The bed, the dresser, and the other furniture…they’re all gone.
I take a timid step forward, my chest squeezing. Because there, in the center of the room, sits the most beautiful black piano, untouched and polished to perfection.
“Oh my God,” I whisper, a lump forming in my throat as I brush my fingers across the keys. Cold. Smooth. Perfectly heavy.
My heart flutters as if I’m giving it back a piece lost a long time ago.
“Will you play something for me?” my husband’s voice says behind me. Heat washes over my body, and I close my eyes, drawing in a steadying breath before turning to face him.
He’s back. Finally, he came back to me.
“That piece you played at the recital. Rachmaninoff.”
“It’s sad. It might make you cry,” I warn him.
He walks farther into the room, his masculine cologne doing dangerous things to my fickle feelings. “Then I’ll cry,” he says. “It’s not like I don’t deserve it.”
A smile pulls at the corners of my mouth. He’s watching me with that gaze again—the one that wants toseeme, really see me. For a moment, doubt creeps in, whispering I might not be enough. But my body remembers what it needs and, like a fish to water, my fingers itch to feel the weight of the keys and conjure the melody.
Slowly, I saunter over to the chair, aware of his presence, of the way he’s focused on me.Onlyon me.
I do my best to pretend he isn’t here as I take in the keyboard and the perfectly constructed details of the piano. Myname. He engraved my name on it—Cecilia Rykov.
I swallow, positioning my hands and feet.
Then, I play.
And just like that evening at the gallery, I find myself in the notes, maybe even more so now after everything. The sound wraps around me, entwining with my heart like the one missing piece it needed in order to beat properly. And the melody simply pours out of me.
There is no hesitation. No stiffness. No excessive pedal. Every single movement does exactly what it’s supposed to, and I deliver the performance with the same intensity as the night of the recital.
I can’t help but wonder if it’s because, once again, he sees me.
Before I take my hands off the keys, before I even turn to see him, I can feel him behind me—his warm, dexterous fingers at the collar of my sweater as he pulls to reveal the skin of my neck, followed by the soft press of his lips.
I shiver.
“Exquisite,” he purrs. “How you’ve never been on big stages is beyond me.”
Biting my lower lip, I close my eyes, enjoying every second of his skin against mine.
“W-Why did you do it? Why did you bring this here?” I ask.
He wraps his hand around my neck from behind, nuzzling his face into the top of my head. “I’m sorry,Lastochka,” he breathes out. “I was a fucking asshole.”
“You left…”
“I know. I—” He groans, stopping himself from continuing the sentence.
“What happened?” I ask, noticing the exhaustion on his face. “Were you in trouble?”
Instead of answering, he cocks his head, analyzing me. “Your hair…”
He swallows, and for a moment, I worry about what he might think. He liked my hair long, and he made that very clear. Idon’t regret cutting it, but I also don’t want him to look at me differently now.
He must see the conflict on my face, because he says, “You look beautiful. I’m glad you did what felt right for you, even if I wasn’t here to witness it.”
My lips part, but it’s my turn to say nothing.
