the virtuoso

The  hospital  smelled  like  antiseptic  and  burned  wiring  —  the  kind  of  scent  that  clung  to  tragedy  long  after  the  flames  were  gone.

Maeve  stood  near  the  vending  machines,  arms  folded  tight  across  her  chest  as  if  holding  herself  together  required  pressure.  Fluorescent  light  drained  the  color  from  her  face,  turned  her  into  something  almost  spectral.  She  had  not  slept.  She  had  not  allowed  herself  to.

Alexie  found  her  easily.

“She’s  with  two  others  from  the  fire,”  he  said  quietly.  No  preamble.  No  softness.  Just  the  facts.

Maeve  only  nodded.

Her  throat  felt  lined  with  ash.

“Is  she  hurt?”

Alexie  shook  his  head.  “I  don’t  think  so.  She  won’t  leave  the  other  two  side.  Hasn’t  moved  from  that  chair  since  they  wheeled  her  in.”  His  gaze  shifted,  studying  her  profile.  “What  do  you  want  to  do?”

What  did  she  want  to  do?

Eighteen  years  ago  she’d  wanted  to  storm  a  house  by  the  lake  and  tear  it  apart  with  her  bare  hands.  She’d  wanted  to  drag  truth  into  the  light  and  demand  it  explain  itself.

Instead,  she  had  waited.  Watched.  Protected  from  a  distance.

And  still  —  she  had  failed.

“She  should  have  known,”  Maeve. murmured,  more  to  herself  than  to  him.  “I  should’ve  told  her.  I  should’ve  told  her  what  I  suspected.”

But  suspicion  without  proof  was  just  poison.  And  she  had  swallowed  enough  of  that  already.

Alexie’s  jaw  tightened.  “We  can  take  her  to  the  place  by  the  beach,”  he  said.  “The  house  we  found.  It’s  quiet.  No  reporters.  No  police.  No  ghosts.”

Mauve  closed  her  eyes  for  a  moment,  picturing  it  —  salt  air,  open  windows,  no  gilded  cages.  A  life  that  belonged  to  her  niece  and  not  to  a  name.

“She  deserves  to  have  something  that’s  hers,”  Alexie  continued.  “Not  something  inherited.  Not  something  stolen.”

“And  if  she  doesn’t  want  to  go?”  Mauve  asked.

He  hesitated.

The  silence  between  them  was  heavy  with  everything  unsaid.  With  the  knowledge  that  what  happened  in  that  fire  was  not  random.  That  certain  men  did  not  forgive  easily.  That  certain  fathers  did  not  lose  control  without  consequence.

“It  looks  heavy,”  Alexie  admitted.  “Whatever  brought  them  back  here…  it  isn’t  normal.”

No.  It  wasn’t.

Maeve  had  her  suspicions  —  about  the  fire,  about  the  timing  of  her  return  to  Blue  Ivy,  about  the  anonymous  tip  that  would  detonated  like  a  grenade  in  Geneva  only  days  later.  About  Anton  her  brother  .

She  did  not  say  his  name  aloud.

Names  had  power.

“Then  we  do  what  it  takes,”  she  said  finally,  voice  steadier  than  she  felt.

Alexie  searched  her  face.  “Even  if  she  fights  you?”

Maeve’s  expression  hardened,  grief  transmuting  into  resolve.

“She’s  fought  alone  her  whole  life,”  she  replied.  “I  won’t  let  her  do  it  again.”

Down  the  corridor,  through  the  thin  hospital  walls,  a  girl  who  had  once  been  called  Sarai  sat  beside  a  hospital  bed,  refusing  to  move.

Soon  the  police  would  call  her  Leona.

Soon  the  world  would  know.

But  for  now,  she  was  just  a  child  who  had  survived  fire  —  again   and  Maeve  intended  to  make  sure  this  time,  survival  meant  freedom.

Even  if  it  meant  dragging  the  truth  fully  into  the  light.

Even  if  it  meant  war.

TRUTHS REVEALED .

Typical. Sarai rolled her eyes, but couldn’t quite summon the air to speak. He was too close, too tall, too everything.

“I didn’t know my favorite lark could be left speechless.”

She scoffed, trying to recover ground. “I’m not.”

He leaned in further, scent all bergamot and dusk. “You’ll need to get better at lying, Odena.”

She said nothing. But her chin lifted like a blade unsheathing.

His name, she’d learn later, was Alexie. A senior. A myth-in-the-making. The kind of boy who made rulebooks feel like invitations.

“Well,” he said, stepping back half a breath. “Looks like we lost them. So, little bird—you’ve got a choice.”

“Oh, now I get one?” she quipped, brushing leaves from her sweater. He chuckled, plucked one from her hair, and tucked it behind her ear with ridiculous gentleness.

“Call it curiosity. I want to see what you’ll do.” His nod pointed left—the dorms. Safe. Predictable. And right—toward the night. Unwritten.

“You could go home. Practice. Again. Not that you need it,” he added with a wink. “Honestly, it’s getting a bit show-offy.”

She crossed her arms. “Or?”

His smile curved—sharp, delicious. “Or you come with us. A little mischief. Some music. Maybe a drink. Let the night ruin you a bit.”

Sarai looked down at her violin case. Her fingers curled around the handle. She needed an excuse to look away, to steady herself—but his gaze was still there. Unblinking.

“My violin?”

“Leave it.”

“Money?”

“I’ve got enough for both of us. And there’s this thing called Apple Pay, you should try it.”

Still, she hesitated. So he stepped in—again.

“It’s simple, Odena,” he murmured, brushing a loose curl from her temple. “Do what’s expected. Or…” He leaned in, lower now. “Step into the unknown.”

Then he held out his hand.

And for once in her tightly choreographed life, Sarai took it.

The speakeasy was tucked behind an old bookshop—The Fifth Bell, they called it, if they called it anything at all. No signage. No hours. Just candlelight, velvet chairs, and secrets steeped in bourbon.

Alexie didn’t ask. He ordered. Something warm. She didn’t question it. The liquor slid down her spine like silk.

They danced once. Then again. Her steps were cautious, his steady. He twirled her. She let him.

Then from across the room—

“Play something, Alexie!”

It was Devlin, flushed and laughing, Cressida curled around him. Chance, the theater major, raised a glass.

Alexie gave a theatrical bow. “I will,” he said, eyes sliding to her, “if Odena sings with me.”

She froze. “I don’t sing.”

He tsked. “Not what I heard from your little midnight sessions in the music room.”

Cheers erupted—Devlin, Chance, a girl she didn’t know.

And Sarai—the girl who had mastered control, who rarely said yes to anything unrehearsed—nodded.

He led her to the piano. The keys were ivory. His hands found the melody.

She sat. Inhaled.

And sang.

Softly at first. Then stronger. The room fell still. Then Alexie’s harmony joined—rich, grounding, the kind of voice that filled up everything empty.

Their voices met like they’d been waiting to find each other.

And in that moment, under the golden hush of low light and too many watching eyes, Sarai knew:

She was falling.

And—for once—she didn’t want to stop.

. . .

“Ohhhh.” Maeve’s voice stretched with the kind of knowing tease that only came after decades of watching love bloom in unlikely corners. She leaned her elbows on the counter, eyes twinkling like a cat who’d found the cream.

Sarai didn’t look up right away. She sipped her tea, precise and measured as always.

“What.”

Maeve grinned. “Bug, you like him.”

“I do not.” The words came far too quickly. Too tightly packed. She followed them with another sip, but it couldn’t mask the faint flush dusting her cheeks.

Maeve opened her mouth for another volley—likely something devastating—but the front bell chimed, cutting her off.

Both women turned toward the door.

“Well, damn,” Maeve murmured, brows lifting. “And I can’t blame you.”

Alexie strolled in like the day belonged to him—tan slacks pressed, button-down rolled at the sleeves, two undone at the collar, a violin case slung casually in one hand like it didn’t cost more than most cars. He moved like music. Like ease.

His eyes found Sarai immediately. Maeve might as well have vanished.

“Don’t worry,” he said, setting the case gently on the counter. “I only came to return this.”

Sarai blinked. “That’s not mine.”

The case was pristine white, with microfiber handles and silver clasps. Sarai’s had been black. Old. A gift. A memory.

But when he opened it—the velvet lining, the gleam of the strings—her breath caught.

“It is now,” he said softly. “I made you lose the last one. Call it an apology. And a thank you… for indulging me last night.”

His gaze lingered a moment longer, playful and unreadable.

“I’ll see you soon, Sarai.”

And just like that, he turned, the bell ringing behind him like punctuation.

Sarai said nothing. Just stared.

Maeve let out a low whistle, eyes still on the door. “Can I keep him if you don’t?” she asked, entirely too casual.

Sarai didn’t answer.

She’d set her glass down on the edge of the table without thinking, caught somewhere between banter and a challenge. They played like rivals and moved like dancers—circling each other, trading glances as sharp as their aim. And for a breathless moment, Sarai forgot about the game within the game. Forgot about objectives and blood. Forgot about the glass she’d set down beside them.

Because something strange was happening—something quiet. Something warm. When was the last time she’d had anything like this? Something so mundane as pool, something that didn’t ask for applause or blood or perfection. Maybe with Alexie or Mauve . Maybe not even then. She’d thought she was above craving simplicity, but in that moment, she wanted it so badly it made her ache. A quiet life. A warm one. One where she could forget the weight of performance and just be.

Karuna's voice had curled around her, low and deliberate:

Do one more, Sarai. With a twist. Bank the nine ball.

Sarai had smiled, even blushed. Took the shot. The nine ball dropped into the pocket with a satisfying thunk—clean. And then the tumbler tipped. Glass shattered across the floor like punctuation. A beat later, her bare foot came down on it.

The pain had snapped her back to reality, a flash of red and sharpness. Her objective completed—perhaps accidentally, perhaps not. She wasn’t even sure anymore. That was the thing about the Trials. Truth tangled with strategy. Emotion with performance. Even the cleanest choices had blood on them somewhere.

Cassiel’s voice whispered in her memory:

You're saying you have the stomach for all this blood, then?

She’d said yes. A lie. She didn’t have the stomach for blood. Not really. But when asked if she would kill to protect her secret, she had agreed without hesitation. Another lie. Because she didn’t care about hiding it. Not if the truth meant freedom. Not if the truth was her way out.

But she would kill for something else. For someone else.

Bella. The girl who still saw light in this godless game.

You say that like this is normal. Like finding a body is just part of the weekend itinerary.

Sarai would shield her from the ugliness of this place. Nico.

Maybe I need to be cruel.

She would be strong enough for both of them. Milo. Mazen. Yasiel that seemed to see right through her. Even if they hadn't figured out the name behind her mask. All the pieces of this twisted symphony and red thread lines that had begun to mean something to her—more than they should.

And Karuna.

It all depends on you.

Sarai’s lips curved at the memory. She hadn’t meant to fall into whatever it was , how could she? When her lies couldn't be deciphered from her truths. But here she was. Bleeding for it.

She cleaned the wound slowly, rewrapping the bandage with steady fingers. The cut had already begun to clot, the sting fading into something duller. More manageable. But the choice—that remained sharp. She’d played their game, followed the rules just enough to survive. But from here on out, she'd do it her way.

To protect what mattered—to protect them—she’d stain her hands red without flinching.

The terrace was quiet, dimly lit by moonlight and the memory of footsteps. Sarai noticed the wine glass first—resting on the stone railing like someone had stepped away mid-thought. Still half-full, still warm. Her eyes narrowed. The scent was familiar. Too familiar.

She leaned in. Red fruit, dark oak, that telltale note of violet. Her mother’s favorite vintage.

A bottle sat nearby unopen, propped neatly against the balustrade like a calling card. Same label. Same year. A small slip of paper hung from the neck on a pale silk ribbon, the handwriting so elegant it almost distracted from the words:

“For what is inherited cannot be hidden forever.”

Sarai’s stomach turned—not with fear, but with recognition. Her mother had said something like that once. Years ago. About bloodlines. About duty. About the things we carry whether we choose to or not.

And now, apparently, about footprints.

Her voice is soft, steady. No makeup. No mask. Her curls are loose, wild, tucked back behind one ear with a practiced flick of her fingers. A cardigan clings to her shoulders, pale blue and far too delicate for the story she’s about to tell. Knees drawn up to her chest as she held them tightly.

The house was bigger than the last. Taller. Colder. At that age, I still thought monsters lived in shadows… Had I known what the world held outside the front door, I’d have begged them to stay.

She pauses to laugh. Just once. Light, but tired. The kind of laugh that lands somewhere between memory and mourning.

There was a storm that night—violent and alive. Thunder so loud it rattled the windows. I remember flinching, then running. Bare feet, nightgown. The hallway felt like it never ended. Paintings bled. The furniture reached for me. It was a nightmare I could not wake from… until I burst into the first door I could find...

The door had been open just enough for Sarai to slip through shaking. The room was dim, lit only by flashes of lightning and the soft, rhythmic clink of ice against glass. It sounded like wind chimes. Or magic. Or something else her child-brain didn’t yet have a name for. “Mama?” She whispered it—hopeful. Eyes wide. The woman in the chair didn’t turn. She was regal, unmoving. A silhouette framed by rain-smeared windows and flickering storm light. To Sarai, she looked like a dark elf queen. Powerful. Mysterious. Maybe even loving. But she didn’t answer. Not at first. “Sarai,” came the voice—flat, distant. Not looking at her. Not seeing her. The child crept closer, trembling. When the next crack of lightning lit the room, she ran—into her mother’s arms, burying her face against her mothers belly, seeking warmth, seeking protection. She found neither. Only fingers, threading her hair… too tight. A wince. A tug. Then— “Sarai.” Her name again. Firmer. Sharper. When the girl looked up, her mother’s face had changed. No longer distant. No longer royal. Her hands gripped Sarai’s cheeks, forcing her to meet her eyes. And what lived there was hate. Not the hate of enemies. Not rage. But something colder. Older. The kind that festered in silence. “You are never to come in here,” she said. No explanation or comfort. When Sarai began to cry, she didn’t soothe her. She shouted. Called for Selah, Called for someone—anyone—to take her away. And they did.

Sarai's voice now older. Steadier. But her eyes are rimmed with unshed tears.

I didn’t understand why she wouldn’t hold me. Can you imagine being nine and already asking why your mother couldn’t love you? Why in the day she was a beautiful wonder. Then in the night she became so... haunted and mean.

She breathes in.

Once. Twice. Three times.

By the time she exhales, she’s composed again—reassembled.

Selah stayed with me that night. I didn’t know what she was whispering. I just knew she was kind. I cried so hard, I couldn’t breathe. And she sang. I can’t remember the words, just the melody.”

Sarai hums it—soft and shaky, rocking gently as the note carries.

The next day, she and her husband Emilio never left my side. They took me to the park. The air was crisp. The sky was clear. We picnicked. We laughed. I remember thinking... why couldn’t they be my family?

She wipes a tear—a little rough frustrated, her heart ached for them. How she had wondered about them over the years. Not continually but when ever there were happy moments. Something new she wanted to share - to see if they would be proud of her.

I wouldn’t see them again until I was sixteen.

Her eyes harden—just a little.

And by then, I wasn’t the girl they remembered. I don’t think they even recognized me. And I didn’t know how to reach for them. They were the first ones I thought of as family. But they wouldn’t be the last ones I’d lose.

The screen lingers. Her expression unreadable. Then—