16. Chapter 16

As I walk out onto the empty stage, the bright lights warm my skin, and even if every seat in this entire theater was empty, they'd be all the accolades I need to know that this is what I'm meant to do with my life.

But the seats aren't empty.

The house is packed, and everyone who bought a ticket tonight came to see … me.

It still blows my mind that anyone would want to pay actual money to listen to me play.

My best friend, Amelia, would tell me to shut up and accept the fact that I was a musical genius.

I know because I've said the same thing to her about her paintings.

She's so talented, and rarely gives herself the credit she deserves.

As I glance to my left, I see her standing in the backstage area that can't be seen from the center of the theater, and I give her a small smile.

She winks back at me and gives me two thumbs up of encouragement.

I appreciate the sentiment, but I don't really need it.

I was practically born with a violin in my hand, and I've never felt more at home than when I was holding it.

It wouldn't matter if I were playing only for my own shadow or to this packed auditorium at Charleston Music Hall.

I was only 16 and in one of the best all-girl's private schools in the country.

I'd been raised with money.

I'd had private lessons and tutors and was given the best of everything.

To say I was privileged would be an understatement.

The one thing I was never given, though, was the one thing money can't buy.

Love.

My parents' neglect wasn't what most people would think of when they thought of neglect, but it was neglect all the same.

I wasn't being beaten, malnourished, or left home alone while they went off on benders for days on end.

Well … that last one wasn't entirely true.

They did, but my parents preferred to experience their benders on yachts instead of in back alleys or bars.

I'd been raised by nannies, fed by chefs, and dressed by maids.

It was just the way of our social class.

A fact I'd come to accept a long time ago.

That didn't make the hurt any less or excuse it, but it did explain it.

Like many others in Charleston's elite circle, my parents were absent, save for a few annual functions they hosted in the city.

By now, I'd learned the only person I could really rely on was myself.

It was a hard lesson to learn before you actually reached adulthood, but I liked to think that, in many ways, I was ahead of the curve.

Especially when it came to music.

My listening tastes ranged from 80s British punk to today's hits and everything in between.

But the area of music I felt most comfortable in, the place where I felt what I imagined the warmth of love must feel like, was classical.

There was something to be said for the simple yet complex feelings that a single violin and a bow string could evoke.

Sometimes, the sounds could bring you to tears.

Other times, more than I'd care to admit, it quite literally picked you up off the floor.

All you had to do was listen.

Not just to the notes themselves but to the space in between, where silence reigned.

That was where you found yourself.

Where you figured out who you really are.

And I'm a badass who doesn't need anyone to make me feel whole.

All I needed were the strings.

So, as I stand in front of the only other thing on stage, a microphone stand, I bring the violin to my chin, lift the bow, close my eyes, and let the audience see the real me.

The strong and the vulnerable.

Because when you were good at something, truly good at it, you had to give it everything in you.

It was a hunger that would never be satisfied with just the crumbs.

You had to feed it your heart and soul.

That was true love.

Or what I imagined it must feel like, at least.

So, I begin with one of my favorite classical pieces, Bach's Chaconne.

I don't need sheet music.

I don't need a conductor—only the heart and soul.

As the melancholy song reaches its first peak, I can feel a tear slide down my left cheek.

It's not the first time I've cried while playing, and I know it won't be the last.

I love this piece because there's nothing here but honesty.

There is no room for pretense when playing Bach—no place to hide.

So I play every note with precision, integrity, and, as I would imagine the composer himself would want, wholeheartedly.

There's a brief second of silence as the song comes to a close, during which I lower my instrument and open my eyes.

A millisecond later, I'm met with thunderous applause.

As the crowd comes to their feet in a standing ovation, it's not arrogance I feel.

It's not even pride.

It's humility and I close my eyes again, a small smile forming on my lips as a few more tears escape.

To be able to share this part of me with people is the greatest gift I've ever been given.

And, as my tutors can attest to, it cost absolutely nothing.

I was born with this inside me.

It may have taken a little coaxing to get it out, but once it was free, it took on a life of its own and became my parent, friend, lover, and most trusted confidant.

So, no, I don't feel pride.

I only feel grateful because not many people out there get to take this feeling with them everywhere they go.

Opening my eyes again, I take a bow, only because it's expected of me, then wait for the curtain to come down for intermission before hastily swiping away any running mascara and turning to stage left.

Amelia is still there; I can tell she's also been crying.

She claps along with the applause that try to break their way through the heavy red curtain.

Smiling as I walk up to her, I say, "While Bach is deserving of much praise, please, save your tears for my own work."

Laughing, we get in a quick hug before I'm whisked off to the backstage area where my dressing table is.

I know my makeup is in desperate need of repair, but I'm honestly not sure there's any point.

It'll be destroyed again in 15 minutes.

Still, I let the assistant use a makeup remover wipe under my eyes before reapplying foundation and powder.

Nerves churn in my stomach like a thousand tiny butterflies, and I know it's stupid to feel that way because the minute I walk out there again and begin to play, they'll evaporate, but it's the getting to that point that always has me wanting to throw up.

I'd much rather play for myself and only myself, but I've been told that a gift like mine should be shared with the world.

So, at least for the next two years, while I figure out my next steps, I'll stay the course that my parents put me on before they even knew that I was the one secretly holding the map.

As the makeup artist finishes her work, I thank her and stand up, lifting the skirt of my red velvet dress to keep from tripping over it as I make my way back to the side of the stage.

I know my parents would prefer that I wear something black because black is slimming and as they like to remind me at every available opportunity, I need as much help in that department as I can get.

But fuck what they want because they couldn't even be bothered to show up tonight.

I loved red.

Not a bright red like the color you see around Christmas, but a deeper, blood red.

It made me feel powerful and just a little less inferior to other girls my age.

Stepping up next to where Amelia still stands offstage, I feel her hand reach out for mine and give it a light squeeze.

Immediately, half the butterflies disappear, and I'm left feeling only slightly nauseous.

She may be my best friend, but even those have their limits.

Still, I appreciate her presence here.

She's never missed a recital, even though I know her mother hates me.

I'm too loud, too ballsy, and too unladylike.

AKA, I'm the opposite of the deadhead wallflower she and the rest of society would like me to be, so obviously, I'm a terrible influence on her daughter.

The knowledge brings a mischievous grin to my face.

It was true that of the two of us, I was the more brash, but Amelia was her own person with her own spirit and there would come a time when her mother would no longer be able to keep her on society's proverbial leash.

Lord help humanity when she was let loose.

I, personally, can't wait.

As the curtain rises again, I reluctantly release Amelia's hand and return to the microphone.

This time, when I bring the violin and bow up, a large smile blossoms across my face because the next song I'll be playing is mine.

I composed it, developed it, and perfected it.

It's poignant and beautiful.

I'd titled it "Siren's Call."

It was a little on the nose, but I guess I was a romantic at heart.

Keeping my eyes open this time, I begin to play.

As the song progresses, I allow the tears to run freely, but the smile never falters.

The song is as full of me as I am of it.

Full of longing, despair, secrets, insecurities, optimism, and so many other emotions that would take a lifetime to put into words.

In music, it takes about 13 minutes.

When I finish, I bow for myself this time because the original piece would never have made it out into the world if I hadn't set it free.

Now, I feel the pride.

Now, I look at the faces in the audience, and I absorb their applause like a sponge, soaking up every bit of admiration and adoration as my due.

Despite all my other issues, I have unwavering confidence in one thing.

This.

So, this time, I don't bother wiping away the tears.

I leave them there for the world to see, taking another bow as the curtain lowers again.

I place a hand over my stomach.

Nothing.

No more butterflies.

Releasing a deep breath, I put down my violin and walk back to Amelia.

She throws her arms around me as soon as I get within range of her.

"Oh my God, that was amazing! You were incredible! I'm so proud of you!"

she says, wiping away tears again herself.

Laughing through my own, I say, "I told you to save the waterworks.

At this rate, you're gonna dehydrate yourself and need an IV."

Pulling back, she says, "Oh, shut up.

Just bask in the absolute love they have for you.

Can you hear it?"

I could.

But right on the coattails of that came a bittersweet feeling.

I smile brightly at her, but I know she can tell.

Looking into my eyes, she says, "They'll never know that feeling.

What it is to be truly adored.

They weren't built for it."

I know she's talking about my parents the same way I know she could tell by the dimming of my eyes that I was still bitter about them not being here.

I know she's right, but there's still a small part of me that can't help but feel like whatever flaw there was that prevented their love was inside of me instead of them.

Out of all the parts of me I hate, I hate that one the most.

The part that makes me question my own worth.

Shaking my head to clear the bad thoughts away, I say, "It doesn't matter.

You came and that's more than enough.

Let me get changed and we can go get something to eat.

I'm starving ."

She stares at me for another second, a second in which I can see the dreaded emotion of pity in her eyes before she pastes on a bright smile and nods.

"Pizza?" she asks.

"Fuck, yes.

Extra cheese," I reply.

Laughing, she says, "Ok, I'll wait for you outside."

Parting ways, I make my way back to my dressing table, accepting the small pats and smiles from people backstage.

As I sit down in front of the lit mirror again, I clean my face up myself this time, wiping away the tear tracks that are clearly visible through my foundation.

I really should wear waterproof eyeliner.

As I pull my long black hair into a high ponytail, a figure steps into the mirror's reflection behind me.

He's tall and dressed in an expensive suit, and as I get a waft of his cologne, I can feel my hormones go on red alert.

As I lift my gaze to meet his in the mirror, I'm hit with a zap of … something.

Something I've never felt before.

Dark eyes stare into mine in the mirror's reflection, and something in his gaze pins me to the spot.

It's a look of … possession? Infatuation? I scoff inwardly.

If only.

As I bring myself back to reality, I do a half-turn in my chair to face him.

Adopting the confident persona that's come to shield me like armor, I say, "Hello.

Can I help you?"

As he continues to simply stare at me, I feel goosebumps break out along my skin.

Just as I'm about to repeat my question, he opens his mouth, and the sound of his voice has the breath catching in my throat, nearly causing me to hiccup.

It's deep, with an Italian accent that does things to my insides that aren't spoken about in polite conversation.

" Cio , Bella.

My apologies.

I watched you play and knew that I had to meet you.

Allow me to introduce myself.

My name is Dante Gaspari."

He holds out his hand as if to shake mine.

Tentatively, I extend my own, but instead of shaking my hand, he catches it, bending to bring it to his lips, where he presses a kiss to the top.

The kiss is soft, but his grip on my hand is tight.

The contrast is both intimidating and intoxicating.

I release a short breath and say, "Thank you, Mr.

Gaspari.

Myself, along with The Charleston Music Hall, appreciate your patronage."

He waves his hand in a gesture of dismissal.

"It's nothing.

And please, call me Dante.

I must say, I've traveled all over the world and seen many things, but I've never seen anyone play quite like you.

Allow me to take you to dinner.

I would love for us to get to know each other.

You're hungry, si ?"

The way he phrases the request doesn't make it sound like much of a request at all, but I'm flabbergasted by the idea that this man would want to have dinner with me.

Even just to discuss music, surely there's someone more worthy of his time and attention.

The insecurities that I try to keep buried deep threaten to surface.

Perhaps it's the heavy focus I'm applying to those insecurities that keep me from wondering why a man like this is looking at a 16-year-old girl the way he's currently looking at me.

Still, I find myself nodding before my brain has even had a chance to process everything he said.

Making a mental note to text Amelia and let her know that I'll have to take a rain check on that pizza, I say, "I'm flattered.

Yes, I'd love to have dinner with you … Dante. "

It would only be in retrospect that I'd recognize this as the moment that would irrevocably change my life.

Recognize that the look in his eyes wasn't just one of possession and infatuation, but that of a predator.

And I, the prey, would soon learn what it was to love.

Love equaled pain, and I would hate him and myself for allowing those two words to become synonymous with each other.