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Henry laughs—at him, not with him—and Alessia glances at her friend. “Show him,” Henry mouths. Grisha’s gaze slides between the two of them, arrogant and amused.
“Please.” He gestures once more to the piano, and because Alessia doesn’t know if she’ll ever have the opportunity to play a Bechstein again, she concedes with a graceful nod. She sits on the stool, rests her fingers on her lap, and stares at the beauty before her. The piano gleams beneath the inset lights, and the golden words C. BECHSTEIN glint irresistibly on the fallboard, enticing her to play. Alessia presses middle C, and the note rings out, the tone deep, rich, and more golden than their surroundings.
Perfect.
Alessia glances up at Grisha, who’s holding his phone and eyeing her speculatively.
She’ll show him, arrogant arsehole.
Alessia smiles and winks at Henry. Turning to the keyboard, she places her hands on the keys and launches into Bach’s prelude number 2 in C minor… her angry music.
The music rings through the room in oranges and reds, warmer and hotter than the colors of the ice-fire in the vodka luge outside, and Alessia loves it. And because she’s had a little to drink, she’s free and fast, letting the music overtake her and blotting out the arrogant fool beside her.
* * *
I’ve left Tom and Joe deep in conversation about the merits of rugby over soccer, to try to find Alessia. Ignoring the rising panic in my chest, I move through each room as Dimitri’s guests offer me condolences or congratulate me on my marriage to my beautiful wife whom they’ve just met!
Where the hell is she?
Then I hear it. The sounds of Bach wafting over the hum of conversation.
Alessia.
She’s in the main drawing room. I follow the sound, and with the crowd gathered in the room, I look up and spy her with Henry and Dimitri’s arsehole younger brother Grisha on the mezzanine.
Now that I have her in my sight, I relax and listen. I know this is her angry music and I wonder what Grisha’s said to piss her off.
“Maxim!” I turn and find Charlotte staggering toward me.
My ex.
Shit.
They’re both here, though I’ve managed to avoid Arabella. Caroline was talking with Charlotte earlier, and I wonder what about.
“Hello, Charlotte.” I place my index finger on my lips to silence her because I want to listen to my wife’s exquisite take on Bach. Charlotte glances up at Alessia in full flow.
“I’ve missed you.” She grasps my hand. “Do you want to come and join me downstairs?” Charlotte’s invitation is clear, but her eyes are unfocused as she weaves on her high heels at my eyeline.
She’s drunk or high, or both, and I’m a little stunned.
Does she not know I’m married?
Alessia finishes the prelude, and as the final notes fade in the room, the gathered crowd erupts into applause. I extract my hand from Charlotte to applaud with them, but Charlotte grabs my lapels, surprising me, and plants her lips firmly on mine, pressing her wet tongue into my mouth. I’m vaguely aware of a flash of light.
What. The. Fuck.
I twist my head and grab her hands, pushing her gently back, escaping from her clutches. “Charlotte! What the hell are you doing?”
* * *
Alessia hears the applause coming at her from what feels like the far end of the room.
“Brava, Lady Trevethick,” Grisha says. “I was doubtful, but that was impressive.”
“Thank you,” Alessia says and grins at a smiling Henry before glancing down at the audience in the living room, her eyes straying to her husband.
He’s kissing another woman.
And Alessia’s world crashes to a halt.
What?
Chapter Nineteen
Alessia looks away, the sight too painful to endure as her head spins and bile rises in her throat. She swallows down the bitter taste, feeling light-headed. The room is suddenly too warm and too small for her to remain. The notion that she’s intruding on her husband crystalizes in her mind.
Perhaps he always behaves this way.
Alessia wouldn’t know, as they’ve not been in a large social setting like this before.
This is him. This is what he does. Caroline warned her.
Alessia stands, swaying slightly from the shock of what she’s witnessed, and refusing to glance in his direction again. She turns to Grisha. “I need to get out of here.”
“Are you okay?” Henry asks.
Alessia shakes her head.
Grisha’s brows knit together, his concern almost tangible. “Do you feel faint?”
Alessia nods. She just wants to get away. Now. “I need air.”
Frowning, Henry turns to view the now-disinterested congregation below. “I’ll get help,” she says, stepping to the balcony rail to scan the crowd.
“Here.” Grisha grabs Alessia’s hand and leads her to the bookshelves, where he presses an unseen button, and one of the bookcases swings open, revealing a hidden passageway. “Follow me.”
Alessia stumbles after him and hears the click of the bookshelf closing behind her.
* * *
