My skin prickles, and I push down that simmering rage that keeps burning beneath the surface. I quash the voice that screams ‘How dare he?’ inside my head. I ignore the stab of guilt as I imagine freeing myself from this fucking dress and running away. I let the walls go up as I close myself off and try to calm the storm inside.
I enter the side room alone and eye my violin case wearily. Reluctantly, I open the clips and flip up the lid. It takes me a few moments to register that something is wrong, and it’s like a slow exhale of relief as I see that all my strings have been cut. Even my bow hairs have been severed. My violin is useless. I don’t feel solace for long as the panic begins to set in, my father was going to kill me.
That is, if he could find me first. Fastening my ivory mask in place, I slowly sneak out and make my way into the ballroom, trying to lose myself in the crowds.
A hand darts out and grabs my arm. “What’re you doing here? You’re supposed to be playing your violin?” My mother’s voice is quiet as she tries not to draw attention to us. She’s standing with some people I don’t recognize with their faces covered, but something about them feels familiar. One person has their hand on her hip, but she doesn’t seem to notice as she watches me carefully.
I shake my head. “I can’t. I won’t.”
“Head over to The Marble Hall, it’s where the auction pieces are being displayed. He won’t find you there.” She grins, and it reminds me of the Cheshire cat. Calculating. Sly. Tucking a strand of my hair back into place, she whispers, “You’ll have to face him eventually though, you can’t hide all night, Lena.”
I enter The Marble Hall, which is named so because of the creamy marble floor and Corinthian pillars, making it easily one of the most beautiful rooms in the building, with this almost sacred, museum-esque feel to it that has me wandering around between the marble statues in awed silence. Beautiful emerald chaise lounges are dotted about the place, so that you can sit and bask in the spiritual vibe of the place. The walls are usually adorned with various pieces of classical art, but tonight they’ve all been replaced either with new works of art or glass cases displaying other auction offerings. I like seeing what people are donating, it’s almost like having a sneak peek into their lives. How did they get the item they were auctioning off? Why are they getting rid of it? How much money would it raise?
The first painting is a watercolor of a woman reading amongst some shelves, she looks engrossed as the sunlight filters in, making her little more than a silhouette. Her face is shrouded in shadow, but the artist has created this ethereal atmosphere that invites you to get lost in the story. It’s beautiful and filled with a sense of longing that has my pulse quickening.
I move on to where an oil painting of a dancer, exhausted and spent on the floor, captures my attention. Her face is hidden, but I don’t need it to see the pain, the disappointment, or the sadness I knew I’d find there. The soft blue hues combined with flecks of yellow and pink make my heart race. I know those feelings well, almost like I know this woman.
The third painting is titled ‘My Queen,’ and as soon as I see it, I know why my heart feels like it’s about to burst. The queen in the painting is naked, her body covered in blood. It’s everywhere, like she’s waded through a river of blood as she stands defiantly. The areas of skin that are still pink are marked with bloody fingerprints or lines. A black barbed wire crown rests on her head, and while she is more beautiful than me, those eyes are mine, there’s no denying that. These paintings, all three of them were me.
I reach out to touch the canvas, pausing when I feel a warm breath on my neck. Tristan. Why is he everywhere I turn? And why wasn’t I mad about that anymore?
“Do you like them?” he whispers, and I shiver.
“Why?” I murmur. “Why did you paint me?”
His hand slides around my waist, and I can feel the heat of his touch through the silk fabric.
“Why do you ask stupid questions when you already know the answer?” His lips brush against the curve of my neck, words sinking into my skin.
“You cut my strings,” I accuse, already knowing it was him. No one else would have dared to touch my instrument, but Tristan didn’t understand boundaries.
I feel his mouth twitch against me, just below my ear. “You should’ve stood your ground and told him no.”
Spinning around to face him, I pause, he looks devilishly handsome in a navy suit with a cream shirt. When did he look so...grown up? His navy and silver mask is resting on top of one of the display cases, and I’m glad, it would be a waste to hide that face. His smug grin doesn’t detract from my annoyance, and once again I feel that ball of anger in the pit of my stomach. Who did he think he was? He was no better than my father trying to control me.
“Look at you, Lena.” He pulls me in closer, until our lips are just inches apart. “You need to let go of all that rage.”
“I can’t,” I snarl. I need to be a good girl. I need to behave. I need to represent the Montgomery family. I need to make my father proud. Except, nothing was ever good enough, the small voice at the back of my head whispers harshly. “If I lose control…”
I try to explain that losing control would
