Chapter 2: Beneath the Gilded Beams
The ride back to the Vance estate was conducted in total, suffocating silence.
The interior of the black town car smelled faintly of leather, expensive cologne, and the sharp metallic tang of lingering tension. Celina sat in the far corner of the backseat, dabbing lightly at a smudge of dust on her shimmering gold gown with a lace handkerchief. Her high cheekbones were stark in the dim amber glow of the dashboard lights. She didn't look at me, and I didn't look at her. Audrey was asleep against the opposite window, her delicate face flushed with the effortless victory of the evening, still clutching a small crystal trophy shaped like a treble clef.
Vincenzo sat in the front passenger seat, staring straight ahead through the windshield, his dark slicked-back hair catching the glare of passing streetlights. He didn't speak a single word until the car had wound its way up the private, iron-gated driveway of our sprawling stone mansion and parked beneath the grand portico.
"Upstairs. Straight to bed," Vincenzo commanded without turning around. His voice was flat, devoid of anger now, which was always worse than his rage. Anger had a shape; his cold indifference was an abyss.
We moved through the double oak doors like ghosts. The foyer was cavernous, dominated by a sweeping marble staircase and walls lined with portraits of Vance ancestors who looked down with the same severe, uncompromising gaze Vincenzo wore every day. I kept the heavy black violin case tucked tightly against my side, half-hidden behind the folds of my cream lace dress.
Once we reached the second-floor landing, Celina paused outside the door of the master suite. She turned to me, her expression a fragile mask of maternal duty mixed with deep, bone-weary exhaustion.
"Maisy," she murmured, her voice barely audible over the hum of the central heating. "You must learn to understand your father. He only wants perfection. Excellence is the price of our name."
"He pushed you," I said. The words slipped out before I could stop them, small and steady in the quiet corridor.
Celina flinched, her dark eyes flashing with a sudden, sharp panic. She glanced quickly down the hallway toward Vincenzo’s study before looking back at me, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "He didn't mean to. I lost my balance. Go to your room, Maisy. Never speak of what happened downstairs. Do you understand me? Never."
She slipped into her room and clicked the heavy door shut, leaving me alone in the dim hallway.
My bedroom was at the far end of the west wing—a sterile, perfectly curated space filled with white furniture and untouched porcelain dolls that always felt more like a showroom than a place to sleep. I stepped inside, locked the heavy brass latch behind me, and set the black violin case down on the white-quilted bed.
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For a long time, I just stood there in the quiet room, listening to the muffled sounds of the house settling around me. Downstairs, I could hear the faint, rhythmic clinking of crystal as Vincenzo poured himself a drink in his study. The contrast was staggering: the polished marble, the glittering gowns, the applause of the auditorium—all of it built on a foundation of fear and bruised silence.
I reached out and popped the latches of the case. The red velvet interior seemed to radiate a quiet warmth in the cold white room. I lifted the violin out, resting the cool wood beneath my chin for the very first time. I didn't plug in an amplifier, and I didn't use a bow. I simply let my fingers press gently against the strings, feeling the subtle vibration of a voice that my father had tried to lock away.
