Page 6 of The Villain's Captive (The Villain's Duet 1)

Every single second that I remained by her side, the fear of losing her crippled me to a point where I was sure I’d die alongside her. God, there was a time I wanted to die with her because thinking about a life without her just didn’t make sense. It was a thought I couldn’t wrap my head around, the idea of living in a world where she no longer existed.

Tears stung my eyes, and I wasn’t sure whether it was because of the adrenaline leaving my system, or if it was the memory of my mother reminding me yet again how much I fucking missed her.

I glanced at the cello case, too afraid to open it because I knew there was no way a forty-year-old cello could have survived being slammed in a door and falling on a tiled floor. It was probably nothing more than broken pieces of wood.

For the entire ride home, I had my jaw clenched as I held my tears, refusing to let my torn heart acknowledge the grief that always lingered.

I got to my apartment, still miraculously keeping my shit together. It was creepy as fuck knowing someone was there, at the theatre, watching me. I tried to convince myself it was Chase, or one of the other guys playing this twisted prank on me. But that voice. I didn’t recognize it. Whoever was there wasn’t someone I knew.

I locked the door and stared at the tiny living space I called home. Well, it wasn’t home. Nowhere was home ever since my mom passed. This was just a shithole I cleaned up with my perfectionism and OCD tendencies. But there wasn’t a magic wand in this entire goddamn world that could turn this dump into something worth living in—for others, at least. Me? I didn’t have a choice. Thirty-year-old furniture that smelled like mothballs and soap greeted me every day, and my bedroom and kitchen were separated by a few inches of space.

If pathetic had a look, this would be it.

I placed the case on my bed, still not brave enough to open it and assess the damage. Deep down, I already knew what I would find. An old cello which had finally taken its last bow, never to be played again.

This time there was no keeping the tears from falling.

I hated this.

I hated my life. I hated the constant struggle to scrape by, to work two jobs so I could eat, pay for this crummy apartment, and afford the pain medication I needed merely to get through a single day’s work. I hated that there would never be more to my life than this old and broken instrument—an instrument I could play with my eyes closed, yet I’d never be able to perform with.

All those nights sneaking into the theatre was the closest I’d ever get to even touching the dream of an eight-year-old girl who wanted nothing more than to perform on stage while a hundred people could witness her talent and love for the cello. But little did that girl know her dream would be crippled by a fear of failure as eyes were on her.

This was my life.

Mundane.

Unfulfilled

And completely alone.

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