Or maybe I haven’t…
The billboard just gives me an excuse to confess the obvious—he will always live in my head, smiling that goofy, deceitful grin while balancing my lopsided cake on one hand and a present on the other.
“Miss Willow?”
I look over to find the back seat door open and Evgeni standing on the other end. The car has stopped, I realize. Before me looms a stoic structure formed of gray stone and creeping ivy.
“We’re home,” Evgeni says, extending his hand for me. “True to my word, I haven’t called to inform anyone. That’s bought you a few minutes of peace, but the sooner you face your parents, the sooner everyone else can pretend you won’t notice the parade of caterers streaming in through the back.”
Eager for a new distraction, I scramble out and crane my neck to take in the house fully. As my gaze drifts over the familiar architecture, my lips quirk, and my heart swells with pride.
“It might not be some fancy university,” Evgeni remarks, “but I guess it does hold some charm, doesn’t it?”
I nod. Stepanov Manor is relatively old by most standards, lacking the modern embellishments that adorn the fancy mansions of the wealthier students at the conservatory. Even so, its worn stone walls convey a familial softness no other dwelling could come close to. Expansive emerald lawns lush with rose gardens create a world apart from the harsh reality waiting beyond these walls.
It’s paradise. Always, when I’m here, it’s like being transported to another realm, one where the harsher realities of the world could never encroach. A place where someone like Donatello Vanici doesn’t exist, and where my only identity is that of a beloved daughter.
But, as I approach the servant’s entrance, I have no delusions about the cost of such peace. Much like my idyllic childhood, all of this security and luxury is made possible by the sheer efforts of one man who rules it all.
And no matter how beautiful it seems…
This paradise is paid for with blood.
4
Willow
“Pretend to be surprised,” Evgeni warns as he hauls my bags through the servant’s entrance. We’re alone in this spacious back hallway, but already telltale signs of the impending party are obvious. Stacks of boxes clutter the space, leaving barely enough room to reach the nearby breakroom beside the stairs. An audible commotion warns of a flurry of chaos taking place throughout the house. Paramount among the noises? Child-like shouting.
“Hurry.” Evgeni nods to the stairs and winks. “I’ll have these brought up and unpacked later. You have maybe five minutes before the others sniff you out, so enjoy it.”
I start up the back stairwell feeling my throat tighten. The wooden floors creak beneath my steps as if welcoming me back, and I can’t resist trailing my fingers along the worn beige walls. Excitement tinges the air, giving the old structure a renewed sense of wonder. Six months away might as well have been six years. Before I even reach my bedroom on the second floor, I have a grim suspicion as to what might await me. As expected, I’ve barely pushed my door open when I see it, draped over my bed with loving care.
My hand falls to my side as the door sways, obscuring the sight from view for a split-second before revealing it again in breathtaking glory—a gown fit for any debutante.
I’m immediately flashed back to over seven years ago, the first time someone presented me with a similar dress. That garment had been part of a ruse in which I was meant to smuggle drugs for a criminal. It might as well have been a funeral dress.
The presentation this time is admittedly far different. I creep toward it, tallying up the differences as I go. A soft, creamy off-white, this gown spans the length of my childhood bed. Tentatively, I run my fingers over a bodice formed of delicate interlocking lace and marvel at the feel. Silk, I suspect, buttery soft to the touch.
It’s beautiful—but much like my first white dress, the purpose of this newer one is more figurative than anything else. Wearing it, I’ll be a dove, finally let loose from her protective cage.
I’ll be presented to the world as a Stepanova.
“Do you like it?” a voice calls tentatively from the doorway. I turn to find Ellen, my adoptive mother, standing there, her blue eyes as perceptive as always. “I thought I’d heard someone moving around this wing two hours too early. Welcome home!”
She approaches me, cradling her swollen belly with one hand and her neatly coiled brunette hair with the other. As she eyes the dress, a hesitant smile flits across her lips, making her seem even younger than she already does. If she claimed to be my age, I doubt anyone would be able to tell the difference from a glance. The only flaw in her delicate beauty is a series of faint, silver scars on the left side of her face, strategically obscured by a few loose brown curls.
“I know it’s a bit much,” she admits, referring to the dress. “I wasn’t sure of the style, but Mischa insisted. What do you think?”
Whatever she sees in my expression emboldens her to approach the bed.
Gingerly, she drapes the fabric over her arm before turning to me. “May I?” she asks.
I nod, and she positions the garment against my body, circling to stand behind me. I catch sight of myself in a floor-length mirror in the far corner. The girl I find staring back could be a stranger, but I can’t tell if it’s because her dress is so beyond my usual fashion scope.
Or because her face is so unnaturally blank.
“It’s going to look stunning on you,” Ellen murmurs while smoothing a stray bit of hair behind my ear. “You are stunning. I know I’ve blathered on about it so many times, but…” Her lips strain to conceal another smile. “We are so very proud of you. Mischa can’t stop talking about your accomplishments, and the girls were pestering me all week about your arrival. I’m surprised you even made it inside the house without getting ambushed—”
“You’re back.” As if on cue, a slender boy slips across the doorway, proving her point moot. Whip-thin, with wild blond curls, he’s like a miniature version of Ellen. Her smile widens as he draws up to her side.
“Why didn’t you tell me she was home already, Aunt Ellen?” he demands, his tone as inquisitive as always.
“Eli, darling, I’ve only just found out, like you.” She pinches his cheek playfully, laughing as he swats her off. Turning to me, she cocks an eyebrow, her gaze skeptical. “It seems Miss Willow thought she could sneak in and circumvent the surprise your papa has planned for her.”
“I told him she wouldn’t like it,” Eli smugly declares, crossing his arms. The motion makes him look older than eleven. He’s grown so much since I’ve been gone. Some of the baby fat has left his cheeks, revealing a bone structure enhancing his resemblance to the woman standing beside him. Wearing a plain white shirt and jeans, he could be a carbon copy of Mischa as well.
More nostalgia constricts my chest. I remember the days we used to play together in these very halls. At night, we’d sneak out to the gardens and race beneath the moon. I couldn’t love any brother more, be them related to me by blood or not.
But he’s not the first, a cruel voice in my mind whispers. I try to ignore the memories, but they unfurl anyway. Those of another boy, older, but no less tolerant of me. Always patient, he used to braid my hair to keep it clean before we played hide and seek. Wide from behind his glasses, his brown eyes only ever radiated kindness and joy. Vincenzo...