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I was in love with him and it broke me. Never again.
It will be clinical. I’ll be nothing but a doll, not really participating. I can do this.
Just as soon as he comes, which will be soon—I don’t doubt it for a second.
After the water’s too cold to linger, I make my way to my bed and slide under the covers, though I’m far too alert to even think of sleep. Remembering its existence, I grab the Kindle in the nightstand, pick a book, and read every single page.
It’s one in the morning by the time I’m done.
He didn’t come.
He left me alone.
He doesn’t want me.
I’mrelieved. So relieved I’m choking on it.
I start another book, and a third, sleep eluding me, until the soft glow of daylight lights up the pretty room.
Ugh, seriously. What’s wrong with me?
My stomach wants my attention again, so after a quick trip to the bathroom, I throw my fluffy red dressing gown over my cream nightdress and make my way downstairs, hoping to find the kitchen. It’s likely too early for breakfast, but I’m familiar enough with this kind of place to know I can sweet talk the cook into sharing whatever they’re concocting for later.
I’ve always felt at home below stairs. That’s where my parents used to work when I was younger. I might not know these cooks, especially, but I relate to them more than their master.
To my surprise, when I pass in front of the great hall, I hear the sound of the piano, softer, gentler than yesterday, but just as expertly played, hands flying over the keyboard. This time I recognize the composer: Schubert. I don’t know which one, exactly.
I hesitate, but I make my way inside to say hi. Less might say Basil’s the only one among his friends who’s not an asshole, but in my opinion, that title belongs to Hawk. He’s been nothing but charming so far. And I didn’t get around to actually complimenting his playing yesterday. I only mentioned it when he was away from the table.
I’ve only taken two steps inside when I comprehend my mistake.
Even though he is facing the piano, away from me, and the lights haven’t yet been turned on, there isn’t a single doubt in my mind that this is Alessandro’s profile. His strong, straight back, his tousled blond hair, messier than usual. He’s still wearing yesterday’s clothes.
I’ve only taken one step back when I hear, “You don’t have to leave, poison.”
He doesn’t move, and doesn’t stop playing either.
How the hell did he hear me over the music? And how did he know it was me? There are plenty of other guests, and he didn’t turn.
The same way I knew it was him right away, I suppose.
“I didn’t know you played,” I say.
“I think we’ve proved there are a fair amount of things we don’t know about each yet.”
I don’t know how to respond to that, so instead, I ask, “What’s the song? I know it’s Schubert, but I can’t remember which one.”
“Schwanengesang. The 4thserenade.” He laughs dryly. “Or a butchered version of it, anyway.”
In no universe could what he’s doing be called butchering.
“Are you fishing for compliments?”
“Nah. I know it sounds good. It’s also all wrong. The wrong beats, pauses. I’m even cheating on a couple of notes because I think they sound better than the original. Isn’t that arrogant?”
I don’t know what to say.
“I’ve never been good at doing what I’m supposed to do. Following the rules.”
