Page 26

Chapter 26

Liquid Heartbreak

Erin

S aint-Saens’s aria spills from my bow like liquid heartbreak, each note bleeding into the air, raw and aching. This music was meant for grand opera stages, gilded halls where sopranos drape their voices in velvet and lace. But on the cello, it’s stripped bare—honest, intimate, unsoftened by words.

My fingers trace the phrases instinctively, muscle memory pulling me through the motions while my mind fractures, spiraling in a dozen directions.

I hadn’t expected him to react like that when I told him about Dubrovnik.

No argument. No pleading. Just a slow inhale, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes—then a quiet nod, like he’d seen this ending coming long before I did.

I thought he’d ask me to stay.

I wanted him to say we could make it work. That he wanted to make it work.

That Ris loves me.

That he?—

But nothing came.

Just a calm, measured acceptance, like he’d been expecting this all along. Like I was always meant to leave.

Like what we had—what I thought we had—was never something worth holding on to.

Had I been wrong the whole time?

Had I built this up in my head, let myself believe in something that was never there? Maybe this was just him scratching an itch. Banging the nanny because it was convenient. Because I was there.

I thought I was special. And why? Just because he doesn’t chase women the way other players do? Because I was his first since his wife?

Is that even true?

The thought hits like a knife between my ribs.

I should’ve asked him when I had the chance. Should’ve forced the words out when he was lying between my legs, breathless and wrecked, murmuring my name like a prayer.

But I didn’t.

Because I was afraid of hearing the answer. And what that meant. And now it’s too late.

He still ruins me every night. Just as desperate. Just as starved for me. Just as possessive. His mouth is ruthless against my skin, his hands unrelenting, his body demanding everything from me.

But he never says a word about what comes next.

Never asks me not to go.

And that silence is destroying me.

I force my fingers to keep moving, to shape the notes even as my mind spirals. Because if I was wrong, if I was just temporary, then leaving should be easy.

So why does it feel like I’m tearing myself in half?

The melody soars—pure, devastating, ruthless.

My thoughts drift to Dubrovnik, to the weight of history pressing in on every performance.

I imagine rehearsing in ancient chapels, my warm-up scales dancing through stone corridors steeped in centuries of whispered prayers. I see myself standing beneath chandeliers that once flickered over legends, in theaters where the ghosts of virtuosos still hover in the wings.

The honor of it stirs something deep in my chest, the kind of privilege that feels like kismet.

But then?—

A sharp pang cleaves through me.

Because I’m the one walking away.

And maybe that was inevitable, maybe this was always the plan.

But God, I didn’t think it would feel like this. Like I’m gutting the music mid-phrase, silencing something vital before it had the chance to reach its crescendo.

I never knew I wanted this, not until it was here, staring me down.

Until I was waking up to Dmitri’s warmth, drowning in the way he looked at me, caught up in Ris’s giggles, her tiny fingers plucking out melodies beside me.

It’s not just leaving them behind that guts me. It’s knowing that he let me go so easily. That he didn’t fight for me.

The music swells beneath my fingers.

An aria about love and sacrifice, and it hits way too close to home.

My bow trembles slightly as I reach the climax, but I force myself to stay present, to do justice to what might be my last morning practice in this room.

This room where I fell in love with them both.

This room where I’m playing myself out the door.

My phone lights up on the piano. Another message from Luka about rehearsals and travel logistics. We’re leaving in three weeks, but I ignore it for now, just like I’m ignoring the half-packed suitcase waiting for me upstairs. Just like I’m ignoring how Dmitri barely even flinched when I told him about Dubrovnik, how careful he’s around me when he’s here. Keeping his distance during the day, pulling me into his bed at night like he’s starved for me, like we could stretch this out just a little longer.

It sounds incredible.

That was it. No I’ll miss you, no maybe I could visit, no maybe you could come to Fire Island in August. Just easy, effortless acceptance, like he’s already made peace with the fact that we’re going our separate ways. Like he resigned to this unraveling.

Maybe he is. And maybe I should be too.

The doorbell chimes, and my stomach launches into a full-blown Olympic gymnastics routine.

She’s here.

I lower my bow, my hands unsteady.

This is ridiculous. She’s the mother of his late wife, not some ex here to stake a claim. But still, she’s family. Real family. The kind that shares history, memories, the quiet, unspoken things about Dmitri and Ris that I’ll never fully understand.

And me? What am I, exactly? The nanny who overstepped? The girl who wandered into their lives and forgot she had an expiry date?

Footsteps echo in the foyer. Dmitri’s low murmur. Ris’s excited chatter. And then:

“Babushka!”

The music room door swings open, and?—

Oh.

Galina Petrovna Antonova steps inside like she’s making an entrance on a grand stage—head high, shoulders poised, moving with the grace of someone who has spent a lifetime perfecting control. Her silver hair is swept into a flawless French twist, her clothing elegant in that understated, European kind of way.

But it’s her posture that catches me. The precise turnout of her feet. The way her arms settle in that impossibly light, lifted position, like she could take flight at any moment.

Once a ballerina, always a ballerina.

Ris hurls herself into her grandmother’s arms, and Galina lifts her with unexpected strength—the kind of power found in ballet dancers, deceptively strong despite their delicate frames.

“My little star! Let me look at you!” She holds Ris at arm’s length, her sharp, assessing gaze soft with delight. “You’ve grown so tall! And these curls—just like your mama’s.”

Dmitri watches them with a rare, unguarded expression, something in him easing as Galina peppers Ris with kisses. The way they move together speaks of years of familiarity, of a bond woven deep with history.

“Still terrorizing your students with your impossible standards?” Dmitri teases.

Galina swats his arm, the motion fond. “Someone must maintain excellence,” she sniffs, though her eyes dance with amusement. “And you? Still breaking hearts on the ice?”

“Only the opposing team’s bones,” he drawls, but his gaze flicks to me, and my entire body goes hot.

Because that look?

That’s not about hockey.

That’s about last night. About the way he pinned me to his bed, mouth demanding, hands unrelenting. About how he ruined me in the dark, only to pull me close in the morning, pressing soft kisses to my temple, pretending we weren’t running out of time.

Galina hums slowly as she turns her attention my way.

“And you must be Erin.”

My name rolls off her tongue with that rich accent, and suddenly, I feel small under her gaze. Not in a cruel way, but in a way that tells me she’s not the kind of woman who misses things.

She crosses the room without hesitation, her curiosity open and unapologetic as she takes me in.

“The musician who has captured my granddaughter’s heart.”

My throat tightens. I carefully set my cello aside. “Mrs. Antonova, I?—”

“Galina,” she corrects, waving off formality like it’s a trivial inconvenience. Her gaze catches on my music stand.

“Ah, Saint-Saens.”

Something flickers in her expression—something quiet, bittersweet.

“Elena adored this aria.”

Her fingers trail the edges of the score, lingering there, like she’s touching something that only exists in memory.

“She was still learning it, actually. Scribbled all these little notes in the margins about breath control?—”

She stops, her lips pressing together for half a second, then lifts her chin slightly, tucking whatever emotion had surfaced back into place.

“Did you know I used to dance this aria at the Bolshoi?”

She turns to me fully now, hands folded, eyes sharp and assessing.

“Dalila is a role that demands restraint,” she exhales, voice lowering just slightly, “until that final movement, when everything breaks free.”

And there it is. The echo of what’s happening between Dmitri and me, threading itself through the room, through my pulse, through the unbearable pressure of holding on to something that can’t last.

The control.

The slow, exquisite unraveling.

The inevitable fall.

The words slip out before I can stop them. “You danced with the Bolshoi?”

“Principal dancer,” she confirms, and there’s something almost wistful in her smile. “A century ago. Until Elena came along. Then I chose a different stage—motherhood.” She straightens, that dancer’s carriage still imprinted in her bones. “Some said I was throwing away my prime years. But I had already danced every role I dreamed of. It was time for a new dream.”

I shift, uneasy, Dubrovnik tugging at the edges of my mind—tours, concerts, dreams I haven’t touched yet, let alone outgrown.

Galina catches the hesitation in my face. “Ah, but that was my choice, devochka . My time. The world is different now.”

Heat prickles up my neck.

“I was practicing,” I say, already reaching for my case, grasping for an exit. “We’ll be playing the cello arrangement at the festival. I should probably?—”

“Stay.” Not a request.

She lowers herself onto the piano bench with the kind of ease that makes me feel like a lumbering intruder. “Play for me. I want to hear music in this house again.”

My fingers tighten around my bow. In the doorway, Dmitri lingers, his eyes glued on me.

“I really should let you settle in,” I try again. “Family time and all that.”

“Nonsense.” Galina’s eyes glint with something dangerously close to amusement. “Music is family time. Isn’t that right, Dmitri?”

He doesn’t answer. Just watches me, his gaze a quiet force, pressing in, pinning me to the spot.

“Please play, Erin!” Ris bounces on her toes, practically vibrating. “Show Babushka how you make sound out of silence!”

I blink.

What?

“What did you say?” My voice comes out thinner than I mean it to.

“That’s what Papa always says about the way you play,” she chirps, completely unaware that she’s just pulled the floor out from under me. “That you make sound out of silence.”

The room contracts. The breath leaves my lungs in a sharp, stunned exhale.

I can’t look at Dmitri. I can feel him watching me, can feel the weight of those words settling into my bones, unraveling something in my chest.

Because that’s not just a compliment. That’s not just admiration.

That’s…

I don’t know what that is.

Across the room, Galina tilts her head slightly, watching me with an intensity that makes my spine straighten. There’s no amusement in her expression now—only sharp, quiet assessment. Like she’s seeing something I haven’t figured out yet.

I swallow hard, forcing my hands to stay steady as I lower myself back into my chair, adjusting the endpin with fingers that definitely aren’t trembling.

“Just...just a bit of the aria?”

Galina’s smile deepens. “Whatever moves you, devochka .”

I exhale, trying to center myself, but there’s no blocking them out—the eager anticipation in Ris, the simmering heat in the air, the careful assessment in Galina’s demeanor.

The first notes emerge tentative, then gather strength, the melody unfurling in familiar, aching swells. The room fades, and for a moment, it’s just me and the music, just the weight of the bow, the resonance of the strings, the raw, unguarded joy of creating something fleeting and infinite all at once.

Then silence.

“She would have loved this arrangement.” Galina’s voice is soft, but it lands like a blow. “To hear her favorite aria played with such...understanding.”

I open my eyes, and she’s watching me with an impossibly gentle expression etched on her face.

“I should go,” I whisper, already packing up, desperate for an exit. “Let you all catch up.”

But as I slip past them, Galina’s voice follows me, quiet and certain.

“We’ll talk later, devochka .”

I don’t look back. Can’t. Because if I do, they’ll see how close I am to coming apart.

Instead, I flee upstairs, where my half-packed suitcase sits like a silent accusation. Another aria about sacrifice. Another choice between love and destiny.

Except Galina chose both, didn’t she? Just not at the same time.

Maybe that’s the real tragedy—timing. It’s always the blasted timing.