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I actually completed the composition that I have been battling for nearly two years.

Roseanna’s Theme is complete.

My chest heaves, my breath coming in short, ragged gasps as I stare at my hands resting on the keys, my fingertips throbbing from the sheer force of the impact.

The house is completely still.

No one is coming to check on me.

Carmela won’t open that door. She has been with me long enough and knows better than to interrupt when I’m in this mood.

I am completely and utterly alone.

I let my hands drop from the keys, falling limply into my lap, and I look across the dim room.

I reach up and press my palm against the cool lid of Mum’s piano, right where the shadows are the deepest.

A single tear slips from my eye, tracing a cold line down my cheek.

The Gala.

Another performance as his luxury puppet, with Nancy pinned to my arm to satisfy his brand.

A slow, wicked smirk tugs at the corner of my mouth as I slide off the piano bench. If my father wants a show, I’ll give him exactly what he asked for.

But I’m entirely done playing by his rules.

I don’t follow the rules for anyone—especially not for him.

17

Ellise

We haven’t played a note yet, but the air in this cramped space is already doing its thing.

Practice Room C at six o'clock is the specific atmospheric friction of two people who have been circling something with a dangerous edge for weeks without naming it, and are running out of ways to pretend they haven’t noticed.

I’ve noticed.

That’s the problem.

The distinct way his eyes find mine at the end of a phrase. The impromptu touches that live on my skin for approximately twenty-four hours afterwards—regardless of any decision I make about whether to let them.

We can keep pretending that the frequency between us is strictly academic.

At this point, we would be flat-out lying to ourselves.

I’m standing by the music stand, tuning my violin waiting for Julian to arrive—trying desperately to focus solely on the sheet music, get my head into the zone, and think of nothing else.

Then the door rattles. It doesn’t open smoothly; it vibrates with the sound of someone frantically trying to get inside and failing miserably. As I lower my violin and reach out to help, it swings open so hard I think it’s going to come off its hinges. I jump out of the way.

Julian comes through it backward, kicking it shut with the heel of his black leather boot, as he balances three large pizza boxes in his arms. He navigates the space before setting the stack on the already cluttered table beside the window with more care than I would have expected from him.

“Pepperoni, Margherita, or Vegetarian?” he asks, flipping the cardboard lids open without looking at me.

The immediate smell that fills the room is mouth-watering. Melted mozzarella, rich tomato, and garlic-toasted dough—it belongs to a certain category of food I haven’t allowed myself in months.

“Oh,” he adds, pulling even more items out of a brown paper bag. “And a side of fries with garlic mayo dip and sodas.”