I stand behind the curtain on stage and stare at the packed room, my sorrow weighing heavy on me. Every time I think I’m okay, something reminds me of Eric, and my heart breaks all over again. It’s been nearly two weeks since I ended things with him, and true to my word, I haven’t spoken to him since. It kills me that I never got a chance to explain. The moment I told him we were through, he walked out, almost like he thought he could make the words disappear by doing so.
He’s called me every day since, but I’d be a fool to pick up. One chance is all Dion gave me, and even that was undeserved mercy. I’m terrified of what he might do if I were to speak to Eric. Between my father and Dion, I’m trapped between two evils. I can’t tell which of the two is the lesser one. Perhaps they are equal in their need to suppress my voice, my needs.
I sigh and smooth out my hair, ensuring not a single strand is out of place ahead of my performance. Every second of every day, I’m expected to play my part in a story I have no say over. The perfect daughter, the perfect Windsor wife. Being with Eric felt freeing, and that feeling was addictive. I’m not sure how to hold on without those little moments between us that felt real in a world that’s designed to deceive.
In the weeks since our breakup I’ve second-guessed myself countless times, continuously wondering whether I should go to the coffeeshop in hopes that he might be there, waiting for an explanation. But then I remember Dion’s warning, and my courage fails me.
“Faye,” my father says, his voice soft but threatening. I turn toward him and keep my face perfectly blank, a hint of fear running down my spine. “Do not mess this up,” he hisses, his hand wrapping around my arm. I bite back a whimper when his nails dig into my skin and stare at my shoes, my mood plummeting further. Some days, merely existing seems too hard, and today definitely is one of those days. “Your performance at practice has been subpar all week. Don’t you dare embarrass me tonight.”
He seems more anxious than usual, and I can’t quite figure out why. I perform at least once a month, and I’ve never failed him before — not with this. Playing the piano has always been my escape. I’ve always found solace in the way my fingers fly over the keys.
A certain amount of control is required to play at the level I’ve mastered, and I’ve always taken pride in that. The only time I truly feel in charge is when I’m performing. The moment I start playing, no one has the ability to command anything of me, not even my father. It’s only then that I’m truly in my element. I might falter during practice, but never on stage, and Father knows it.
I nod nonetheless, breathing a sigh of relief when the stagehand gestures for me to go on. The crowd applauds, but the spotlight blinds me to them. From the sounds of it, hundreds of people have gathered to hear me play tonight, and it humbles me endlessly. I wonder if they realize that they’re the ones who maintain my sanity. Without this, I’d drown in my sorrows.
I lightly trace my fingers over the ivories, my mood mellowing. My performances usually last an hour and a half, and I always love every single second, because every one of those minutes is truly mine. I hope it’s no different tonight.
I smile as I decide to take a risk and veer off-course, playing something other than what I’m supposed to. I know my father won’t like that, because it isn’t what the crowd expects, but it’s what I need tonight. For once, I’d like to play for myself on stage. I know I’ll pay for having the audacity to make a choice of my own, for acting on impulse, but I think it’s worth it. Desperation claws at me so fiercely tonight that there’s nothing I won’t do just to feel alive for a few minutes.
I hear a few soft gasps from the front row as I begin to play Ravel’s Gaspard de la nuit, but then everything fades away, until it’s just me and the beautiful Steinway I have the honor of playing tonight. This specific piece is so difficult to play that it requires all of my concentration, and for a little while, my thoughts finally still. For seven minutes, the heartache fades away, and I stop worrying about what the future might bring.
I wish the relief could last longer than that.
Applause brings me back to the present, and I notice I’m trembling, my face wet with tears that I didn’t realize had fallen. I inhale shakily as I dab at the wet streaks, praying no one noticed.
I steal a glance at the audience, only to be captured by the same deep green eyes that have haunted both my dreams and nightmares in recent days. Dion. He stares back at me from the front row, looking completely captivated.
He’s never seen me play before. I’m not sure he even realized that I’m a pianist, even though he was the reason I was forced to learn. He’s never taken an interest in me before, so why now? I wish he’d continue to treat me the way he used to. I don’t want his attention. I don’t want to be on yet another powerful man’s radar, for him to direct as he pleases. I don’t want to dance to his tune, so I turn back to my piano and play my own. It’s a small act of defiance, but it’s all I’ve got.
My father will be furious, and I risk disappointing the crowd too, since this isn’t what they came to hear, but I start to play the first movement of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. Once more, I manage to forget about Dion, even if it’s only for a few minutes.
It’s a futile endeavor, because the moment the last note rings through the air, my despair comes back to taunt me. Even from here, I can feel Dion’s burning gaze, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t keep myself from wondering what he might be doing here.
Did he change his mind about keeping quiet, or is he just keeping tabs on me? I can’t determine his motivations, and that unnerves me. My father is predictable, and there’s a certain measure of solace in that. I prefer to know when to expect pain — it allows me to take calculated risks.
I’m on edge throughout the rest of the show, my disappointment in myself only perturbing me further. The audience deserves my very best, and I’m withholding that from them because I’m failing to put my emotions aside.
Thankfully, the applause is still thunderous once I bow to them, conveying my gratitude. Instinctively, my eyes land on Dion’s seat, relief rushing through me when I find it empty. If only that feeling could’ve lasted a little longer than the few minutes it takes me to walk to my dressing room.
“Faye.”
I freeze in the doorway, the door half open and my hand still on the doorknob. I should’ve known he wouldn’t just have left. There’s no way I could be that lucky. Dion smiles as he leans back against my vanity, his arms crossed, and I take a moment to study him. Even through the clearly expensive three-piece suit, his muscles are obvious. He’s at least a foot taller than me, and I have no doubt that he could easily hurt me if he wanted to. Will he? Something about him makes me want to put my trust in him, and I’m not sure why. Perhaps it’s the fact that he easily could’ve struck me at The Lacara, yet he didn’t. His words were harsh, but his touch was entirely in contrast to it. It was almost as though a small part of him recognized how close to breaking I truly am.
My father throws me a stern look from beside Dion, and I snap out of it as I walk into the room, letting the door fall closed behind me.
“Please excuse us, Jimmy,” Dion tells my father curtly, his eyes never leaving mine.
Father looks startled for a moment, but then he smiles politely and walks toward me, throwing me a warning look as he brushes past. I’ve never seen him cower like that, not even for a single moment, and it brings me a perverse sense of gratification.
I’m hesitant as I walk further into the room. It suddenly seems so much smaller than before, with Dion’s large frame taking up most of the space. He pushes off my vanity and meets me halfway, his gaze unyielding.
“You were magnificent,” he murmurs, surprising me. I tense when he raises his hand and brushes the tips of his fingers over my cheek. “I should’ve brought you flowers, but I only just made it in time.”
I will myself to bite my tongue, but my resentment for him overpowers my need for self-preservation. “You needn’t have come. I wasn’t expecting you,” I tell him, the contempt in my tone blatant. Why is it that I’m struggling to control my tongue around him these days, when I’ve always excelled at it?
He smiles and cups my cheek, his thumb brushing over my lips. “Yet here I am, my darling fiancée. I had to come and check if you’ve been a good girl for me.” I stare up at him, a hint of defiance taking root in my heart. I don’t let it blossom. “Have you, Faye? Have you been a good girl? Did you keep your word?”
I let my eyes fall closed and take a shaky breath. “Yes,” I say reluctantly. “I haven’t spoken to Eric.”
Dion pushes his thumb against my lips, and I gasp, accidentally letting his finger slip into my mouth. My tongue brushes against it, and his eyes darken. “I don’t want his name on your lips,” he warns.
I wonder if he provokes me on purpose, but that can’t be, can it? A man like Dion Windsor wouldn’t waste time playing petty games with someone like me. My teeth graze against his thumb, and I bite him lightly, wishing I had the courage to do some real damage.
He smirks, looking oddly pleased. “Fucking adorable,” he murmurs. “I can’t wait to find out how you taste, Faye.”
My eyes widen, and he pulls his hand away, grinning wickedly. If I were more courageous, I’d slap that grin right off his handsome face.
“I probably won’t see you again until our annual charity gala next month. Something came up at work, and I have to travel back to London for a few weeks. Keep being good for me while I’m away, baby,” he murmurs. “I’ll make it worth your while.”
What does that mean? I frown at him, but he doesn’t offer any further explanations. He just takes my hand and slowly raises it to his lips, kissing my knuckles, his eyes on mine.
I can’t read him, no matter how hard I try. Yet somehow, I have no doubt that whatever I’d find behind those deep green eyes would only unsettle me further.
