Chapter 3

I went down to the basement and pulled my violin out of the corner where it had sat untouched for years.

When I lifted the lid and plucked a string, a clear note rang through the room.

My eyes stung.

Thank goodness. It still had a voice.

During the bleakest days of Adrian’s company, I'd taken this violin out onto the street and played for tips. One song for one dollar. Hundreds of songs, then thousands, until the crumpled bills added up to the fifteen thousand dollars he needed to keep his company alive.

Now I was holding my violin again.

This time, I'd play for myself.

A violent pounding shook the front door early the next morning.

Adrian strode inside the moment I opened it, shrugging out of his coat as he complained, "Where were you last night? How could you not be home?"

I lowered my head and secured the violin in its case.

Only when I failed to reach for the coat the way I always did did he bother to look at me properly.

"Why did you drag that old junk out?" He frowned. "If you haven't used it in years, throw it away."

Junk.

Did he mean the violin, or did he mean me?

I raised my eyes. "Which one do you want me to throw away, Adrian? The instrument or the person?"

His hands went still on the coat, and he gave me a strange look.

"What is wrong with you today? Did you pack my suitcase?"

"No." I turned toward the kitchen.

"My flight is this afternoon."

"Then you can pack it yourself. I'm tired."

I started the coffee machine. The dark, roasted smell slowly filled the kitchen.

Adrian came up beside me and held out his hand, waiting for me to put his usual mug in it.

Instead, I lifted the coffee to my own lips. The warmth drove a little of the cold from my chest.

He stared at me, then sighed with theatrical impatience.

"You sit around this house all day. What could you possibly be tired from? Now you’re getting in the way of something important.”

He turned and went upstairs.

The tablet on the marble counter lit up.

A flight confirmation filled the screen: two first-class tickets to Santorini.

Passengers: Adrian Shaw and Chloe Foster.

So that was the important trip I was delaying.

He was taking Chloe to Santorini.

Ten years ago, I'd played a piece called "Santorini" at our university's freshman showcase. Adrian told me later that he fell in love with me before I'd played the final note.

During our basement-apartment years, a television commercial used to run of couples taking their wedding portraits on the island's white cliffs. One night, Adrian fished the only slice of sausage out of his instant noodles and dropped it in my bowl.

"I'm going to work hard, Nora. Someday we'll take our wedding pictures in Santorini too."

But when I brought it up years later, he frowned.

"It's far, it's expensive, and it's a lot of trouble. A photographer can drop the background in afterward. What's the difference?"

Going to Santorini had never been the problem.

Going with me was.

I called our photographer and canceled the wedding photography package.

Adrian came downstairs as I ended the call. Suspicion sharpened his expression.

"Why did you cancel the wedding shoot?"

"I don't want the pictures anymore."

"What about the ceremony?"

"I don't want that either."

"Why?"

"There's no point."

He searched my face for a long moment, then gave a slow nod.

"You're right. We've been together so long we're practically an old married couple. There's no reason to put on a show."

I turned fully toward him.

"Adrian."

"What?"

"If I left you one day, what would you do?"

He blinked. Then he threw back his head and laughed as though I'd told the funniest joke in the world.

"Nora, you've been with me for ten years. The food you eat, the clothes you wear, the roof over your head—I gave you all of it. Where would you even go? Who else would want you?"

The contempt in his voice cut straight through me.

All this time, he hadn't only believed I would stay.

He believed I couldn't leave.

Heat rushed behind my eyes. I forced down the ache and made my voice steady.

"Adrian, we—"

The doorbell rang.