Chapter 42
THE LIE, THE COVER
V appears in my doorway early the next morning, shadows looming under his eyes. I can’t tell if it’s pride or concern that crosses his face when he sees I’m already up. I decide in this moment not to tell him that I was up the second the sedative wore off.
Not just up—totally wired. To the point I couldn’t sit idly by until the program decided it was time to wake.
I thought about reaching for the book still tucked securely under my mattress, but I doubt stories about creatures that tear themselves apart would do anything for the ache burrowing beneath my skin.
“Good morning, Maysie.” He offers a curt nod. “It’s a relief to see you back where you belong.” A rehearsed response, one he’d never use of his own volition. The facade he wears today is wrinkled at the edges. His eyes dart around the room like he can distract me from it.
There’s an intricate dress tucked under his arm, a shade of blue so deep it would put oceans to shame. V looks me up and down, fingers brushing his thigh and tapping twice. I realize he’s waiting for me to respond.
“Good morning,” I muster. It’s polite enough, passable. “Where’s Mister M?”
I don’t really care, but I feel obligated to ask.
“Your mentor is dealing with a…” He pauses, eyes darting to the corner again.
“Situation. I’ve been asked to prepare you for the ball tonight in his absence.
You’ve been resting for some time since your fall.
” His jaw tenses, and I know he wants to say more.
We stay like that for a moment, unspoken emotions tangling thick.
“My fall?” I ask, breaking the awkward silence with an equally awkward question.
“Yes, I do hope you’re feeling better. It must’ve been a nasty one, for you to be gone so long.
Poor thing.” The words are painfully fake.
So exaggerated that it sounds more like something Mister M would say.
He taps his leg again, two steady beats.
A cue of some sort, I just don’t remember which one.
His eyes are fixed above me. I follow his gaze, unsettled to find my room’s camera whirring, blinking a steady red.
The one in my room has never been active.
Then it clicks. The performance. The lie. My cue. Someone’s watching us.
I nod in acknowledgement. His shoulders drop, just a fraction, and the act continues. V strides forward, holding the dress out.
“We have much to do,” he continues. “Get washed up and dressed. Your prep session isn’t until later, but I trust you can make yourself presentable.”
“Yes, sir.” I brush past him, grabbing the dress in a flourish.
“I’ll be waiting outside. Be quick about it.” He disappears without another word, leaving me with my instructions.
The morning hours are consumed by private lessons on etiquette, drills on dancing, dress alterations to the exquisite gown that already fit me perfectly.
No time to process. No room to breathe. I don’t even give myself time to think until I’m finally left alone with V in the practice room.
No enforcers, no watching eyes. Just a piano and a laundry list of unasked questions.
V is hovering above the bench, flipping through the endless catalogue of songs, only stopping to point to ones he thinks the investors would like.
I clear my throat. “So, I fell?”
“Not my idea,” he sighs, pressing a hand to his temple. “Ashford is an idiot; I can’t believe Carr let him pick the narrative.”
“What kind of fall takes someone out for two weeks?” I almost want to laugh at the insanity of it. He shakes his head, just as baffled.
“I’m sure everyone else is wondering the same thing.
” His jaw sets. “There’s no helping it, though.
What’s done is done.” V places a hand on my shoulder.
“Should anyone ask you, that’s what you’ll say.
” He taps the spot on my shoulder three times as he rattles off the points.
“You fell. You don’t remember much. You’re all better now.
” He brings his other hand down to cup my shoulders, squeezing in a way that’s firm, but not cold.
“Don’t forget to tell them you’re so very grateful to the organization for helping you. ”
I whip my head around, not bothering with the formalities. “And why would I say that?”
“Because that’s what they want to hear. You need to be perfect tonight.” V shakes his head. “Better than perfect, if possible.”
“In case you haven’t figured it out—I’m not perfect!
” I snap at him, déjà vu flooding my senses.
My jaw locks, droplets of rage prickle my vision.
V pulls his hands away sharply, cringing as if he’s been burned.
Heat shoots up my spine, clawing deep. I brace my hands against the piano, concentrating on my breathing. It doesn’t steady.
What is wrong with me?
“I’m just a girl, V. I’m not a doll or a robot or—”
“Oh, trust me, I know.” He glances toward the door, pressing a palm to his temple. “I don’t get it. You shouldn’t re—” He stops abruptly, jaw snapping tight. An internal war wages behind his tired eyes.
I lean forward, trying to sound level when I ask, “Shouldn’t what?”
He exhales a tight breath. “Stop asking questions you don’t want answers to.”
I swallow. “What are you hiding from me?”
No response. We fall into silence. The soft ticking of the metronome from the piano stands as the only reminder that time hasn’t stopped completely.
My mouth opens again to protest, but before I can muster any words, I notice he’s not looking at me anymore.
His eyes are trained on his watch. He snaps straight, jerking his head toward the far corner of the ceiling.
The camera. Far larger than the one in my room. It looms in the corner, the light atop it blinking a vicious red.
I would love an explanation on why the cameras are suddenly so interested in me, but considering no one even bothers to tell me what’s for breakfast, I find it unlikely that I’ll ever find out.
His whole demeanor changes in an instant. That polished mentor facade slides right back into place. The easy smile. The careful posture. The rehearsed charm that feels a little too labored.
“Shall we?” He gestures to the piano.
The shift makes my stomach twist. But I nod like the good girl the cameras want to see, taking my place back on the bench. He leans down, sifting through the sheet music with exaggerated flair.
“A charming waltz. This one’s a fan favorite.” His voice carries loudly enough for the walls to hear. I scan the piece in an attempt to note the key details. It’s challenging, but nothing I haven’t done in the past.
I start to play. My fingers tremble. Trembles build into tremors, my hands slipping from the keys before scrambling for their placements. V cuts me off before I can even finish the first page.
“Again.”
I start over, resting my hands back in their starting position with practiced precision. Wrong note.
“Again, Maysie”
The outcome is the same. Missed notes, clumsy melody. You would think I’ve never even seen a piano.
Intense pressure builds in my chest. The air in the room feels too tight, too sharp. The notes melt together as I stare at the measures. The beloved instrument that has become my safe space feels like a cage.
“I can’t—”
“Yes, you can.” His words are clipped with warning. “Stop shaking.” He brushes his thumb against his sleeve. Breath reset. “Try again.”
I force my hands to obey. The melody tumbles out clumsily, a mess of sound and panic. There’s no tempo, no grace to it. His look of disappointment is unmistakable.
“You said I should fake it,” I blurt, unable to stop myself. V’s eyes lock on mine, gaze so intense I want to tear my eyes away.
“It’s how you survive,” he replies quietly, like every word poses unique danger.
“And if I don’t?”
The look that spreads across his face is indescribable. A sort of cold determination that makes me shiver. “Then I’ll have to fake it for you.”
I freeze.
I don’t even need to know what that means for it to terrify me.
“Do you understand?” he asks softly.
No.
I nod, not trusting my voice.
His expression flickers something close to regret, but I don’t have time to study it before his tablet pings.
He turns on his heel, unclipping the tablet and walking calmly to the doorway.
“You’re almost ready. Run it until I come back for you.
” Unease settles in my chest as the door shuts behind him.
I stare at the keys, hands shaking. My throat feels like sandpaper as I fight to steady my breathing. The red flashes of the camera’s indicator haunt my periphery, mocking me.
Something tells me I’m anything but ready.