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Just as I think he might, the car rolls to a stop, and the moment is gone. Feeling disappointed, I move away from Gideon, looking toward the window, and narrow my eyes to look outside the car.
It’s dark outside, and it’s nearly impossible to see any details.
The door opens a second later, and when I step out into the pitch-black night, I still can’t figure out where he’s taken me.
Gideon steps out behind me, and then he’s taking my hand in his.
“Come on.” He gives my hand a little squeeze.
“Where are we?”
“Soon,” he responds, giving nothing away.
A few weeks ago, I would have called the move infuriating, but I know whatever the surprise is, Gideon has thought only of my happiness.
My chest feels warm at the thought.
Together we walk to a back door, and I notice it’s not locked as one of the men on Gideon’s team opens it for us.
It’s dark inside, but I allow Gideon to lead me to wherever he wants me to go.
It doesn’t take long before we stop, and the lights flicker on.
I’m standing on a stage.
But not just any stage.
It’s Lincoln Center. “How…” I mumble out, my eyes wide, my mouth hanging open now.
Swallowing, I try to clear my throat. Words feel thick, and my heart races frantically. “How are we here?”
“We got in a car and—”
“Don’t play dumb. You know what I mean.” The words are whispered as I take in the opulence of the space.
“I wanted you to play for me.”
“You know I can’t do that.” My excitement has transformed into full-fledged panic.
My hands shake at my side as the blood pounds heavily in my veins.
I lose my footing from how hard I am shivering, but Gideon is quick to hold me steady. “Nobody’s here. It’s just you and me, firefly,” he whispers into my ear, holding me from behind.
“What?” I ask, turning to look at him over my shoulder. “Just us?”
He nods. “I rented out the place. You’ll only play for me tonight.”
I sigh in relief, but it’s only temporary. “I still can’t play for you.”
“You can and you will, firefly,” he says, leaving no room for argument. “Now, take a seat.” He taps my ass, and I glare at him in response. His hands fly up in surrender on a chuckle.
Looking back toward the stage, I notice a chair set up a few feet away, and right beside it is my cello.
Tentatively, I walk over. Opening the case slowly, I pull out my instrument. I feel faint as I stare at it.
“Stop stalling, Sasha. You’re going to play, and nothing is going to stop that fact.”
Can I do this?
