Chapter 5
The click of the lock was the loudest sound Aurora had ever heard.
It echoed through the silent music room and followed her as she walked back in a trance to the bedroom he had designated. She moved like a sleepwalker. The penthouse was a vacuum. The pressurized silence, stories above the city, was deafening.
She closed the door to her room. There was no lock on the inside. She tried anyway, out of pure reflex, but the wood was smooth, the handle a solid piece of chrome without a keyhole. A cage doesn’t need internal locks.
The clothes she wore—the cashmere and silk—felt like they were clinging to her skin. A dead woman’s clothes.
The first night.
She didn’t explore. She didn’t walk across the cold marble or gaze at the city lights. That would be accepting it. It would be... domesticating herself.
She went to the farthest corner of the room, away from the glass windows that made her feel exposed to the sky, and sat on the floor.
She drew her knees to her chest and wrapped her right arm around them.
Her left hand, her crippled hand, she tucked under her armpit, like a wounded animal protecting a broken limb.
She stayed there. Motionless.
Hatred sat like a cold stone in her stomach. Hatred for him. Maximilian Volkov. The man who watched her burn. The man who let her rot for five years in misery, only to drag her out when she was at her lowest.
For what? To torture her with the finest piano in the world?
The hours dragged on. The sky outside shifted from deep purple to ink-black, punctuated by a million lights that seemed to mock her.
She wasn’t a person. She was a thing. An asset. A broken work of art he wanted to “fix.”
Anger bubbled up. He wanted her to play? He’d forced her to sit on that bench and defile that instrument with her useless hand?
No.
She could be his prisoner. He could own her debt, her body. But he wouldn’t own her music. What was left of it, at least.
That would be her line of defense. He could lock her up, dress her, feed her. But he couldn’t force her to create. Music was the only part of her that was still free.
At eight that night, a sound. The bedroom door opened without warning.
Aurora jumped, heart racing.
It wasn’t him. It was a small, older woman dressed in a severe gray uniform.
Her face was impassive, and she made no eye contact.
She pushed a service cart into the room.
On top sat a dinner that probably cost more than Aurora’s weekly salary at the Silver Swan: grilled salmon, asparagus, some kind of dark grain.
The woman set the tray on a low table Aurora hadn’t even noticed.
“Eat,” the woman said. Her voice was flat, accentless.
Aurora, still huddled in the corner, shook her head.
The woman watched her for a second, impassive. She shrugged, left, and closed the door.
The food sat there, its smell filling the room. Lemon and dill. It smelled like wealth.
Aurora didn’t touch it. If she ate, she’d be accepting this. She’d be like a pet, taking food from her master’s hand.
She stayed on the floor. Hunger gnawed at her stomach, but hatred fed her better.
More hours. Ten. Eleven. Midnight.
The door opened again.
She flinched, expecting the gray woman.
It was him.
Maximilian Volkov entered the room. He’d changed out of the suit into dark linen pants and a black long-sleeved shirt, collar unbuttoned. He looked less like an executive and more like a predator in his own den.
He stopped, his gray eyes sweeping the room. They landed on her, huddled on the floor. Then on the untouched tray of food.
“You didn’t touch it.”
It wasn’t a question. He must have been listening. The silence of the penthouse was absolute; the sound of the Fazioli would have filled every corner.
“No.” Her voice came out hoarse.
He walked to the food tray. He touched the side of the plate.
“It’s cold,” he observed. “You didn’t eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
He turned to her. The soft light from the bedside lamp backlit him, turning his face into a mask of shadows.
“You think this is a choice,” he said, his voice low, almost amused.
“I’m not your animal,” she spat, hatred giving her reckless courage. “You can’t force me to eat. And you can’t force me to play.”
He took a step toward her.
“No?” he asked. “You’re in a cage I built. You’re wearing clothes I bought. You’re breathing air I pay to filter. The resemblance is remarkable.”
He was close now. She scrambled backward, her back hitting the cold wall. She was trapped.
“Stay away from me.”
He didn’t stop. He approached and crouched in front of her. He was so close she could feel the heat of his body, the clean, metallic scent of his skin.
“You’re stubborn,” he murmured. “Is that what the fire taught you? Stubbornness?”
“The fire taught me to hate,” she hissed, hair falling over her face—her curtain.
He watched her like a scientist observing a chemical reaction.
“You hate me?”
“I hate you more than I hated the fire.”
“Good,” he said. The corner of his mouth curved—not a smile, but a spasm of satisfaction. “Your hatred is the most honest thing about you. That’s why I want it. I want to hear it.”
“You never will.”
“You think you have a choice,” he said. He stood, extending his hand to her. “Get up.”
She didn’t move.
He sighed. A sound of patience running out.
“Aurora. I’m not going to ask again. Go to the piano.”
“No.”
He didn’t grab her. He didn’t pull her. He simply slid his hands under her arms and lifted her from the floor as if she weighed nothing.
She screamed—a short, shocked sound. Her feet left the floor. She kicked, but they just swung in the air.
“Put me down! You monster!”
He carried her out of the room. She struggled, but it was like fighting a stone wall. Her good hand beat against his chest, which seemed to amuse him.
He carried her down the silent hallway, his footsteps soundless on the marble. He took her to the music room, which was dark, lit only by the ghostly glow of the city outside.
He didn’t throw her onto the bench. He set her on her feet, gently, beside the Fazioli.
And then he cornered her.
He stood between her and the only exit, his body blocking the light from the door. The piano was on one side, he on the other.
“You’re not going to win this,” he said, his voice low.
“Go to hell.”
“I’m already there,” he said, his voice a murmur. “And I brought you with me.”
She was trembling. Not from cold. It was anger, fear, and something darker—something she refused to name.
“Play.”
“No.”
He took the last step. Now he was so close she was pressed against the curve of the piano. She could feel the heat of his chest through his shirt.
He raised his hand. She flinched, expecting a slap.
But he didn’t strike her.
His fingers went to her hair. Gentle, almost tender, he hooked his fingers into the strands covering the left side of her face and pulled them back, tucking them behind her ear.
She was exposed. Naked under the city’s light.
She froze, horror paralyzing her more than any physical threat.
“Is this why?” he whispered, his voice a low thunder, vibrating in his chest. “You hide because of this?”
He tilted his head. His gray eyes traced the map of her ruin. The taut skin, red and silver, that ran from temple to jaw.
She squeezed her eyes shut. “Don’t look at me.”
“I will look,” he said, and his voice wasn’t cruel—it was possessive.
His fingers. The tip of his index finger. He touched her.
He touched the scar.
Aurora gasped. A sick, electric shiver ran down her spine. No one touched her there. Not even herself.
He traced the edge where healthy skin met damaged tissue. His touch wasn’t gentle. It was clinical. Firm. As if he were reading Braille.
“You think this is ugly,” he stated.
She couldn’t breathe. He was too close. His scent was suffocating her.
“I find it... factual,” he murmured, his lips now near her temple. She could feel the heat of his breath on her sensitive skin. “It’s proof you survived the furnace.”
His hand slid from her cheek to her jaw. His thumb pressed along the line of her jawbone.
“They did a sloppy job,” he said, his voice vibrating against her skin. “The graft didn’t take properly here, near the eye. It’s too tight.”
The cold, clinical analysis was the most obscene thing she’d ever heard. She was trembling uncontrollably. It was disgusting. It was humiliating.
And a deep, dark part of her—a part she didn’t know—was awakening. A spark of something electric and terrifying. She hated it. She hated him for making her feel this.
“Stop...” she whispered, her voice breaking.
“No,” he said.
And then he leaned in and pressed his mouth against the scar on her cheek.
It wasn't a kiss. It was an act of possession. His lips were warm, firm. He didn't kiss her; he tasted the damage. He inhaled the scent of her marked skin.
Aurora let out a sound, a strangled moan of horror and... something else. She tried to push him away, but her body wouldn't obey.
He pulled back, just enough to look at her. His eyes were dark, pupils dilated.
“You taste like fire and rage,” he murmured.
And then his attention shifted.
He grabbed her left hand, the one she kept hidden against her stomach. Before she could react, his strong fingers wrapped around her wrist.
“No!” she screamed, this time for real.
This was worse. A thousand times worse. The face was vanity. The hand was her soul.
He pulled it into the dim light. He opened it, forcing her curved fingers to flatten against his broad palm.
“But this...” he hissed, his voice filled with sick reverence.
He stared at her palm. The scar tissue was thicker there, shiny and knotted. Her ring and pinky fingers were nothing but useless claws.
“The tendons...” he traced the line of a melted tendon with his thumbnail. “...melted. They fused.”
She tried to pull her hand back, tears of humiliation streaming down her face. “Please... please, don't.”
“Shh,” he ordered.
And he lifted her hand. He brought it to his lips.
He kissed the palm of her destroyed hand.
Aurora's world stopped spinning. The touch of his lips on the most sensitive, most ruined skin of her body was a violation so profound she stopped fighting.
He didn't release her. He kept her hand in his grip. His other hand, the one that had been on her face, slid down.
It traced her neck, his cold fingers finding the hot, racing pulse in her throat. He pressed lightly, feeling her panic. His fingers slid lower, over the soft cashmere, tracing her collarbone.
“You're trembling,” he observed.
He was so close she was pressed against him now, her chest against his, her hip against his. And she could feel the hard proof of his arousal pressing into her stomach.
The shock of it made her gasp. He was... he was turned on by this. By her damage. By her fear.
“You're mine, Aurora,” he breathed against her mouth. He didn't kiss her. He just hovered there, his lips an inch from hers. “Your pain is mine. Your scars are mine. And your talent...” he squeezed her good hand, still free. “...especially your talent... is mine.”
He spun her with sudden, controlled force and pushed her toward the piano bench.
She fell into the seat, off-balance.
He stood behind her, caging her in. He pressed his body against her back. She was trapped between him and the Fazioli.
He grabbed her right hand, the good one.
“Play,” he ordered, his voice a growl in her ear.
“I can't...”
He grabbed her hand and slammed it against the keys.
A dissonant, monstrous chord roared through the room, the Fazioli's sound so pure that even the dissonance was terrifying.
“Play!”
He still held her crippled left hand, pressing it against his chest. With his free hand, he grabbed her right wrist and forced her.
He forced her to play a scale. C. D. E. F. G. A. B. C.
Up. Down.
It was clumsy, brutal. She was crying now, silent sobs of rage and violation. He was using her own body against her. He was using her only good part to defile the instrument while pressing his aroused body against her, his hot breath on her neck.
The intimacy was suffocating. It was an act of complete domination.
“You will play for me,” he whispered, his lips grazing the sensitive skin below her ear. “You will sit on this bench every day and play all your hatred for me. You will bleed on this wood.”
He forced her up and down the scale again. Faster.
And then, abruptly, he released her.
The sound stopped.
He stepped back. Cold air rushed into the space where his body had been.
Aurora collapsed forward, her arms falling across the keys, creating one last chaotic murmur of notes. She was a puppet whose strings had been cut, trembling, disgusted.
She heard him in the silence—the sound of him adjusting his shirt cuffs.
She was broken. On her first night, he had broken her.
“Tomorrow,” he said, his voice perfectly calm, as if nothing had happened. “At nine in the morning. You will begin with Bach. The Two-Part Inventions. They require precision, and your left hand needs to relearn discipline.”
She didn’t look up when he left.
The music room door closed with a soft, definitive click.
She stayed there, slumped over the most perfect piano in the world, the smell of him on her skin, the phantom touch of his lips on her scars. She hated him with every fiber of her being.
But for the first time since the fire, she felt something beyond hatred and pain.
She felt the terror of a spark. The sick spark her body had ignited in the darkness, against her will, in response to the only man who had looked at her ruins and called them his. She was disgusted. With herself, more than with him.