“No.” She clasps the idea close. “You wouldn’t have. That’s all you want. You don’t care about me. So go find someone else to play your violin.”
“Now it’s my violin? I don’t think so. It’s yours.” I hold it out for her. Her talent doesn’t define her, but I won’t let her fear define her either. “That bedpost is solid wood. Go ahead and smash it. There won’t be anything to play then.”
Her eyes narrow with suspicion.
She might wonder if I’d snatch it back from her if it seemed like she was going to break it. Maybe I will. There isn’t a parenting guide for what to do when your child prodigy decides to stop playing out of mortal fear. If she had lost interest, I would have let it go. But I won’t let the men who terrorized her take it away from her. I won’t let her father do this from the grave.
“The violin is stronger than it looks,” I offer. “You’ll have to pull it back like a baseball bat. Really put your shoulder into it if you want it to shatter. It should at least be satisfying.”
“It cost like two million dollars,” she says, her fingers trembling as she reaches for the neck. I’m not sure whether she’s thinking about breaking it or thinking about saving it from my violent words.
It actually cost more than that. “It doesn’t matter, does it?”
“This is crazy. I don’t have to smash it. I just have to not play.”
I pretend to consider that. “No, I think you have to smash it. Otherwise I’ll never leave it alone. I’ll just be here insisting that you play me a song, a chord, a single note.”
“Fine.” She grasps the violin in her fist and stands beside the bed. A baseball bat. She’s clearly never held one, but she gives it her best shot, aiming toward the thick post that frames the bed. “You want me to ruin this? You want me to destroy a precious violin? I’ll do it.”
How much is it worth? More than millions of dollars. It’s worth her talent. Her heart. Watching her destroy it may destroy me—but I can’t force her to play. “If you want to.”
“I do. I do.” She pulls the violin high behind her shoulder. Emotion rises in the air around us like a fog. I can barely see her for the pain that surrounds her. She bares her teeth in an imitation of ferocity. It looks more like grief. “I really, really do.”
She stands there vibrating with her fear and her desire. Her hurt. She’s like a string on that violin she holds, playing a long, heartrending note. It seems inevitable that she’ll smash it against the bed. And probably regret it afterward.
Play the violin, I think. Let yourself have this.
The violin begins its downward arc. She lets it go at the last minute, and it flies through the air, landing harmlessly on the plush bed. A discordant sound erupts and then becomes muffled.
Samantha crumples on the rug, her face buried in her hands. Her shoulders shake with the violence of what she almost did—even though she still hasn’t played. I lose the heart to force her to play. You’re being strict for no reason. There is a reason, the most important one. For her happiness. I gather her in my arms for a different reason. My love for her.
We’re done for the day.
Samantha
The next morning my eyes feel swollen and gritty, but in the mirror I look pretty normal. My throat feels sore as if I screamed for hours instead of cried. I throw on a plain black tank top and jeans. Downstairs in the breakfast room I find a long buffet and a mostly empty table. Only one person sits there with coffee. Liam glances at me with alert green eyes. “Are you feeling okay this morning?”
He feels guilty for last night. Normally his guilt frustrates me. Today, I’ll accept it. I’m still a little upset at him for forcing the issue. And perversely upset that he didn’t force it all the way—so that I would have played. The violin sits in its case in my room. Not played. Not broken. A stalemate.
“Yes,” I say, pulling a croissant onto a plate. “I was wondering if we could see the Eiffel Tower. And whatever else there is to see in Paris. I’ve been here before but—”
“Not sightseeing.”
He knows the way my father traveled. In places that cost more than we could afford, while I was carted around like baggage that required food and water. There were no museums or tourist places. “When I performed at the Palais Garnier that was the only place I went.”
Which is dangerously close to what this visit might be like.
I know the reasons are completely different. My father didn’t care about me enough to take me places. Liam cares too much to let me go out unguarded. The irony is that the result is the same. I’m trapped in this beautiful place I didn’t choose.
Liam takes a sip of coffee. He’s silent while I eat my croissant. He’ll make some excuse. He’ll say he has no choice. He’ll say—“The Eiffel Tower. Okay. Where else? I’ll take you.”
My heart stops. “You will?”
“Unless you’d rather go with someone else. We could ask Bethany or—”
“No.” I circle the table in my excitement and press a kiss on his cheek. He couldn’t look more surprised if I had slapped him. In fact, he did look less surprised when I did that. “I want to go with you.”
A black SUV appears in front of the chateau in an hour. One of the men I know from North Security drives. It leaves us at a long stretch of grass framed by tulips. The Eiffel Tower rises above lush green trees. I cast a sideways glance at Liam, wondering if he’s immune to the romance of the place. It floats in the air around us. God, the sky is so blue. He looks stern and uncompro