Chapter 6 #2
“He’s your patron?” Sokolov asked, a hint of disbelief in his voice. “Volkov isn’t a patron of the arts. He’s a destroyer. He collects broken things so he can own them.”
Aurora stared at him, heart pounding. The validation hit her like a wave. She wasn’t crazy.
“You don’t belong to him,” Henrik said, his voice now an urgent whisper. He glanced over his shoulder again. “He’s a dangerous man, Aurora. I know him. Our businesses... intersect. What he’s done to you... keeping you prisoner...”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve been watching,” he said. “I knew he found you. I was trying to reach you. You disappeared. And now I see you, and he’s parading you around like... like a wounded animal. It’s sick.”
“I... I don’t know what to do,” she admitted, her voice breaking.
“Listen,” he said quickly. “We don’t have time. He’s coming.”
Aurora’s stomach dropped.
Sokolov reached into his jacket’s inner pocket. He didn’t pull out a phone. He pulled out a small business card, thick and elegant.
“Don’t call this number. It’s his office—Volkov monitors everything,” he whispered. “The back. It’s embossed. An email address. Secure. Encrypted. Memorize it. Destroy the card. Send me a message. Anything. I can help. I want to help.”
He pressed the card into her palm. Her good hand.
At that moment, the crowd behind Henrik parted.
Volkov was there. Fifty feet away.
He wasn’t looking at Sokolov. He was looking at Henrik’s hand, which had just released hers.
The air in the gallery didn’t just cool. It froze.
The politician beside Volkov stopped mid-sentence. Henrik Sokolov’s smile faltered. He gave Aurora one last look—sympathetic, urgent.
“It was a pleasure, Miss Vitali,” he said, loudly enough for everyone to hear. “I hope we’ll see each other... in better circumstances.”
And he walked away, blending into the crowd.
Aurora stood frozen, the small card burning a hole in her palm.
Volkov approached. He didn’t run. His steps were slow, deliberate, each one a nail in her coffin.
He stopped in front of her. He didn’t look at her face. He looked at her hand, which she now clenched into a fist, hiding the card.
“What did he give you?” His voice was deathly quiet.
“Nothing,” she lied, panic making her voice crack.
“Open your hand, Aurora.”
“It was just a card...”
“Open. Your. Hand.”
Trembling, she opened it. The white card was there.
He took it. He looked. Henrik Sokolov. President. Sokolov Global Investments.
Volkov didn’t crumple the card. He didn’t tear it. He slid it into his tuxedo pocket.
He grabbed Aurora's arm. Not her elbow, like before. He grabbed her bicep, fingers digging into skin, into muscle. The pain was immediate.
“We're leaving,” he hissed.
He didn't say goodbye to anyone. He dragged her through the gallery. Whispers followed them. She stumbled trying to keep up, the emerald silk dress a shackle.
The ride back to the penthouse passed in absolute silence.
Not the calm silence from before. This was a vibrating silence, filled with a rage so cold it burned. Aurora huddled against the car door, as far from him as possible. She could feel hatred rolling off him in waves.
He was angry. Not because she'd spoken to a man. But because his property had spoken to another.
The elevator rose. The silence was deafening.
The doors opened onto the cold penthouse.
He dragged her out. She stumbled on the marble. He pulled her down the hallway.
She expected him to take her to her room. Or his. She expected shouting. An explosion.
He dragged her to the music room door.
She braced herself. He was going to force her to play. Force her to play until her fingers bled, as punishment.
He stopped in front of the door.
He released her so abruptly she nearly fell. He reached into his pocket and pulled out not the house keys, but a single key.
He shoved it into the lock.
She heard the heavy, metallic sound of a bolt turning.
He locked the door.
He turned to her. His face was calm, but his gray eyes were storms.
“You're not ready for the Fazioli,” he said, his voice low and cutting. “You're still undisciplined. You act like a stray, accepting food from a stranger's hand.”
He pocketed the key.
“What... what are you doing?” she asked, real panic setting in.
“You like talking to people,” he said. “You like interacting. So you'll stay out here. Where there's space to... interact.”
He gestured to the vast, empty living room.
“You won't go back to your room. You won't sleep in your bed. And you definitely won't touch my piano.”
He turned and walked toward his private wing of the penthouse.
“But... the music. The Bach. You said...”
He stopped and looked at her over his shoulder.
“The privilege of your work has been revoked,” he said coldly. “You'll stay here, on the marble, until you learn who you belong to.”
He disappeared down the hallway, and a door closed in the distance.
Aurora was alone.
In the middle of the vast living room. The city glittered outside, indifferent. The marble was ice-cold under her bare feet—she'd taken off her heels in the car.
He hadn't locked her in. He had locked her out.
Out of her room. Out of her sanctuary/prison. Away from the Fazioli. Away from her only weapon, her only purpose, her only identity.
Henrik Sokolov's card was gone. The hope he'd ignited, extinguished.
She was more trapped than ever. Not in a room, but in a vast, cold nothingness—with nothing to do but face the silence and the man who had just taken the only thing she had left: her music.