Page 124 of The Princess and the Fraud

Aaron kissed the center of my forehead. “I thought about what I’d do if she were still alive,” he murmured against my skin. “Would I be able to get married just to take cash from her outstretched hand? Could I fool her by taking something pure and turning it into a transaction?”

I held still, staring at the exposed skin of his throat. “I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

“She didn’t write it in her will for it to be a test.” Now he kissed my other temple. “But it feels like one, for me. And I’d rather be broke than have money that I only got because I found a loophole. I don’t want to live a life I resent. Even if that means starting over from scratch, as long as I build a life I am proud of, that’s what matters. And I’d like to build that life with you.”

Emotion swelled in my throat, making it nearly impossible to speak. “I’m proud of you, Aaron.”

I watched as the words seeped into him, easily passing through the walls he’d let down. It was almost a tangible thing, seeing how it washed over him. Aaron’s eyes grew shiny again, and he let out a soft breath, almost like a little exclamation. “It’s all because of you, love.”

I had to clear my throat to keep my own eyes from going glassy. “Well, I have a nice little savings account,” I told him as he began to trace his lips down to my cheekbone, then to my jawline. Concentration was rapidly decreasing for both of us. “I can support our future together until it runs out.”

Aaron looked down into my eyes, and in his, there was nothing but light. “Together… I want that.”

I could’ve melted in his grip. “Together.”

This time, we met each other halfway, my mouth once more colliding with Aaron’s in a way that was almost magnetized. As we kissed, there was no cello concerto that came to mind—instead, a new melody floated through my head. It was twisting and intricate, with the cello and piano notes winding together into an unfamiliar tune. The deep, clear voice of the cello spoke of excitement, while the lulling arpeggios of the piano spoke of inspiration. A piece beautiful and clear and full of new beginnings.

A new piece, just for the two of us. We made the perfect composition.

Together.

EPILOGUE

JUNE

“We’ll wrap things up here for the day,” the composer at the front of the chamber murmured, glancing around at the musicians with a nod of approval. “Great work. I’ll see you Thursday morning, then, everyone.”

I sank back in my stiff chair, my cello rocking into my thigh. The two-and-a-half-hour-long practice had left me drained, though for its entirety, I never moved from where I sat. My music stand was propped in front of me with sheet music for Beethoven’s Symphony No. 6 “Pastoral,” with the cello focus. I stared at the notes, able to feel them hum underneath my skin even from just looking at the bars and measures.

“Communing with Beethoven?” my stand partner, Ji-ah, asked. She stood up to put her cello back in her purple hard case, flashing me a smile. “Or has it all begun to look like gibberish to you? After long practices, I sometimes forget the difference of notes on a line or in a space.”

“I forgot howeverythingaches.” I reached up and massaged the area where my shoulder met my neck. That wasn’t the only area that seemed to groan with pain, though. My bow arm trembled, the muscles in my back shook, and my fingertips on my left hand screamed. “I thought my calluses would’ve formed by now.”

“It takes time,” Ji-ah said. “For some cellists, they don’t form at all.”

I looked down at my fingertips. They were red, almost numb. “The horror,” I said sadly.

Ji-ah just laughed.

I began packing my cello into its hard case, slowly, still paranoid it’d accidentally slip from my fingers. Even though I’d had countless practice sessions since coming out to San Diego almost two months ago, handling the cello still was nothing short of precious to me.

It was funny how much life could change in a year.

Last June, five years of suffocation had been catching up to me. With no broader goal than working to save money, my life had become a stifling stretch of time. I’d survived five long years on the barest amount of oxygen, continuing on toward a dream I didn’t want, holding myself back from the ledge I longed to throw myself off from.

Life held no happiness, no meaning outside of1442 Everview Road.

And this June, I sat surrounded by the sounds of gentle murmuring paired with other members of the ensemble putting their own instruments away. A breath of fresh air.

Closing my cello case’s lid, I tipped my head back. The rehearsal space—wide, echo-softened, and golden with late-afternoon light—was different than the space I’d grown up practicing in. Here, there was a sense ofgrandness. The ceiling was strung with soft acoustic panels like sails in the sky. It was not a room for a solo cellist, but a hall for an orchestra—a place for a collective, not a soloist.

After blending in at Alderton-Du Ponte, I’d been nervous about how I would feel, once more tasked to fit in with those around me. It turned out that when I was with those who spoke the same language as me, fitting in became a beautiful feeling. After spending so long on my own, the sense of belonging had been exactly what my heart ached for.

“Youreallyshould come with us to the Pacific Beach today,” Ji-ah pressed. She pushed her glasses up, using it as a headband to hold back her black hair. “The temperature is perfect. I know Ellie’ll want to surf, but we can just sunbath and watch her eat it.”

I stood from my seat and brought my cello case up, hooking my arms through the straps and securing it against my back. It was a solid, familiar pressure. “Next time,” I promised her. “Annalise made a reservation for her favorite restaurant over on Kettner. A pre-emptive wedding anniversary dinner.”

She chuckled. “Don’t you normally do those with your husband?”

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