Ellen rolls her eyes. “It doesn’t matter what I say. You’ll just sneak it to them anyway—but still no dessert.”
With their current goodies—two lollipops—the girls don’t seem to mind.
“Mine’s bigger,” Aljona, the older of the two at the age of five, declares, shoving her lollipop into her mouth. She takes off with Marnie, nearly four, right on her heels.
“Not, uh!”
“I’ll make sure they don’t kill each other,” Ivan says before huffing after his siblings. “As payment, I want four lollies, Papa,” he calls back.
Mischa chuckles with pride as he watches them go. When he finally returns his attention to his wife, his eyes fall to her stomach rather than her disapproving stare. “How did I do?” he asks innocently.
Crossing her arms, Ellen shrugs. “Better than last time. At least you plied them with candy and not piles of toys. They will drain you dry if you let them. You need to learn to tell them no.”
He shrugs indignantly. “I can tell them no—”
“And mean it,” Ellen corrects, sliding a hand down to her belly. “Let’s hope you practice in time for the next one. Speaking of children, aren’t you even going to welcome your oldest home?”
Mischa looks up sharply, breaking into a full beaming grin. “You!” Lurching to his feet, he circles his desk in mere seconds. “What are you doing here early?”
I’m in his arms before I can even explain.
“She snuck in,” Ellen says. “Her plane got in early, and Evgeni apparently forgot to call ahead. She’s already seen the dress.”
“About that…” Mischa pulls back, his face uncharacteristically red. “It’s a small gathering, Mouse—”
“Tell her the truth,” Ellen goads. “She won’t be any less angry when she finds out.”
“So…it’s more like a ball,” he admits with a sheepish grin that undercuts his hardened exterior a second time. His eyes sparkle, and it’s painfully apparent how much this event means to him. “Your debutante ball. It’s time you were presented to the world for who you are, Willow Stepanova. Especially so all those rich fuckers at the conservatory know that you aren’t some random fling.”
I wince but force a smile rather than confess that—as far as the men at the conservatory go—no man has expressed interest in me at all, as a fling or otherwise.
“And to share how proud we are of you,” Ellen says, gently rephrasing his words. “I tried to keep it casual, but Mischa spared no expense. You’d be surprised by how well he’s done. He even designed the centerpieces—”
“Creative investments,” Mischa corrects. His calculating frown resembles that of a brooding tactician more than any party planner. “Investments into your future. Hell, even some of those high society bastards will be there.”
I can hear the pride in his voice but guilt grips my chest. It must show on my face as well, because Ellen turns to me, brushing her fingers along my cheek.
“What’s wrong, darling?”
“She’s probably exhausted,” Mischa says, returning to his desk. “Go get some rest before the girls decide to demand a year’s worth of play from you. But first…” Much as he had with the sweets, he turns around to reveal yet another surprise balanced on his calloused palm—a polished wooden box. “A little present to celebrate your birthday.”
“One of many,” Ellen corrects with a conspiratorial smile.
He lifts the lid, and I swallow hard at the sight of what lurks beneath it on a bed of blue velvet—a string of pearls finer than anything I’ve ever owned. I can’t take my eyes off them.
“My daughter, the pianist,” Mischa says, chuckling in amusement at my expression. He lifts the pearls and returns to me, holding the strand between his fingers. “I must admit that’s something I never thought I’d say.”
“We are proud of you,” Ellen murmurs. Stepping behind me, she lifts my hair from my neck as Mischa secures the necklace around it.
I look down, watching the delicate pearls settle against my collar. In so many ways, my transformation feels complete. Safiya Mangenello is dead and gone. Willow Stepanova stands in her place. And yet, I can’t ignore the tiny voice in my head whispering...
For how long?
“Now, get some rest.” Mischa shoos me off with a wave of his hand. “And you, wife—” he glares at Ellen. “Tell me how we ensure this next one isn’t a girl.”
I slip into the hall, trailing one hand along the worn, though ornate wallpaper while the other fiddles with the pearls around my neck. Lost in thought, I nearly trip over Eli, crouched within a doorway a few paces from the study. Coincidentally, just within eavesdropping distance.
“What’s wrong with you?” he demands, rising to his feet.
I shake my head to indicate nothing, but he frowns, honing his gaze on my face. I have to resist the urge to turn away, revealing the lie for what it is. I’d forgotten how perceptive he can be, even at his age. No one else can read me like he can.
“You’ve been weird since you got back,” he declares, crossing his arms over his chest. “And you’re taking this whole party thing well. Any other time, you’d raise hell if Aunt Ellen tried to make you wear a fancy dress.”
I feel my eyes widen, and his cheeks redden, negating some of his maturity. “I can say hell,” he mutters, glancing nervously over his shoulder. “Sometimes.”
I shrug and continue down the hall. Anyone else would accept the gesture as an end to the conversation—but not Eli. Stubbornly, he’s right on my heels.
“It’s not nothing,” he argues as if reading my mind. “The last time Aunt Ellen bought you a dress, you avoided her for two days.”
A rebellious act that feels so childish now. Maybe it’s the year I’ve spent away that’s reshaped my mindset? Those spoiled, pampered artists corrupted my more practical ways. Gone is the girl who used to play in the mud and eschew the thought of any dresses.
The real world taught her the true cost of freedom. Life is all an act requiring a fitting costume, like any role in a performance would. To belong to this sheltered realm, you follow its few, hallowed rules. You don’t fracture the simple, pretty melody you’re required to uphold, and your life can be just as beautiful.
Why resist that?
I never have to worry that my tuition will be paid. Protected from the horrors of the world, I have a bodyguard assigned to me at all times. While I was away, Mischa arranged for a hairdresser on-call for performances. My clothing is tailored to my measurements, and the place I call home is an ancestral manor with miles of land to its name.
My future will consist of traveling with the most accomplished musicians before some rich man snags me as his wife, all with my father’s permission...
Liar, a part of me hisses. The sighting of Donatello just reinforces the opposite reality—Mischa isn’t my father. Ellen isn’t my mother, and for all their love and kindness, I am not their daughter.
I wasn’t Donatello’s, either.
My real parents abandoned me at the mercy of a monster who couldn’t even do me the courtesy of devouring me himself. He threw me away and never looked back.