Page 77 of Bleed with Me

When did I start to care?

My existential crisis was interrupted at the best possible moment by the very reason behind it. Dorian texted me. After hours of giving his attention to patients, he remembered my existence.

Handsome husband: Sorry, ma vilaine. Work got in the way. Is everything okay?

My fingers typed the stupid reply of their own accord, putting every ounce of my frustration into it.

Nina: I took care of it. You stay with your patients.

At least I didn’t write precious patients. That would expose my stupid jealousy and possessiveness.

Handsome husband: Is it just my imagination, or are you angry at me because I work?

I threw the phone on the sofa with a groan, refusing to entertain the question. Because yes. I was furious that he gave attention to others instead of me.

He was mine. He belonged to me. Why did they have him while I couldn’t?

Swallowing the urge to scream in irritation, I sat behind the piano. My fingers traced the keys, the familiar coldness seeping into my skin.

For a moment, I hesitated. It had been more than three years since the accident, since my dreams of becoming a world-renowned pianist were shattered. I’d carefully built walls around my heart, hiding the pain of losing the ability to perform. That barrier blocked everything that could hurt me, shielding me from the constant reminder of what I lost that night.

The silence around me stretched, as if even the instrument was waiting to see if I still remembered how to transform simple tones into full-blown acts.

Pressing the first key, a low, trembling note echoed through the room, vibrating deep inside my chest. Another followed. Then another. Slowly, uncertainly at first, like testing the ground beneath my feet after years of standing still. But it didn’t take long. The melody found me, or maybe I found the path to meet it halfway.

It started soft, mirroring the tight coil of frustration in my chest. The notes clashed like thoughts I couldn’t silence, like the constant pull of him in my mind. Dorian. Always Dorian. Every chord carried his name, every shift in rhythm echoed the chaos I brought into his perfectly calculated world.

My fingers moved faster, ignoring the disability of my right ring finger. The music deepened, growing darker, heavier, the melody twisting into an obsessive, consuming surge. It burned through me, exactly like he did, relentless, impossible to ignore or to escape.

But with the thought of him, the tones softened. They weren’t calm. There was no calm with him. It was different. A dangerous, unfamiliar emotion that made my chest clench and my breath hitch.

Love.

The uncertain feeling bled into the melody, reshaping it into something I didn’t recognize anymore. My control slipped. My hands faltered for a fraction of a second before crashing back onto the keys, the sound rising, filling the apartment, swallowing every rational thought left in my mind.

There was nothing but the tune that burst right from my soul. The genius in me, capable of creating ballads that would turn the audience into a crying mess, composed without my intervention. The hibernating prodigy, admired by people who would cross the ocean to see me perform, woke up, pouring my heart through the instrument.

All my fears, pain, and despair were told through the music, complemented by touches of unwelcome emotions caused by the man who owned me. Even this piece, composed from nothing but pure irritation, belonged to him.

I didn’t finish it. Right before the grand ending, I cut it off. The last tones resonated through the space, and silence settled.

Reluctantly, I took a piece of paper to write down the notes. With every move of the pen, I heard them in my ears again, replaying in my head over and over until a buzzing phone disrupted the trance. My hand stopped, hovering over the paper, but the cell didn’t stop. With a sigh, I walked to the sofa, reading the caller ID. Lucas.

“Where are you?” I barked into the phone, plopping into the decorative cushions. “I’ve been calling you since this morning.”

“I’m at Matilda’s place,” he answered calmly, ignoring my attacking tone.

“Matilda?” I echoed, my brows furrowing in confusion. “Matilda Santangelo?”

“Yes,” he confirmed. “She asked me for help. Wanna join us?”

“Can I?” I put my feet on the coffee table, crossing them at the ankles. “I’m forbidden to contact her.”

Granny Santangelo visited me six months ago, after my grandpa’s actions against Zyon Zhumagulov were made public, and banned me from contacting her granddaughters. We grew up together, and it was a low blow, but I couldn’t do much. When I secretly contacted them, Diana Santangelo, Matilda's older sister, told me not to push my luck. Every Italian family was against us. So, I kept my distance, hoping it would pass over time.

“Yes, you can come,” Lucas said, dispelling my concerns.

“I’m on my way.”