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I rake my hand through my hair and sigh. “I did. But I need some time to think—about all of this.” I gesture between him and me and the music room, where Clara is still playing. “I’ve just gotten some news that might change everything, and I need to figure out how to handle it.”
“What news?”
I disregard the question, needing to know whether he’ll be here for her. The news about the Met can wait. “Will you take care of her? You can take her to your place. I think it will be good for both of you.”
His jaw tightens at my suggestion. I’ve told him that he should invite her to stay with him in Berlin countless times since he moved in a couple of months ago. But it’s always the same answer.I’m not ready.He’s holding back, still afraid to give everything when he doesn’t have full control—afraid she’ll back out or I’ll take her away from him.
“I’m not rea—”
“Yeah, yeah, you’re not ready,” I cut him off with a shake of my head. “You know, she’s come a helluva long way, learning to trust you after what you did last summer. Maybe you should try to do the same. Trust her. And me.”
“It’s not that simple,” he says, and I know what he’s thinking when his eyes darken the way they do whenever we talk about Magdalena.
The harm she caused simply reaches too deep for him to expel it. It might take years for him to feel secure in any relationship—especially one like this, where he’s not a hundred percent in control. Usually, I get it, but right now, it pisses me off. I want to tell him that he wouldn’t be able to control whether Clara stayed with him even if I wasn’t in the picture. But I don’t want to start an argument. There are more important issues at hand.
“It doesn’t matter right now,” I say. “I just need to know if you’ll take care of her or not. She needs you more than she needs me. You can stay here if you want, or just drop by every day. Take her to dinner. Or to work. Whatever you want. Just make sure she’s okay. Is that too much to ask?”
Grigory gives me a hard glare like he’s offended. “I’ll take care of her.” He stares into the distance for a while, and his expression softens when he says, “You know I will.”
“Thank you.” I breathe a relieved sigh and take a sip of wine. I hold the bottle up to Grigory. “Do you want a glass? You look like you could use some. Or maybe a scotch?”
He shakes his head and gets up. “I need to go.” He starts walking out of the kitchen but stops in his tracks. When he looks back at me, his face is full of a wealth of conflicting emotions. He looks like he’s about to say something deep-felt, but then his expression hardens into unreadable impassiveness. “I’ll make sure she’s okay,” he promises, and then he’s gone.
His reaction only drives me closer to a decision.
This can’t go on.
— CHAPTER 26 —
CLARA
Markus is deep in thought when I find him in the kitchen. I’ve been staying in the music room, practicing, for an hour after Grigory left, unable to face Markus after all but rejecting him like the plague.
“I’m sorry,” I say, stopping in the doorway, not knowing what else to do. I want to explain it all away. Tell him I was just sad, stressed, didn’t know what I was saying. But it would all be a lie. And we both know it.
Markus stares at the tabletop for a minute before lifting his gaze and saying bluntly, “I’m going on tour with Lucia. I’m leaving in two days.”
I open my mouth to say something but close it again. “Is this because of what happened”—I finally manage, pointing to the music room—“in there?” Another thought strikes, slamming into my heart like the shock of a defibrillator. “Or is it because he told you… about New Year’s Eve?”
Markus frowns. “What happened on New Year’s Eve?”
I bury my face in my hands as I shake my head. “I wanted to tell you, but…” I expel a shuddery breath against my palms. “I’m so sorry.”
Markus’s chair scrapes against the floor as he gets up, and his steps echo ominously through the silence as he walks to me. Tears are pebbling down my cheeks as he takes my hands and gently draws them away from my face. Bending his knees, he seeks my eye contact. “What happened, sweetie?”
“Please don’t hate me.”
“I could never,” he says, eyes full of deep sincerity as he looks at me.
“Grigory…” I look away, staring into the distance as I say the next words. “He made me come. In the bathroom. When I went to use the toilet.”
“And…” Markus prods when I don’t say more.
My gaze flickers back to him, and my expression must mirror the confusion on his face. “And what?”
“Is that it? He made you come? Phone sex or what?”
I nod, swallowing hard against the growing lump in my throat. “That wasyourorgasm. You were supposed to be the first one to make me come this year.”
