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"What have you done, Evelyn?" he whispers. "What have you done to this family?"
I stare at my father, trying to reconcile the man before me with the one who raised me. His face is ashen now, the anger giving way to something I've never seen in him before—genuine fear.
"Since when?" I ask, my voice quiet but firm. "Since when have you been doing business with the Russian mafia?"
He sinks back into his chair, suddenly looking older than his years. "I haven't," he says, running a hand over his face. "Not before Ivan."
"You expect me to believe that?" I press.
"It's the truth," he insists. "Ivan approached me after your performance at Carnegie Hall last year. He had connections, influence. He offered to elevate your career to international status." My father's eyes meet mine. "I never knew what he really was until it was too late."
"And now you're scared," I say, not a question but an observation.
"Yes." The admission seems to pain him bodily. "I'm terrified, Evelyn. These people... they don't forgive, they don't forget."
I take a deep breath, feeling Jessica's supportive presence beside me. This fear, this vulnerability—it's exactly what I needed in order to say what I came here to say.
"I didn't come here for your excuses or your fear," I tell him. "I came to tell you things I've wanted to say for years."
My father's eyes widen slightly but he doesn't interrupt.
"You broke me," I continue, my voice steady despite the emotion building in my chest. "Every time you locked me in that practice room. Every time you told me I was nothing without my music. Every time you made me feel that my worth was measured only by perfection."
"I made you great," he counters but the conviction in his voice falters.
"You made me vulnerable," I correct him. "You taught me that my value came from pleasing others, from being what they wanted me to be. That's why Ivan could manipulate me so easily. That's why I signed that contract without questioning it."
Jessica squeezes my hand, encouraging me to continue.
"I'm not your puppet anymore," I say. "I'm not your prodigy or your investment or your legacy. I'm a person—a person who deserved a father, not a manager."
My father stares at me, speechless. For once in his life Alexander Anderson has no ready response, no counterargument.
"I don't hate you," I tell him, surprised to find it's true. "But I don't need your approval anymore. I don't need you to be proud of me. I'm proud of myself—for surviving, for finding my voice, for standing up to you right now."
CHAPTER 35
Istare at the wall of my apartment, still processing the fact that Evelyn confronted her father. The image of her walking away, shoulders squared and chin high, replays in my mind. Matteo's words echo in my head.
"You're in love with her."
I'd never admit it to him but fuck if he isn't right.
My phone buzzes on the counter. Evelyn's name flashes on the screen. My heart rate kicks up—something that never happened before her.
"Evelyn." I keep my voice even, controlled.
"Noah." Her voice sounds different—lighter somehow. "I'm in my room, packing some things."
"Everything okay with your father?" I grip the phone tighter, ready to drive over there if that bastard hurt her.
"Actually... he apologized." The surprise in her voice matches my own. "I never would have imagined it. Not in a million years."
I walk to the window, looking out over the city. "An apology? From the man who locked you in a room until you played perfectly?"
"I know. It's... strange." I hear rustling in the background—clothes being folded, drawers opening. "He seemed genuinely shocked by what happened with Ivan. Said he never meant for things to go this far."
"People say a lot of things when they're scared."