I stared at the headline, my finger hovering over the screen.

The comments were even worse than the picture.

In the comments, the same socialites who’d once envied my "Cinderella story" were finally showing their fangs.

"The real queen is back, so the little canary's dream is over. I bet her next patron is that sadist senator. What do you all think?"

"I'm starting a pool. How many hands will she pass through before she's kicked out of New York for good? Without the Moretti name protecting her, a woman like that isn't even fit to shine our shoes."

"Five years is a long shelf life. She's expired."

Their venom splattered against me like mud, but I kept scrolling, my face blank.

Still, a heavy weight settled in my chest, a boulder making it hard to breathe.

My heart seized in sharp, painful spasms. My nose burned. A hot pressure built behind my eyes.

The five-year fantasy was over. Utterly shattered.

I counted the days in my head.

Six days left.

Even without this woman, I was never going to spend one second longer in this golden cage.

I grabbed my purse. Inside was the receipt for my passport application and an audition invitation from an Austrian symphony.

As soon as I had my visa, I would disappear from Rocco's world for good.

When I got back to the penthouse, the door was ajar.

The sound of a violin drifted out.

Rocco was here?

But he never touched my violin.

I pushed the door open and froze.

It wasn't Rocco standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows.

It was a woman in a white Chanel suit. Chestnut curls, an elegant back. In her hand was the bow to my violin, the one I had just restored.

It was the woman from the photo.

She heard the door and turned around.

"So this is the little bird Rocco keeps?"

Her eyes scanned me from head to toe, filled with a natural-born superiority and contempt.

"I heard you were a prodigy at the conservatory? I studied for a few years myself. Unlike you…"

She dragged the bow across a string, creating a screeching noise.

"…who only uses her 'talent' to please men. And from the sound of it, you're not even very good at that. You're a cheap imitation, destined for a back alley, not a stage."

"Vivienne."

A low voice came from the kitchen.

Rocco walked out, carrying two plates of steaming risotto.

He was in casual loungewear, a relaxed look I’d never seen before. It was a punch to the gut.

In five years, he had never once cooked in this apartment.

He looked at Vivienne, and the brutality from last night was gone. In its place was a look of weary… affection.

"Leave her be, Vivienne. You can't compare a Juilliard concertmaster to a dropout."

The words were meant to defend me, but they just put me in my place. A needle straight to the heart.

So that's all I was in his eyes. My talent, my pride—just an unfinished joke.

Vivienne pouted, clearly not happy with Rocco’s "defense."

She suddenly yanked the bow.

SNAP.

The expensive gut string broke in two.

As the string snapped, Vivienne cried out and dropped the violin. It crashed to the floor.

"Ow! That hurt!"

She held up her index finger. There was a tiny, barely-visible scratch, with a single bead of blood.

"Vivienne!"

Rocco slammed the plates on the table and rushed to her side, grabbing her hand. He frowned as if she’d been mortally wounded.

"How could you be so careless? Where's the first-aid kit?" he roared, turning his fierce eyes on me.

I stood frozen, my gaze fixed on the lonely, broken violin on the floor.

It was the last thing my mother had left me.

I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood.

I wanted to scream, to run and pick up my violin. But I didn't dare.

The look in Rocco’s eyes told me that if I upset Vivienne, I would pay a price I couldn't afford.

"What a piece of junk," Vivienne whined, leaning into Rocco's arms. "The strings are so rough. Rocco, this piece of junk is all trash from the gutter like her deserves. Take me to Vienna to buy a new one next time."

Rocco was busy blowing on her tiny cut. He didn't even look up.

"Alright. Whatever you want. We'll just throw this one out."

Throw this one out.

Four words. A death sentence for my mother's memory.

I bit down, the taste of iron filling my mouth.

But I stayed silent.

Rocco expertly bandaged her finger, a wound so small it didn't even need a band-aid. He picked up the risotto again, his voice soft in a way I’d never heard.

"There, don't be mad. I made you my special truffle risotto. Eat it while it's hot."

Vivienne sat at the table and poked at the food with her fork.

"It's okay, I guess," she said casually. "But honestly, Rocco, your cooking still can't compare to Leonardo's. Now his risotto was divine."

The air froze.

Leonardo.

The last Don of the Moretti family. Rocco's dead brother.

I saw Rocco’s hand clench around his wine glass. A storm gathered in his eyes. The softness on his face vanished, replaced by an icy chill.

"Vivienne," he warned, his voice low and tight.

Standing in the corner, I finally understood.

So that was it.

The name "Vivienne" I’d heard him whisper when he was drunk… it wasn't some ex-girlfriend.

It was his sister-in-law.

This woman.

He was in love with his brother's wife.

And me? I was just a substitute. A cheap replacement to fill the void.

I had to get out of this suffocating room.

"I'll… I'll get you both some water," I mumbled, looking at the floor.

"Don't bother," Rocco's voice cut through the air.

He put down his glass, his eyes still locked on Vivienne. He didn't even look at me.

He pulled a key from his pocket and tossed it on the coffee table. It landed with a sharp clink.

"Pack your things. Go to the old apartment on the edge of town."

I stared at him, stunned.

"Now?"

"Right now." He finally glanced at me, his eyes filled with annoyance. "Vivienne just got back from her tour. She doesn't like hotels. She's staying here. And..."

He glanced at the wreckage of my violin on the floor, a cruel smile on his lips.

"...she doesn't like seeing filth around."

My blood turned to ice.

So that's what I was to him.

After five years of being at his beck and call, the real owner was back. And I was just the "filth" that had to be cleaned out.

"Don't come back until I call for you."

I left with a single, small suitcase.

An early winter storm had hit New York, blanketing the city in snow.

The steps outside the building were slick with ice.

I hadn't gone more than a few feet before my feet slipped out from under me. I crashed hard onto the pavement.

The suitcase burst open, my sheet music scattering everywhere.

But I couldn’t focus on that.

A sudden, violent cramp ripped through my lower stomach.

The pain was so sharp it buckled me over, my vision tunneling to black.

My hand flew to my belly on pure instinct. A primal terror I’d never known seized me.

And that tearing pain… it threw me back to another winter.

Five years ago. A snowstorm just like this one.

My mother, right in front of me, jumping from the seventh-floor rooftop.

The dull thud as her body hit the ground.

The red blood spreading quickly, staining the dirty snow. Just like this.

"Mom..." I knelt in the snow, staring at the blood.

When Rocco saved me in that filthy alley, when he gave me a home in that warm apartment, I really thought I’d found a family.

Those nights he took me to charity galas.

The way he’d shield me from pushy guests, whispering in my ear, "You're the most beautiful woman here tonight." I'd had such foolish fantasies.

I thought maybe, just maybe, I could have that simple, impossible happiness.

Looking back now, it was all just a game to him. The way a man indulges a pet.

My phone buzzed in my pocket.

It was Chloe.

"Clara, I just stopped by the custom jeweler. Those handmade cufflinks you ordered for Rocco's birthday are ready. The ones with his initials… Should I still have them sent over?"

I covered the mouthpiece with my bloody hand. My voice trembled in the wind.

"No, Chloe. Don't."

"What? But..."

"I changed my flight. I'm leaving the day the contract ends."

I glanced back at the towering skyscraper, at the single lit window of the penthouse.

"He doesn't need a surprise. He doesn't need me."

I moved into the old apartment on the city's edge.

It was bare. A moldy old sofa, a simple table and chairs.

It was perfect.

The cold, the distance… it was a constant reminder of what Rocco and I really were.

I thought I’d stay here until it was time to leave.

On the third evening, my private ringtone went off.

It was Rocco. He wanted me back at the penthouse.

No explanation. Just a command.

When I pushed open the door, I thought I was in the wrong apartment.

Everything was different.

The custom-made bed where we’d spent countless nights was gone, replaced by an ornate, over-the-top Baroque monstrosity.

The simple gray sofa I loved was gone, too. In its place was a velvet couch that looked expensive and deeply uncomfortable.

The impressionist paintings I’d picked out were gone from the walls.

The whole room felt suffocating, dripping with a gaudy luxury.

It was Vivienne's taste.

My heart seized.

"My things?" I grabbed the arm of a cleaning lady, my voice sharp. "Where are my things?"

"Oh, the old furniture and clutter?" The woman pointed towards the door. "Mr. Moretti said to clear it all out. It was all sent to the incinerator in the basement."

"What?!"

I ran for the elevator like a madwoman.

The furniture didn't matter. The clothes didn't matter.

But inside the nightstand, in a small tin box, was the caricature a street artist drew of us on our first trip to Coney Island.

It was the only time he’d ever smiled at me like a normal boy.

And the photo of us kissing at the top of the Ferris wheel.

I’d said to him that day, "They say lovers who kiss at the very top will stay together forever."

He had just smiled and kissed me.

It was the only proof of "love" I had saved over five years.

I sprinted to the incinerator in the basement.

The massive furnace was roaring, the fire lighting up the dark room.

In a pile of trash waiting to be shoved inside, I saw it. The crushed tin box.

I scrambled over, digging through the filthy garbage.

"Miss! That's trash! It's dirty!" a worker shouted.

I ignored him, my hands trembling as I pried the box open.

Inside, there was only black ash. But I could still make out a burnt corner of the photo. The ghostly outline of the Ferris wheel.

The sketch was almost gone. Just a blur of Rocco's face, the edges being eaten by the last glowing embers.

The moment my fingertip touched the ash, it disintegrated.

Along with the last, pathetic piece of my heart.

I knelt there, beside the pile of garbage, and the tears finally came.

"What the hell are you doing?"

A familiar, cold voice came from behind me.

I went rigid.

Rocco was standing at the entrance to the incinerator room, a cigarette between his fingers, frowning at the pathetic sight I made.

"My girl has a taste for garbage now?"

I kept my back to him and wiped my tears away.

I took a deep breath, then rubbed my ash-covered hands hard on my clothes.

"Nothing, Boss."

I turned, the perfect, unbreakable smile already back on my face.

I walked to him and stood on my toes, pressing my lips to his.

"I heard your call and came right away. Just wanted to see if I'd left anything behind."

Rocco looked down at me, a flicker of suspicion in his eyes, but he didn't push it.

He just reached out and patted my head, like he was rewarding an obedient pet.

"Don't decorate on your own again," he said, his voice flat around the cigarette. "Vivienne doesn't like... your cheap taste."

I looked at his face, blurred by the smoke, and the hole in my chest finally stopped bleeding.

"Okay," I nodded obediently.

"Whatever makes you happy."

Anyway, I added silently, there won't be a trace of Clara Vance here soon enough.

I thought Rocco called me back for the usual reason. To be cleaned up, thrown on a bed, and used like an animal to satisfy him.

But he didn't.

He didn't even stay the night.

He sat on that uncomfortable velvet sofa, silently ate a steak I wasn't very good at cooking, and then looked at his watch.

"I have to go."

He stood up, buttoned his suit jacket, and became the cold-blooded Don again.

"I'll be busy for a while. Don't wait up."

Then, without a backward glance, he was gone.

Ten minutes later, his second-in-command knocked on the door.

"Miss Vance."

He respectfully handed me a velvet case and a black Amex card.

"From the Boss."

Inside the case was an antique violin. A Guarneri del Gesù, 1742. If I wasn't mistaken, it was the one that sold for a fortune at Christie's two years ago.

And the black card had no limit.

"Compensation," the man said simply.

I stared at the violin, an instrument that could buy an entire orchestra, and felt nothing but a vast emptiness.

Rocco Moretti never apologized.

This was his way.

He used money to fix the problem of a cheap, broken violin string. He used a priceless masterpiece to shut my mouth, to buy my silence for the desecration of my mother's memory.

"Where did he go?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

The man hesitated. "Miss Vivienne is organizing an art exhibit and a personal concert in memory of her late husband. The Boss... is helping her."

"Helping."

I let out a small, bitter laugh.

What a nice word for it.

The Don of the Moretti family, a killer with blood on his hands, acting like a devoted husband, helping a woman plan an art show.

Two days later, on the opening day of Vivienne’s exhibition, I went anyway.

I bought a ticket, a sick part of me wanting to see the humiliation up close.

Maybe it would be the last time I ever saw him.

The exhibition was in one of Manhattan's most expensive galleries. A giant poster hung at the entrance: Vivienne, dressed in black lace, her expression beautiful and tragic. The title read: Eternal Love: To My Leonardo.

"What is this pretentious crap?"

A familiar voice snapped beside me. I turned to see Chloe, decked out in a ridiculous sequined jacket, rolling her eyes at the poster.

"Isn't this the gallery you booked for your fashion show?" I asked.

"Don't even get me started!" Chloe fumed. "It was my spot. Then this bitch whispered something in someone's ear and my show got bumped a month. And for what? This garbage? I wouldn't hang this stuff on my wall if you paid me. I bet they won't sell a hundred tickets!"

I looked at the expensive ticket in my hand and gave a sad smile.

"Maybe. But for some people, the audience doesn't matter."

I looked at the poster's romantic title.

"As long as the one person who matters is watching."

Chloe's sharp eyes caught my mood. She stopped complaining and put an arm around my shoulders, changing the subject.

"Hey, don't be too sad. You know what? I went to this super boring MIT alumni thing the other day and met this total nerd."

She gestured dramatically.

"He was hot, in a nerdy way. Gold-rimmed glasses, the whole deal. Turns out he's a cryptography professor! And you know what he said to me? He said my latest design looked like an 'illogical patchwork of colored rags'! The nerve!"

Her story made me laugh, lifting some of the gloom.

"Maybe he was just trying to get your attention."

"Please! A tech bro like that wouldn't know romance if it hit him in the face."

After saying goodbye to Chloe, I walked into the gallery.

It wasn't crowded. Mostly social climbers looking to kiss Moretti ass.

Vivienne was in the spotlight, giving an interview.

"Leonardo was the love of my life," she said to the camera, her eyes welling with tears. "Even after all these years, my heart still belongs only to him. This concert, every one of these paintings… it’s all for him, for my endless love..."

The reporters were eating it up.

But my eyes went to the corner of the room, to Rocco, standing in the shadows.

His face was a mask of fury.

A second later, he slammed his nearly crushed wine glass onto a passing waiter's tray and strode out of the room.

I don't know why I did it, but I followed him.

He was at the end of a long hall, by a dark fire escape, yanking at his tie.

He heard my footsteps and whipped around.

For a second, the raw violence in his eyes terrified me.

"Rocco..." I breathed.

Before I could react, a hand shot out and clamped around my wrist.

He dragged me into a service elevator.

BANG.

The metal doors slammed shut, plunging us into darkness.

Rocco shoved me against the cold wall, the overwhelming scent of whiskey flooding the small space.

"Rocco..."

I started to speak, but his mouth crashed down on mine, fierce and desperate.

His lips were hot, his tongue bitter with alcohol, stealing my breath. His hand tangled in my hair, holding my head so tight it hurt.

But I didn't fight back.

In this dark, hidden place, we were both the ones left behind.

He kissed me so deeply, so forcefully, as if I was the only thing that could save him.

"I love you," he whispered against my ear, his voice ragged.

My heart stopped.

Tears welled in my eyes.

The words I had waited five years to hear, and he was saying them now…

But in the next second, my blood ran cold.

Because in the darkness, in a voice torn with anguish, he whispered the name that truly owned his soul:

"Vivienne."