Page 9 of Tainted Empire

“Thank you, Lee,” I say, feeling a spark of hope ignite within me. “Music... it’s always been the one place where I truly feel myself. Maybe it can help me find my way back.”

Lee smiles, her demeanor supportive. “It’s time for you to take back control of your life, in whatever form that takes.”

I smile at her words, knowing this is more than just an opportunity to reconnect with my passion for music; it’s a step towards reclaiming my identity, my independence, and perhaps, a piece of the happiness that seems so elusive now.

Chapter 6

Gabriette

The drive to the philharmonic archives feels surreal, like I’m floating through a dream. I’m both excited and nervous as the car pulls up to the elegant building where Mr. Orlov told me they store a treasure trove of musical history.

This building, he said, holds more than just archived footage; it’s a sanctuary for long-lost melodies and the forgotten whispers of musical legends. This building is completely separate from the one I used to frequent, and I can’t help but feel excited.

Stepping inside, I’m immediately greeted by Mr. Orlov, who makes quite a fuss over me. His enthusiasm is both flattering and a little overwhelming.

“Mrs. Baranova, it’s an absolute pleasure to see you again,” he beams, shaking my hand with both of his. “I was thrilled when Lee called on your behalf.”

I smile. “Thank you, Mr. Orlov. I’m really looking forward to exploring the archives, especially any footage of Amaranthe you might have.”

His eyes light up at the mention of Amaranthe Baranova. “Ah, Amaranthe! A true legend. Come, let me show you to our archives. We have some recordings that have never been seen by the public.”

The archive room is like stepping into a different world, rows upon rows of old recordings, each a piece of history. Mr. Orlov guides me through the aisles, pointing out significant pieces, but I can barely contain my excitement about seeing Amaranthe in action.

Then, amidst the recordings, I stumble upon a personal video — one where someone is recording Amaranthe during a casual, intimate moment. The footage is grainy, but there’s a rawness, a vulnerability to her performance that’s mesmerizing.

It’s truly a tragedy that she could never play again. I would have given everything to have met her before her untimely death.

My breath catches as her husband, Dimitri, Mikhail’s great-grandfather, enters the frame.

The resemblance between him and Mikhail is striking, so uncanny it feels like a punch to the gut. The long blonde hair, the large, muscular frame and that dimpled smile; but that’s not all.

The way Dimitri looks at Amaranthe, with such love and tenderness, mirrors how Mikhail used to look at me.

A pang of longing hits me, and for a moment, I can’t breathe. I wonder how Mikhail is doing, how he’s coping with giving me the space he promised. Despite everything, the thought of him alone, tormented by guilt, sends a wave of sorrow through me.

I glance down at my wedding ring, the symbol of our union that now feels like a question mark hanging over my future. As my hand instinctively rests on my belly, a jolt of reality hits me.

In the midst of my sadness and confusion, I had momentarily forgotten about the new life growing inside me. How could I have forgotten? Then again, given everything and my downward spiral of sorts, it’s not surprising that I forgot about it since I never got a chance to celebrate it.

Sitting there, surrounded by echoes of the past, I feel a profound sense of being at a crossroads. My connection to the Baranov legacy, to Mikhail, to the life I’m carrying — it all converges here, in this moment of reflection.

“We were so blessed to have caught this moment,” I blink as I suddenly remember Mr Orlov is in the room with me. “You know, watching you here, so engrossed in Amaranthe’s world, gives me an idea,” he begins, his eyes twinkling with excitement.

“Oh?” I respond, curious about where this is leading.

“Yes,” he continues, clasping his hands together. “Every year, the philharmonic hosts an annual meet, a grand event where we showcase extraordinary talents. It’s a prestigious affair, attended by some of the most prominent figures in the music world.”

I nod, intrigued by the idea of such a gathering, imagining the buzz of a crowd all united by their love for music.

“And, well, I was wondering,” Mr. Orlov hesitates for a moment, as if weighing his words. “Would you consider performing a solo piece? It would be an honor to have a Baranova grace our stage once again.”

The proposition takes my breath away. The thought of performing, of being on stage again, is both exhilarating and terrifying.

“A solo performance? At the annual meet?” I echo, my mind racing with the possibilities and the fears.

“Yes, exactly!” Mr. Orlov exclaims. “I understand it’s short notice and a big step, especially after... well, after everything. But I believe in your talent, Mrs. Baranova. And it would be a meaningful tribute to the legacy of Amaranthe.”

His “after everything” makes me wonder just what exactly he knows about me and the life my husband leads. I should bring this up with Lee later.

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