Page 11 of Ruthless King
WILLOW
TWENTY-FOUR HOURS EARLIER…
One of my composition professors is an accomplished pianist who has performed with various orchestras worldwide. Undeniably talented, he also happens to be a virulent misogynist. Working with him was a trying nine-week-long test of my patience.
I did learn something from him, though—a valuable lesson when it comes to dealing with men outside of my family—most are vain, selfish creatures unable to think beyond a pretty face. It’s an aggravating realization to come to, but there’s also power in that knowledge.
There is power in destroying some pompous lecher’s perceptions of success.
“A young girl shouldn’t be studying music, wasting her beauty away,”he’d scolded me during our first lesson.“You should be living your life, thinking pretty thoughts, and finding a husband to whisk you away.”
He’d shouted, of course, presuming that I was deaf instead of mute. With an eyebrow raised in feigned pity, he then suggested I,“Take a less intense course this semester. I’m disinclined to make any adjustments to compensate for a disability as I don’t think it would be fair to the other students. I’m sure you understand, dear.”
I did understand. After all, he had a point. “Compensating” his notoriously ruthless schedule for one lone woman would have been a crime against humanity. So, to ease his concerns, I’d proceeded to play a concerto so complicated he promptly kept his mouth shut for the rest of the class.
“Disabled” or not, I went on to pass that semester with top marks.
Still, I could kick myself for channeling his banal thinking now. Maybe, in some warped, twisted sense of logic, the bastard had a point? On the eve of her nineteenth birthday, a girl should think nothing but pretty, happy thoughts. Fantasies starring men her own age, or silly daydreams, perhaps?
Especially if said girl is rich, well-protected, and healthy. Her life is perfect, and she should be grateful, not fearful. I know firsthand—it could be worse.
Therefore, fully content, someone in my position should be looking toward the future—not at a billboard innocently placed in her path as though fate itself intended it to be there.
Stopping short, I blink several times. Shake my head. I even pinch myself on the wrist so hard the pain lances up my arm.
Nothing makes the sight disappear.
Ironically, I should have been too distracted to even notice such an obscure advert but, for whatever reason, I couldn’t miss it.
And it can’t be real.
Hisface, staring at me from beneath a glossy veneer, must be the result of some horrific waking nightmare—and it could be… If it weren’t for the faint wrinkles around his eyes. I never picture him like this. Aged. Weary, and yet in so many ways, exactly the same. Dark, brooding eyes glowering at the world before him, his mouth curled in a beguiling half-smile.
There’s no mistaking him for anyone else—this is Donatello.
Pain rips through my stomach as though I’ve been punched, building with every new detail I notice. Even in a photograph, vigor screams from his coifed, dark hair and bronzed skin. Both could be the work of Photoshop, yes.
But the man I knew would be too proud to craft such a façade.
It’s him. In the background stretches an expanse of water and a succinct title reading:V Development Group: We build the future you desire.
A future…
I blink again and rub at my eyes for good measure. This can’t be real. Only in my imagination could such a cruel parallel be cast by that one word.
Because by just looking at him, one would never know of the so-called “future,” he ripped from me. The life he brutally stole. The beloved friend who put a little girl through unimaginable horror.
Closing my eyes can’t erase it. They burn beneath the assault of memories, and it takes everything I have in me to choke them back. Squash the emotions the way my father taught me to.
“Focus, Mouse,”Mischa would scold while training me with simple defensive moves in the courtyard of our home.“You always let your anger get in the way. Move past it! Focus!”
It was that mindset that drew me to studying music. Sheets of notes required more than just emotion to play effectively. They had to be analyzed rationally, every note carefully planned.
I try to do that now, pushing past the jumbled emotions clawing through my heart.
At the end of it all, one reality remains—I am not that girl anymore. He should mean nothing to the person I am in this moment. This rich, sheltered woman. This accomplished, scholarly musician. Nothing…
But like some lingering infection, he’s already inside me anyway, seeping into my veins with every frantic surge of my pulse. The memories descend one after the other, until I’m drowning in them. All I can think about ishim. Donatello, the man who left me for dead. So sweet, his laugh could infect an entire room of people with joy. One smile from him could charm the sun from the sky.
