world is still under falling snow. Perched up against the window frame, I watch two melting snowflakes race each other down the glass.
It’s been five days since I last saw my husband. Every morning, I wake up in his room, alone and unsure. I hate that I don’t know where he goes when he chooses to be away from me. I hate even more that I worry about his safety, that I keep replaying the wedding night in my mind.
Part of me hoped he’d come to me after our fight, that he’d show me he cared, even if just a little. But he hasn’t—of course he hasn’t. In the end, maybe I was wrong with the things I said and wildly misinterpreted our kiss, just like he suggested.
No matter the case, I’ve decided I’m done thinking about it. I’m done moping around this place, waiting for someone to tell me what to do. I was so used to my father’s strict rules in San Maleno, I expected to be treated the same in this place. But thathasn’t happened. I’m alone now, and this is my new life—maybe it’s time to accept the new reality.
A knock sounds at my door. I push my arms into the window frame, turning to the sound.
“Yes?”
Svetlana peeks her head through the cracked door, a pair of scissors in her hand.
“Brought you what you asked for. Would you like some food, too?” she asks. “The cook made blini.”
I shake my head. “No, thank you. I’m not hungry.”
She nods, looking around the room as if she wants to do more but doesn’t know what exactly. I offer her a reassuring smile, and eventually, she leaves the scissors on the dresser and leaves.
I don’t give myself any more time to think as I pick up the object and head into the bathroom, halting in front of the mirror. My reflection stares back at me in awe, as if I look that much different from the last time.
Maybe I do.
The dark circles under my eyes have eased a little, for one. Sleeping in a cold room has proven to be a lot more helpful than I thought. I’ve also gotten rid of my stalker, ironic as it may be, and I haven’t had to worry as much about doing or saying the wrong thing here. Overall, my body took all the recent changes much better than I expected.
One thing is missing, though, and it’s impossible not to notice. I always had a spark in my eyes from doing what I loved, and now that my piano is gone forever…
I swallow the lump in my throat, straightening my shoulders.
They say hair holds a lot of memories, a lot of trauma. As I take in my long, chestnut locks, I realize this image of myself no longer fits my reality. I don’t think I want it to anymore.
Cecilia Ferrara has always been somebody’s puppet. Her entire life was dictated from the moment she was born, andlike a broken doll, she let others stay in charge, afraid of the consequences of saying no—or yes, or anything at all.
But this hair…this long, beautiful hair my husband likes so much… It doesn’t belong to Cecilia Rykov.
So, I run the scissors through it, watching the first dark lock fall into the white sink.
When I go downstairsfor dinner, Wolfgang and Victoria are already at the table. The seat my husband usually sits in is still painfully empty. I try my best not to let it get to me.
“Oh,” Victoria says, putting down her fork. “Wow. You?—”
Offering a faint smile, I drag my chair back across the floor.
“You look incredible,” she beams, and I appreciate her not making a big deal out of it in front of Wolfgang. His presence still unsettles me, even after being here for so long.
“Thank you,” I murmur. “I haven’t had a haircut in forever. Am I disturbing you, by the way? I can take my plate into the other room if you want to be alone?—”
“Have a seat,” Wolfgang says, peeping at his phone as he gets up. “I’ve got something I need to take care of.” The way he says it, though, makes it feel like he might be leaving for my comfort.
“You haven’t even eaten,” Victoria objects.
He stoops to place a kiss on top of her head, stroking her chin gently.
