“She’ll learn about him soon enough,” Ellen says softly. “God forbid she runs into him. She’s back until September. Don’t tell me you plan to lock her away in a tower until then.”
“I won’t have to,” Mischa snaps. “She’ll have her pretty party and be distracted until her schooling resumes. She’ll be safe. As for now? Donatello Vanici isn’t welcome in my territory, and I’ve made that clear. If the motherfucker didn’t own half the damn harbor, I could drive him from the city altogether. From the country. As it stands, I won’t let him near her.”
“I know you love her,” Ellen says, her voice soothing. “But one day, she’ll have to face her past.”
“Not alone,” Mischa declares. “Never alone. And only when she’s ready to finally leave it behind.”
They grow silent, though it could be the sound of my pulse drowning them out. It surges through my ears, deafening me as I return to my room. My thoughts are a maze of confusion.
Betrayal.
And grim resignation.
Mischa is right.
As long as my past lives, I can’t.
6
Willow
Morning comes far too soon, and I rise from my bed, having barely slept. My head throbs as snippets of a nightmare still taunt me.
I had been there again. In the home I lived in before ever meeting Mischa, a beautiful manor every bit as storied as this one. Smaller in size but no less comforting, I can remember every inch of it so clearly it hurts.
In that home, I grew so much.
And in that home, I lost everything.
My present should be so much brighter. As if to taunt me, golden daylight streams in through my windows, warming my cheeks. Inside, however, I feel so cold. It’s like my thoughts have turned to ice, jagged, and painful.
Maybe Mischa was right? Ignoring the past is the only way forward. As the faint smell of cooking food carries on the air, I’m willing to try.
I get dressed in a sweater and jeans for now, but my debutante dress awaits, hanging from the front of my wardrobe as a glaring reminder of what today signifies. For all intents and purposes, I am nineteen, finally a woman.
Supposedly, I should be freed from the bonds of my childhood…
But dangerous thoughts creep into the silence, countering that narrative. I can’t help the comparison—would Donatello have spent as much on his version of my debutante ball? Would he have slaved over every detail and gushed with pride about his planning?
It stings to even imagine it. His smiling face. His sloppily wrapped gifts. The dress he’d design for me…
I don’t know how long I’ve been lost in thought when my door opens and a kind face peeks from behind it.
“You’re awake,” Ellen says warily. Her blue eyes are unusually guarded, her gray day dress subdued. Is she aware of what I overheard last night? As her gaze fixates on the dress, I can’t tell. She crosses to it, fingering a corner of the massive skirt. “I just wanted you to know that today is your day, and I’m so proud of you for humoring us. We know you hate parties. And dresses. And attention—”
I shake my head, cutting her off.
“Yes, but I just want you to know that we didn’t plan this on a whim,” she insists. “We’ve…”
She turns away, gazing through the gap in my white curtains to the view revealed beyond my bay windows. The vast stretch of the manor looms below, a yawning mass of emerald green lawns and sheltered forests. What does she see within such a realm? Safety? Or another looming reality that makes her bite her lip and clasp her hands?
One look at the slim fingers symbolizes the violent start to her relationship with Mischa that most wouldn’t expect when seeing them now. Rather than sporting a wedding ring as it should, the digit on her left hand itself ends abruptly at the knuckle, severed years ago.
“He’s been worried, you know,” she admits, her voice soft. “About what your proximity to him might do to your future. If doors might be slammed in your face, that otherwise wouldn’t be. He knows he isn’t perfect, but you and the other children… You mean the world to him. To give you what he thinks you deserve, he will do anything. I need you to know that. He loves you.”
So he lies to me. I could assert as much, but I don’t. Regardless, I’m startled by the anger building in my chest, so raw it hurts. I try choking it down and grit my teeth against it. Try to rationalize it away—he loves me, I know he does.
But so did Donatello.
“This means a lot to him,” Ellen continues, still gazing from the window. “Think of this party as his way of trying to make amends and bridge the gap. He’s even planning on wearing a suit. Can you imagine?” She laughs as I attempt to picture it—Mischa in anything other than fatigues or simplistic clothing.
Her amused grin lasts for only a second before she’s frowning. “It’s funny how things change. There was a time when I would have never imagined him plotting and scheming something other than revenge or retaliation…” She trails off and clears her throat. “Well, get some rest. I’ll keep the children away for the day, and later, if you want, I can help you get dressed?”
I nod as she crosses to me and kisses my cheek. “Happy birthday, Willow.”
I watch her go as more memories return, but these thankfully don’t star Donatello. I can still remember the first day she and I met. Back then, we were nothing more than captives held at the mercy of one man we both love now.
Sometimes it feels like I’m dreaming. That one day I’ll wake up, and I’ll be that scared little girl again.
More often than not, I used to pray that day would come soon.
At least then, I’d stop dreading it.
7
Willow
The day slips away until it’s evening before I know it. Night paints the world beyond my windows in hues of navy that serve as a backdrop to a swollen full moon. Already shuffled off to bed, the children’s boisterous playing has been replaced with faint music and the bustle of footsteps from down below.
My heart pounds with every new sound to invade—the growing din of numerous voices, along with the musical clangs of silverware and delicate china. The swish of ivory silk as I spin before the mirror and try my best to smile. Ellen’s soft gasp as she oversees me, her hands clasped in approval.
“What do you think?” she asks, already wearing her own frothy pink gown.
I observe my reflection in the glass without conveying an answer right away. A stranger looks back at me, her teeth bared in a seemingly painful expression. She looks far from a debutante—just a stone-faced pretender. Large brown eyes stare blankly, and I can’t even tell what she might be feeling. Happiness? Contentment? Terror?
I look away from her, eyeing the skirt billowing out around me. Gratitude thickens my throat, and all I can do is finger a section of intricate lace over and over. I’ve never worn a dress like this. Even for my recitals.
“You look so beautiful,” Ellen murmurs. She smooths her hands along my hair, brushing the tresses from my face, but with her next to me, the contrast between us is stark. I barely come to her shoulder, gangly and gaunt with cheekbones that are far too prominent. In comparison, she’s willowy and lithe, her beauty unmarred even by the jagged scar on her left cheek, fully displayed with her hair swept into an elegant coil.