Page 48 of The Princess and the Fraud

I didn’t understand it back then—instead, I’d storm out of lessons at the criticism, shout back at my instructor, only to regret it all the next day.

My mom used to call me hot-headed, but if I’d asked anyone from Alderton-Du Ponte, they’d say I was the most composed person they knew. That quick fuse had been extinguished when Mom died, leaving behind a girl who moved through life numb. I hadn’t realized how quiet living could feel without that intensity, and how it could leave me feeling like something was missing.

And then came Aaron Astor. He could light that fire in me like no other, time and time again. After five years of going through the motions, he made mefeel—albeit usually negative emotions. But it was a brief reminder; I wasn’t numb. I wasalive.

Last night, I’d let my emotions take over, throwing words at him without control. Passion without precision. Feeling without direction. And like a song played without care, it had come out all wrong.

I couldn’t forget the way he’d looked up at me, shocked and regretful.I… say things a lot that come out wrong. Too harsh, or too rude.

Sitting on my couch now, I scrubbed my hands over my face, muffling a groan. Why did my days off coincide with my bad decisions? Instead of being able to use work as a distraction, I had nothing but free time for the situation to mentally harass me.

At least I’m not a fraud.

Oh my God. I’dsaid that.

I groaned into my palms again.

I’d been regretting it all day. And notbecause I was worried about him backing out of our deal—he had too much still riding on it, after all—but because it genuinely made me feelbad. Like I’d eaten something rotten the night before. This morning, when I woke to the sound of my neighbor’s alarm blaring through the thin walls, the argument with Aaron had been the first thing to pop into my head. Or, really, hisfacehad been the first thing—his wide eyes, the upturned brows, the parted lips.I didn’t say it to make you angry.

Of course he hadn’t. There was no trace of arrogance or superiority in his face when he’d spoken. Nothing but a soft sort of realization, as if he’d cracked a code he’d been working on in secret.

And why did Aaron have to go and have the saddest sad face ever?

“Ugh!” The exclamation ripped out of me, and I straightened with a snap, staring at my far wall. “Why should I feel guilty?” I asked the air. “He was the one who should’ve kept his thoughts to himself.”

Great, now I was talking to myself. It was after six o’clock, and it’d finally happened—Aaron Astor had driven me crazy.

“He made it sound like I sacrificed everything for—you.” At the last moment, I decided,no, I was not talking to myself. I was talking to my mother. My dead mother. That was totally more normal. Less crazy. Totally. “Which I didn’t. It makes it sound like that’s what you would’ve wanted, your happiness at the sake of my own, but that wasn’t the case at all. I’m not sacrificing anything. Ichoseto put down the cello. I’m choosing this.”

Too agitated to sit still any longer, I shot to my feet and began pacing the small square footage of my apartment. “He wants to be Mr. Know-It-All in every situation. I am comfortable being myself. Who does he think he is?” I scoffed. “Just because we had one nice moment doesn’t mean he knows everything about me.”

I imagined my mother nodding along with a sympathetic expression.

“He’sthe pathetic one. If he wants to live the rest of his life without love,that’swhat’s sad. Not me. I’m not sad. He’s the one tricking someone into marrying him. And he thinksI’mthe pitiful one?”

My mind replayed the argument over from the top, starting with Aaron’s quietI understand youand ending with my childlike flouncing from the room. This time, though, my brain once more hiccupped on what happened right after I’d said my piece.

“Ugh, Mom, but you should’ve seen his face.” I fell against my couch, the springs groaning in protest as I re-buried my face in my hands. “It was like I’d kicked a puppy in front of him or something. He looked so…ugh.”

I drew a harsh breath in, pressing my fingers firmer into my eyes. Why could he so easily ignite a fire in me? No one had been able to do so in years.

With my eyes squeezed shut, I remembered the irresistible pull toward the piano yesterday. The peaceful moments before everything fell apart. The overwhelming urge to play something—anything—had grabbed hold of me so completely that there’d been no escaping it, even though the instrument was foreign to me.

Then, out of nowhere, Aaron appeared—his fingers aligning with mine, giving me exactly what my heart had been aching for: the chance to feel the music again.

Which—wrong. Not allowed. And honestly, where had that urge to come from? I’d been around that piano for years, and had never felt the draw before. And the answer was simple: Aaron.

It’d woken something inside me, seeing Aaron play.Aaronhad woken something inside of me. Ever since he’d returned to Addison, the pull to music was suddenly so much harder to push down.

Even now, I could almost feel the ghostly touch of my fingers along the backs of his, our shoulders touching, our thighs brushing. I grew strangely breathless. “You should hear him play, though, Mom,” I murmured, still not opening my eyes. “He played Rachmaninoff’s piano concerto. The second movement, not the full piece, but it… That Rachmaninoff piece is for piano and orchestra, and I could—I can just imagine the strings in the background, you know?”

What I didn’t admit to her, though, was that when I’d gotten home last night, too agitated to sleep, I’d grabbed my phone. I’d needed to listen to the full concerto, all the movements. Needed it on an almost incomprehensible level. The second movement was by far the most emotional, exactly as I’d remembered it. When it came to the swell, the same feeling that’d bloomed in my chest when Aaron played it the first time surfaced again.

“I didn’t realize how much I missed music,” I went on, tracing the pads of my fingers. “Even in a consumption sense. I didn’t remember how even sitting listening to someone performing could be so…intoxicating.”

The confession was weighted, but it didn’t feel like a relief to speak it aloud. The crushing feeling on top of my lungs remained. It was a dual admission, after all—one that I’d been pushing down and down, but it kept resurfacing.

There were more words, but I’d never say them.I kept imagining what it’d be like to play the crescendo with him. What we’d sound like… together. It made me want to play again.

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