Chapter 27
Elowen
Mom lifts the hem of my skirt and checks for the gun. And the knife. Then she checks the pepper spray on my other thigh. And the tracker.
“No matter how uncomfortable it gets, don’t remove any of these.”
I chuckle. “Mom, how many times will you repeat this?”
“I’m worried sick.” She smiles, but her brow is furrowed.
“You need therapy.” Dad and I say in unison, then burst out laughing.
She rolls her eyes, chuckling.
In the past week, Pa has given me solid gun and knife training. I’m now well equipped to kill one or two untrained people, if needed, and to save myself from an equal number of trained people in a desperate situation.
I don’t think I’ll actually use this training. But if it gives my family peace of mind, I’m ready to walk around armed. And honestly? It’s kind of cool.
The car stops at the back entrance of my concert hall. I pull on my jacket and mask. My door opens from outside. A team of bodyguards stands waiting.
I step out of the car, and the cold wind instantly makes me shiver. It’s so cold in DC. I would have skipped this invitation, but I needed to get out of the house.
Even though Rosie has been keeping me company—good company, and according to my mom, providing excellent therapy—I still needed to occupy my mind with something that overstimulates my senses, even for a few hours.
And playing piano in front of a huge crowd always does that.
It’s like getting a high similar to drugs, but without causing any damage to your body.
Everyone flat-out refuses to let me perform in LA, since that’s where I was taken. So now I’m in DC, under my dad’s security.
My parents won’t come inside with me, my dad’s position doesn’t exactly allow for family outings. But there will be a small army of bodyguards surrounding the stage. Not even a ghost could get close. Which is exactly what I don’t want.
I don’t want this wall of security killing any chance of him showing up. What if he does come and can’t reach me? Or worse, what if they catch him?
They don’t know what he looks like. In fact, they have the wrong idea entirely. The day he took me, he wore a skin mask that made him look like someone else. When Dad asked if he looked like that, I simply said yes. But now they know I lied. They’re still looking for him.
You don’t have to worry about any of this. He won’t come. The part of my brain that’s going to land me in actual therapy pipes up.
Can’t this stupid organ just let me self-hypnotize in peace? I don’t need it telling me what’s possible and what’s not.
You’ll hurt more when the bubble breaks.
Shut up. Just fucking shut up.
I’ll deal with tomorrow’s hurt. I can’t live in it today. I need to keep believing we’re just apart—forced by circumstances. And soon, these circumstances will dissolve, and we’ll be together.
I claw my way out of the suffocating space in my head and return to the present as we reach backstage.
My manager, Eda, is waiting for me.
She pulls me into a warm hug.
“Good luck, Ella.”
I smile back. “Hope it ends well.”
“It will.” She nods, confident. “You’re Ella. Even if you mess up, it’ll be a beautiful disaster, and go down in music history as a masterpiece.”
I chuckle, remove my jacket, hand it to her, and walk onto the stage.
The crowd greets me with applause. I lift a hand in acknowledgment as I walk toward the piano.
I don’t do speeches. I just come, play, and leave.
Because of this, haters call me the most arrogant musician alive.
Lovers call me the sweetest—someone who doesn’t need approval.
Well, there’s always a crowd that would hate you just for breathing.
And another that would love you even if you slap someone.
I settle onto the bench and touch the keys. The crowd makes my heart hammer. No matter how many times you’ve played, the adrenaline never stops dancing. It makes me dizzy every time. And that’s the high I’m here for tonight.
I press the keys lightly, and the music I’ve practiced flows through my fingers. The crowd settles. My heart still beats loud enough to feel like a fist in my chest.
I end the first piece. I close my eyes and start the second. Tonight, I feel like experimenting.
I don’t play a practiced piece. Instead, I let something new pour out. It’s been a while since I’ve created a new composition. The last time was in that rose garden. My mind floats back to that garden. To a fantasy where I’m playing piano with him.
I’m sitting in his lap, and we’re playing together—a beautiful melody filled with all the longing we’ve endured, and the love that was always meant to bind our souls.
The music shifts as the fantasy dissolves into another—one where I’m alone in that same rose garden. The roses have withered. The low moonlight isn’t soothing now; it’s haunting.
There’s an undeniable pain flowing now with each press of the keys, spilling into the air. Loneliness tears through me. I’m at war with myself. There are only two ways to end it: end myself, or end this darkness. Every moment begs me to bring her back.
Her?
My heart stops.
Once again, it’s his heart beating in mine, creating a melody that carries nothing but sorrow. It won’t let me think. It locks me in a state where my fingers move on their own, and my heart beats to someone else’s rhythm—a rhythm soaked in desolation.
I keep playing the unknown tract of sorrow for an unfathomable length of time. When I finish, an eerie silence settles over the audience.
I open my eyes slowly. The mask is wet with tears. My fingers are numb from playing nonstop.
I turn toward the audience. Silence. So I finally fucked up. On stage.
But the thought doesn’t get to settle, because in the next moment, everyone rises, clapping so loudly it makes my ears ring. And they keep clapping.
When they finally stop, I rise slowly from the bench and bow my gratitude. Then I walk to backstage.
“Holy shit, Ella. What was that?” Eda pulls me toward my suite.
“That wasn’t in the album you were supposed to play. It’s not in any album.”
She closes the door behind us.
“When the hell did you create this? And why don’t I have a copy?”
She’s practically vibrating as she drops onto the couch.
“I created it just now. Onstage.”
I sink onto the couch across from her.
Her mouth falls open.
“You’re lying,” she says in slow motion
I chuckle, pulling off my mask.
Eda is the only person in the music industry allowed to see my face.
I grab a box of cotton wipes and clean my face.
She’s still staring at me in shock.
“Babe. You just made history.” She’s still in disbelief.
“You got a standing ovation for fourteen minutes. Fourteen fucking minutes. That’s a huge fucking deal.” Her eyes are wide.
I smile.
She groans. “Don’t give me that reaction. You should be dancing all night.”
She holds her head. “I can’t believe you created it just now. A forty-minute track. On the spot.”
She leans back, reclaiming her elegance.
“When it started, I got nervous. It was new, but it was still you. Then, after ten minutes, it was like you got possessed. The shifts were so aggressive. Everyone backstage just stopped—whatever they were doing, they stopped. Tell me how this happened. The media won’t let me breathe for the next five weeks. ”
I chuckle at her enthusiasm.
“Don’t laugh. Give me the explanation. Thousands of people need to hear this.”
“It was inspired by a tragic love story. A couple who love each other but can’t be together. The first ten minutes were about the girl—lying to herself that they’ll find a way. The other thirty are about him. The man, drowning in heartache, because the woman he loves can never truly be his.”
She watches me with assessing eyes, then leans forward. “This girl—it’s you, isn’t it?”
She nods. “Yes. It’s you. That pain was too real to be imaginary.”
I look down at my hands. Say nothing. She gets up from the couch, comes to me, and hugs me.
“I’m sorry. You don’t deserve this.”
“It’ll be fine.”
It has to be.
After a long, warm hug, she rises.
“Rest here for a while. I’ll be back with the love of your fans.”
I nod, managing a smile.
Ten minutes later, the door to my suite opens, and Eda’s commanding voice arrives with the click of her heels.
“Put those on the table. And these—on the carpet.”
She’s ordering my bodyguards around.
“Anything else, ma’am?” Travis asks.
“How many times do I have to tell you not to come near me?” she says, frowning.
Travis smirks, taking a step closer. Eda leans back.
I raise a brow. My six-foot-six bodyguard is flirting with my five-foot-four manager—all while intimidating her with his massive frame.
“You haven’t said it enough times. At your height, it takes time for the message to reach my head.”
He moves away, smirking, leaving Eda fuming. I smile at their banter.
I glance at the table—overflowing with flowers.
My smile vanishes. My heart forgets to beat, then thumps in slow, heavy strokes.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
I reach out with a trembling hand and touch the single rose resting there—alone. I pick it up. The petals are dry, their edges devoid of color; they look as if they’re dying. My tears fall onto it.
It’s him.
I’m not hallucinating. I’m not lying to myself. Every beat of my heart knows that it’s him.
He was here.
I’m on my feet instantly, wiping my face.
“Eda.” I call for her.
She frowns when she sees my face, then hurries over. Travis also comes with her. I quickly tuck the rose into my skirt pocket.
“What’s the matter, miss?” He asks.
I force a smile. “Nothing. Just a small headache.”
I turn to Eda. “Will you make me some chamomile tea?”
She nods. I drop back onto the couch, pressing my head.
If any of my bodyguards get even the slightest idea that the man who took me might be here, they’ll raise hell to catch him.
I glance at Eda. Can I risk asking her about the rose? What if she mentions it to Travis? And now that she knows part of my story, she’ll figure out who he is the moment I ask her to look for the man who sent this.
My family will kill him the second they catch him. If not my father, then my brother. I won’t even get word of it.