Chapter 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 that hasn’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, and like 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 downstairs for 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.
“You know very well I’ll eat later, love,” he says.
I don’t miss the flush blooming on her cheeks or the subtle smirk playing on his lips as he looks at her. Then, he’s gone.
My sister-in-law clears her throat as she struggles to bring back her attention.
“The cook made…um…beef stroganoff. And blini for dessert—ever had it? It’s my favorite,” she says.
I shake my head, my bob tickling my cheeks as I look around the room aimlessly.
I’m not really in the mood for conversation.
But instead of getting up to leave like I usually do, I tell myself it’s better to stay, to force myself to be around people if need be.
I refuse to let myself stay in this mood any longer.
“He’ll come back, you know. He always does,” she offers, her lips pressed together.
Shrugging, I pick up a piece of bread and rip a small bite.
“Of course he will,” I say. “Just not for me.”
I peer down at the blue diamond on my finger, a buzz of electricity coursing through me as I remember him in that club, feasting on my mouth with slow, languid strokes of that expert tongue.
“Trust me,” Victoria adds. “Even Wolf saw how different he has been since he brought you here. Mikhail cares about you too much. I think that might be his problem.”
“I don’t understand him,” I say. “One minute he’s hot, and then he’s cold, acting like he doesn’t even know me. I thought we were finally past that phase.”
A housekeeper brings me a plate of warm food, placing it in front of me. “Thank you.”
“You know, when I first got here,” Victoria says, “I thought he wanted to hurt me so he could get to Wolf. They fought over their father’s business, over who would become Pakhan next.
But in the end…Mikhail wasn’t this monster he led everyone to believe.
In fact, he was the only one who had my back, even though, to him, I was practically a stranger.
” Victoria leans back in her chair under the dim lights of the table candles and chandeliers.
“I don’t know what exactly haunts him, but I do know he looks at you like he can’t believe you’re real. ”
I reach my hand out to her, and she takes it, squeezing lightly.
Victoria has been so good to me since I got here.
She values my opinion and acts as if she, too, sees a friend in me.
Usually, with Ms. Donatello, we always did things her way, and in the rare cases I disagreed—like with the wedding dress—she gave me the cold shoulder.
I love my mentor, but it’s nice to have someone around my age be interested in my friendship.
“You’ll be fine,” Victoria says, rubbing my hand. “One day soon, when he gets his head out of his ass, he’ll hate himself for all the time you two lost. That’s exactly what he told me when Wolf and I were going through a rough patch.”
My brow rises. I do wonder what happened in this house after she was forced to marry Wolfgang. God knows what she had to endure with no one by her side. If Mikhail was there for her, he must deeply care about his family, even if he chooses to put on this reckless facade.
Ugh. I don’t want another reason to think positively about him.
After dinner, Victoria and I curl up on the couch in the living room, streaming a Christmas movie on her laptop. With the fireplace burning nearby, warm cups of chocolate in our hands, and the snow piling up outside, I’m starting to forget about the rest, if only for a little while.
We make jokes and predict the movie’s cheesy plot twist together, and by the time the screen rolls the credits, I realize I’ve spent two whole hours just enjoying time with a friend.
That night, I climb under the covers a little lighter, and sleep pulls me like the gentle ebb of the tide out toward the open sea.
The next day, I go as far as visiting the estate’s stables with Victoria. She’s a professional equestrian, so she was able to teach me a lot in just a short hour.
I still haven’t mustered the courage to get on the horse, though. Besides, my mind keeps going back to Mikhail, and it’s becoming increasingly hard to stay present.
“She likes you,” Victoria says, brushing her mare’s dapple-gray mane—Alaska—while I watch from the sidelines. “Whenever you want, just let me know, and we can take her out for a ride.”
I nod, snuggling into my coat as the icy wind laps at the thick material. It’s beautiful to see how much my sister-in-law enjoys being here, surrounded by hay and horses. It reminds me of my study room, where I had everything that kept me sane.
“You know, I think I’m just going to go inside for now,” I say, peeling myself off the pillar I was leaning against. “I don’t know how you people handle this temperature.”
She laughs—a husky, comforting sound. “Go. I’ll finish up here, and we can do something else later. Inside this time,” she drawls jokingly.
I smile, caressing Alaska’s snout before leaving them, crossing the white, empty patch of nature by myself back to the house. With every step, my boots drown in the thick layer of snow, sadness trickling into me like the cold spreading through my feet.
Where are you? Why did you leave me?
I look up at the gray sky, letting out a warm breath before continuing my trail. When I finally enter the foyer, I take off my coat and boots, rushing up the stairs into my warm bedroom. I crack the door open, expecting to be hit by a wave of heat when, instead, my eyes widen in shock.
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 to see me, 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. Only on 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. My name. 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. I don’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.
Ever since he came into my life, he has been trying to get me to choose myself, to voice my needs and actually fulfill them. And now, when I make such a drastic change, he doesn’t condemn me. He feels glad I did it, even if it went against his wishes.
Part of me wants to throw my arms around him and repeat that kiss. But the other, still frustrated, part keeps demanding answers, an explanation for the way he acted and, most importantly, for disappearing on me. Again.
“If you think a piano and a compliment is going to cut it, you’re wildly mistaken,” I tell him.
A playful smile curves his perfect lips.
“Fair enough. Tell me, then—what would my wife deem payment enough for my behavior?”
“Everything,” I say, unblinking. “I want to know everything. Things you’ve never told anyone. The things that make you, you. It’s not fair that you know so much about me and I know close to nothing about the man I married.”
A low hum. “Steep price,” he says.
“Well, you should’ve asked the cost of your behavior before you went ahead and displayed it.”
He nods, his forest-green gaze curved with amusement. “Of course. Silly me.”
I raise my chin. “Your words, not mine, Mikhail.”