The sweet strains of a violin touch my ears, and I follow the sound down the hallway, where it’s darker, windows disappearing, shadows deepening.
My breath catches as I turn a corner and view the stage in its glory.
The parquet floor gleams even in the relative darkness. A single spotlight is on from the wide array of lights and equipment above. The curtains have to be at least five stories tall; they frame the view of the seats, making them look almost like a doll house. Rows of red velvet waiting for people to occupy them. The boxes and balconies are only shadows from this position—I’m not sure that would change during a performance.
The audience would seem so far away.
A single woman sits on a chair, playing a violin, the sound haunting. Her clothes are strangely ordinary for the masterful way she plays, a T-shirt and jeans. Flip flops more appropriate to a college campus than a world-class stage.
The song stops suddenly, and she stands to face me.
“I’m so sorry,” I gasp, mortified that I bothered her. “I didn’t mean to stop you.”
“No, don’t. I’m just a little jumpy,” she admits, looking sheepish. “I tend to get lost in my own world. It’s always a shock to realize it’s not real.”
“You’re the child prodigy.”
“Oh.” She gives a little laugh that somehow emphasizes her innocence. “I’m not really a child anymore, but the title follows me around.”
“Well, however old you are, that sounded absolutely perfect.”
“Thank you.” Her expression is almost shy. It occurs to me that she might be unaccustomed to performing, despite her obvious talent.
No, she’s not really a child anymore. Now that I’m closer I can see that she’s around my age. She only feels young, because of her innocence. There’s something very untouched about her, especially compared to the Harry March of Instagram renown.
“I’m June Li,” I tell her impulsively. “I live here in Tanglewood. If you need anything while you’re in town—the best sushi, a girl’s afternoon to get a manicure—let me know.”
Her brown eyes brighten. “That would be amazing. I don’t know anyone here.”
“Then I’m your girl,” I say, meaning it.
“We’re doing rehearsals for the whole tour, so I’ll be here for a few months.”
“Do you have any family with you?”
“No, my guardian—that is, Liam isn’t—” She blushes, making her tan skinned turn a pretty plum. “I have a security detail from my guardian’s company.”
“They must be the ones requesting structural changes.”
She looks rueful. “I’m afraid we’re making a nuisance, and the tour hasn’t even started.”
“Don’t be silly. You can never be too safe.” I look out at the audience, the overwhelming blackness where thousands of people can sit. Someone could be there right now, and I wouldn’t be able to see them. A shiver runs down my spine.
We exchange phone numbers before I leave her to practice.
Behind the stage there’s a maze-like warren of hallways, most of the doors locked shut. It makes me wonder what’s behind them. And if any of them have that leftover stripper pole.
“Boo,” comes a soft voice behind me, and I whirl, my heart thumping.
“You scared me,” I accuse the Asher-shaped shadow behind me.
A low chuckle. “I saw you talking with the violinist.”
“We’re going shopping.” I glance at him uncertainly. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“Shopping? No. You have my credit card.”
“It’s not really for buying things. It’s just girl time.”
“Buy whatever you want.”
I look away, my cheeks heating. “Great,” I manage, my voice breaking.
“Hey. What’s wrong?”
“It’s just that she’s so talented. And so young. I was raised to be a society wife, to host dinners and balls—and now you don’t even want that from me.”
He lifts my chin so I have to look at him. “Host whatever dinners and balls you want. I’m not going to stop you. I’m just not making that a requirement of being my wife. You’re not my fucking event planner.”
“Then what am I?” I ask, the haunting melody washing over me.
Asher basically bought me from my father, which felt like an insult. It occurs to me now that there’s another side. He could have approached me at any one of the galas or society events I attended. He could have asked me out at a coffee shop. Instead he made an offer I could not refuse, almost as if he feared I wouldn’t accept him otherwise.
His dark eyes burn with intensity. “You’re a young woman with your whole life to figure out what you want to do. Play a musical instrument or start a business? Adopt ten thousand cats? Try everything. Or nothing. You’re someone who saw a lonely girl and didn’t waste any time making her feel included.”
I shake my head, rueful. “Making friends. That’s not exactly a special talent.”
“It’s your talent, one most people wish they had.”
“Are we friends?” I ask softly.
“Friends,” he repeats, tasting the word. “No, sweetheart. You can make friends with every person in the city, but you come home to me. You sleep in my bed. What am I? You’re a hundred different things, a thousand, but most of all—you’re mine.”
