Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Nyxx
The scent of coffee and burned toast still lingers in the cottage as Ana stands at the window, phone pressed to her ear. Sunlight catches in her hair, but the smile from earlier has morphed into a flat line.
“Yes, Mother, I know it’s been a few days.” Her voice goes low, careful—like she’s afraid the sound might shatter something fragile.
I’m at the sink rinsing dishes, but her stiff, careful tone makes me freeze.
“I told you, I needed some time to work on my new composition, and I need to prep for the International Philharmonic Exchange Committee audition. My manager thought taking time off was a good idea.” Ana’s voice is strained, almost pleading.
Anger jolts through me that she feels the need to validate her decision by saying it was someone else’s idea.
I turn off the water, not feeling even a pang of guilt for eavesdropping, so it’s easy for me to hear her mother’s side of the conversation.
“Anastasia Eloise Ashcroft, do you have any idea what you’re jeopardizing with this little… vacation of yours?” The voice on the other end is shrill enough to scrape paint. “The New York Philharmonic doesn’t wait for flighty artists to ‘find themselves’ or whatever it is you think you’re doing.”
Ana’s shoulders tighten, every word from her mother landing like a lash.
I feel a twinge of anger on Ana’s behalf. Why is her mother acting as though her daughter must follow her orders like a puppet?
“Mother, please,” Ana pleads, her voice small. “It’s only been a few days. I just needed some time to—”
“Time?” her mother interrupts. “Time is a luxury you can’t afford, Anastasia. Do you think I spent years arranging tutors and opportunities just for you to throw it away on a whim?”
My feet close the distance between us before my brain catches up. Her fingers are cold when I take her hand, but she doesn’t pull away.
“I’m not throwing anything away,” Ana argues, her voice stronger now. “I’m trying to create something meaningful, something that’s mine.”
“Meaningful?” her mother scoffs. “What’s meaningful is maintaining your position, continuing the legacy we’ve worked so hard to build. Your grandfather didn’t survive the war and rebuild our family’s standing for you to squander it all because you’re feeling… uninspired.”
The pieces start falling into place in my mind.
The rigid schedule, the perfectionism, the inability to let loose, the damn bun pulled so tight it looks painful—it all stems from this.
Years of pressure, of impossible expectations, of being told that her worth is tied to her performance.
My chest tightens at the image of what that treatment would have done to me—my creative spark would have shriveled and died, and I’d probably be riding a desk and thinking of ways to off myself.
“I’m not squandering anything,” Ana says, her voice rising. “I’m working, Mother. Just because it doesn’t fit your precise schedule doesn’t mean it’s not valuable.”
“Don’t take that tone with me, young lady,” her mother snaps. “I expect you to return to New York by the end of the week. No more of this nonsense. Get back on track! Do you understand me?”
She trembles beside me. I squeeze her hand again, willing her to feel something solid.
“I heard you, Mother,” she says finally, her voice hollow. “Back in New York by the end of the week.”
“Glad to see you’ve come to your senses.” She cuts the call short without waiting for her daughter’s response.
Ana’s hand shakes as she lowers the phone and lets it slip onto the windowsill.
For a moment, neither of us moves. Then, slowly, she meets my gaze, her eyes brimming with tears.
“Hey.” My voice drops as I step in, our hips nearly touching.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers.
“Don’t be sorry,” I murmur. “Be mad.”
Her eyes flash, then flood. I can almost see her armor snap into place, bracing for judgment that isn’t coming. I hold up both hands. “Or be nothing. Let me lend you a spine until yours stops shaking.”
“I have a spine,” she says, but it’s made of glass right now.
“Then let’s harden it.” I snag the flute case and set it beside her. “Play me how that felt.”
“Nyxx, I can’t—”
“You don’t have to be pretty,” I say. “Just be honest.”
We wind up with me on the couch, her standing in front of me.
My unplugged hollow-body guitar is perched across my thigh; her flute is unsteady in her hands.
She doesn’t look at me when she lifts it.
The first note wobbles, then steadies. She throws the next few at the ceiling like rocks at stained glass.
I answer with the ugliest, truest three chords I know.
Something cracks open. The room fills with anger, then ache, then that fierce, defiant joy that has nothing to do with pleasing anyone. When her line splinters, I mirror the fracture and feed it back. When mine snarls, she wraps it in light. We don’t talk. We don’t need to.
By the time the last note dies, she’s breathing hard, cheeks flushed, eyes huge. I set the guitar down as if it might spook her.
“Better,” I say.
She nods, a jerky little movement. “Better.”
For a long second, the silence between us vibrates with everything we didn’t say. The echoes are still in the room—our breath, the last shard of music. She looks up at me, flushed and shining, and I feel it again—that pull.
I could close the space between us. I want to.
Instead, I rise and trail two fingers along the base of her throat, feeling the wild canter there.
“You don’t have to go back at the end of the week,” I tell her quietly. “You’re not a contract. You’re a person.”
Her hand comes up to cover mine. “I know.” She hesitates, voice trembling. “But saying it to them is like learning a new instrument. The notes exist; my mouth doesn’t know them yet.”
“Then we practice,” I murmur.
When she leans into me, it’s like the first genuine note of something new—uncertain, beautiful, ours.
The touch must give her permission to feel, because she melts, her body shaking with silent sobs. I calm the surge of anger that flashes through me—at the mother who just eviscerated her.
Google said that her family was wealthy and influential. It didn’t mention how they’d carved the softness out of her, one expectation at a time.
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” I murmur, running a hand up and down her back. “Your mom, on the other hand…”
Ana lets out a watery chuckle. “She means well, she just—”
“No,” I interrupt gently. “That’s not meaning well, Ana. That’s control. That’s manipulation. That’s soul-destroying rhetoric designed to keep you under her thumb.”
She pulls back enough to look at me, eyes still damp. “It’s always been like this. The pressure to be perfect, to live up to the family name. I thought… if I just worked hard enough, practiced enough, I could—”
“Could what? Make her happy?” I ask, brushing a strand of golden hair behind her ear. “People like that are never satisfied. Trust me, I know a thing or two about disappointing parents.”
Her brows lift slightly, curious, but I’m not ready to unpack that mess yet.
“You’re incredible, Ana,” I say instead, holding her gaze. “Your talent, your discipline—that’s all you. You don’t owe your success to anyone else.”
She blinks, new tears slipping free. “I don’t know who I am without all of this. Without her expectations. Without the structure.”
I smile, brushing away a tear with my thumb. “Then lucky for you, you’ve got a professional rule-breaker right here to help you figure it out.”
That earns me a real laugh, small and raw but true. Something in my chest eases.
“Thank you, Nyxx,” she whispers. “For listening. For understanding.”
“Anytime, princess,” I tell her, drawing her back into my arms.
We sit here as morning light filters through the curtains, the world still turning quietly around us. I make a silent vow—whatever it takes, I’ll help Ana find her voice. Not the one her mother trained into her, but the one that’s hers alone.
And maybe I’ll find a new one of my own.