I might be living in his place now, but our lives are separate, as they always have been. I’m the one who gets directed and tucked away, and he’s the one who makes the decisions I’m not allowed to see or hear about.
Ivan is someone who operates how and when he wants, be it for power or survival.
One way or another, when the moment comes, he’ll always choose what benefits him. Not me.
I repeat those very words to myself all the while I go through the motions, ordering something to be delivered on the empty phone he gave me for this very purpose, with most other things blocked on it. Eventually, the food was brought to me by one of his men, and when the door opened, I didn’t even consider running.
Whether that’s out of habit of actually keeping my word and doing what I’m told, or simply because I’m emotionally tired from being left in the dark, I don’t know, and I don’t really care.
My solo meal is weirdly tasteless, and before long, I grow bored of it, along with mindlessly watching TV.
With it being too early to go to bed yet, I grab the violin case with deliberate care, taking a long moment to bask in just how gorgeous it is. Music has always been the one thing that belongs to me, even if this instrument is technically his.
He can tell me all he likes that it’s a gift, but in the back of my mind, I know it’s just something to pacify me.
Either way, I tuck the violin beneath my chin and begin to play.
Eyes closing, I breathe slowly and measuredly, working through the stiffness of my movements. Letting muscle memory take over, the notes of a well-practiced song fill the condo, but as hard as I try to concentrate, I can’t fully.
Right when I get back into the proper rhythm, I hear Ivan’s voice again, quiet but firm. I see the way he looks at me like there’s so much he wants to say, yet he can’t quite get it out. How he tries to hide the fact that I’m a problem he won’t admit to.
Still, regardless of how many times this happens, I force myself back to the present, back into the sounds I pull from the violin.
After getting through the first mechanical-sounding song, the next one comes out smoother, and the third has me losing track of everything else around me.
Before long, I’m focused enough to forget all about Ivan and all the things he keeps from me, playing until my fingers ache. Until all that’s left is the quiet ache for more.
Performing was always an escape for me, but more so than that, it gave me a reason, and it made me feel like myself despite every rule and expectation put over my head.
By the time I stop, I pull in a deep breath and lower the instrument, feeling both raw and fulfilled.
Then the shuffle of clothing behind me makes me freeze.
Spinning fast enough to almost drop the violin, I clutch it closer as my breath hitches, and I find Ivan standing at a distance with a grin on his face. I blink back at him, taking far too long to finally speak. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.”
“I wouldn’t call it sneaking,” he says, leaning his hip against the side of the nearest sofa. “You were just lost in your own world.”
“How long have you been standing there?” I ask, urging my pulse to slow.
“Long enough…I didn’t want to interrupt.”
“That’s a first.”
Ivan shrugs, completely unbothered. “You were focused, and I wanted to listen.”
Not knowing how to respond to that, I stand there a bit awkwardly, taking him in. He looks different than he had earlier, like the day has suddenly caught up with him and now he’s trying to brave it. Whatever he walked into earlier clearly had some effect, even if he’s trying to cover it up.
After a beat, he steps a bit closer, taking his time. “You’re talented, Mila.”
The compliment catches me like a cut and salve at once, and I pull my attention away, busying myself by returning the violin to its case. “You’ve said that before.”
“Because I mean it,” Ivan says a bit softer now, hands in his pants pockets. “You don’t just play for the sake of knowing how. You put a lot of emotion into it.”
Pausing, fingers hovering over the gold clasps, I swallow hard before securing them. “It has been my escape for a long time.”
Instead of interrupting, Ivan just looks at me like he’s actually interested in hearing what I have to say.
“Even before everything,” I continue, not knowing why I’m still sharing, but also not cutting myself off either. “Before Dad died, and before my brothers decided I was worth more traded than kept. I got to be me on stage, even if I was just at some rundown lounges and clubs.”
