Page 108 of Ruined

Evelyn sits up, pulling away from me. The sudden distance feels wrong.

"Why? Because you think you own me now?" Her words have an edge although there's no real heat behind them.

"Because I want to know you," I say simply. "Not just where you go or what you do. Who you are."

She looks at me then, really looks at me, like she's trying to decide whether I'm telling the truth.

"You know everything about my life but nothing about me," she says quietly.

And she's right. I've been so focused on possessing her that I never bothered to understand her. I knew her body before I knew her past.

"Then tell me," I say.

"It's not that simple," I say, looking down at my hands. They're steady now, despite everything. The same hands that have played violin since I was three, that have touched Noah in ways I never imagined touching anyone.

"What's not simple?" Noah asks, his voice gentle. It's strange how quickly he can shift from the man who commands me in bed to this softer version who wants to know me.

"Talking about my past. My family." I tuck my legs beneath me on the couch, putting distance between us. "You say you've been watching me for ten months, but you don't know the first thing about who I really am."

"So tell me." His eyes are intense, focused solely on me. It's that focus that unnerves me—how completely he can see me when he wants to.

I take a deep breath. "My father is what most people would call successful. Wealthy businessman, respected in his community, generous donor to the arts." I laugh but there's no humor in it. "What they don't see is what happens behind closed doors."

Noah waits, patient in a way I wouldn't have expected from him.

"I was three when he put a violin in my hands. Not because I showed interest—because he decided that's what I would do. My mother was a concert pianist before she married him. She gave it all up to be his wife, to raise his children. He wouldn't let the same thing happen to me."

The irony isn't lost on me. My father thought he was saving me from my mother's fate, but he just created a different kind of prison.

"Every day, I practiced. Four hours before school, four hours after. Weekends were eight to ten hours. If I made a mistake—" I stop, remembering the metronome ticking, my father's face growing darker with each error. "If I made a mistake he would lock me in the practice room until I got it right. Sometimes that meant all night."

Noah's jaw tightens but he doesn't interrupt.

"My mother never stopped him. She would bring food, water, slip it through the door sometimes. But she never stood up to him. Not once." The betrayal still stings, even now. "Jessica was the only one who tried to help. She'd tap messages on the wall, bring me candy when I was allowed out."

I curl my fingers through my hair, trying to organize thoughts I've spent years burying.

"By the time I was ten I was playing in competitions against teenagers. By fifteen I was touring internationally. Everyone called me a prodigy." I spit the word out like poison. "What they didn't see was that I never had a choice. Not about the violin, not about the competitions, not about anything."

"And your mother just watched?" Noah asks, his voice careful.

"My mother was—is—a ghost of a person. Whatever fire she had was extinguished long before I was born. She exists inhis shadow, perfect posture, perfect smile, perfect emptiness." I shake my head. "The only time I ever saw her come alive was when she played piano but that was rare. He didn't like the competition."

"Did he hit you?" Noah's question is direct, his eyes darkening.

"No. Not physically. My father is too sophisticated for that." I meet his gaze. "His methods were more... refined. Psychological. Emotional. He would tell me I was worthless if I couldn't play perfectly. That I was nothing without the violin. That no one would ever love me except for my music."

I look down at my hands again, these hands that have been both my prison and my freedom.

"And I believed him. For a very long time I believed every word."

Noah's expression shifts, something fierce replacing the gentleness from moments before.

"You're not worthless," he says, his voice low and absolute. "You never were."

I look up, surprised by the conviction in his tone.

"I love hearing you play—it's what drew me to you in the first place. But if it makes you sad, if it reminds you of him, then stop. Just stop playing."

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