Keeper, Not Lover

I stared at the headline, my finger hovering over the screen.

The comments were even worse than the picture.

In the comments, the same socialites who’d once envied my "Cinderella story" were finally showing their fangs.

"The real queen is back, so the little canary's dream is over. I bet her next patron is that sadist senator. What do you all think?"

"I'm starting a pool. How many hands will she pass through before she's kicked out of New York for good? Without the Moretti name protecting her, a woman like that isn't even fit to shine our shoes."

"Five years is a long shelf life. She's expired."

Their venom splattered against me like mud, but I kept scrolling, my face blank.

Still, a heavy weight settled in my chest, a boulder making it hard to breathe.

My heart seized in sharp, painful spasms. My nose burned. A hot pressure built behind my eyes.

The five-year fantasy was over. Utterly shattered.

I counted the days in my head.

Six days left.

Even without this woman, I was never going to spend one second longer in this golden cage.

I grabbed my purse. Inside was the receipt for my passport application and an audition invitation from an Austrian symphony.

As soon as I had my visa, I would disappear from Rocco's world for good.

When I got back to the penthouse, the door was ajar.

The sound of a violin drifted out.

Rocco was here?

But he never touched my violin.

I pushed the door open and froze.

It wasn't Rocco standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows.

It was a woman in a white Chanel suit. Chestnut curls, an elegant back. In her hand was the bow to my violin, the one I had just restored.

It was the woman from the photo.

She heard the door and turned around.

"So this is the little bird Rocco keeps?"

Her eyes scanned me from head to toe, filled with a natural-born superiority and contempt.

"I heard you were a prodigy at the conservatory? I studied for a few years myself. Unlike you…"

She dragged the bow across a string, creating a screeching noise.

"…who only uses her 'talent' to please men. And from the sound of it, you're not even very good at that. You're a cheap imitation, destined for a back alley, not a stage."

"Vivienne."

A low voice came from the kitchen.

Rocco walked out, carrying two plates of steaming risotto.

He was in casual loungewear, a relaxed look I’d never seen before. It was a punch to the gut.

In five years, he had never once cooked in this apartment.

He looked at Vivienne, and the brutality from last night was gone. In its place was a look of weary… affection.

"Leave her be, Vivienne. You can't compare a Juilliard concertmaster to a dropout."

The words were meant to defend me, but they just put me in my place. A needle straight to the heart.

So that's all I was in his eyes. My talent, my pride—just an unfinished joke.

Vivienne pouted, clearly not happy with Rocco’s "defense."

She suddenly yanked the bow.

SNAP.

The expensive gut string broke in two.

As the string snapped, Vivienne cried out and dropped the violin. It crashed to the floor.

"Ow! That hurt!"

She held up her index finger. There was a tiny, barely-visible scratch, with a single bead of blood.

"Vivienne!"

Rocco slammed the plates on the table and rushed to her side, grabbing her hand. He frowned as if she’d been mortally wounded.

"How could you be so careless? Where's the first-aid kit?" he roared, turning his fierce eyes on me.

I stood frozen, my gaze fixed on the lonely, broken violin on the floor.

It was the last thing my mother had left me.

I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood.

I wanted to scream, to run and pick up my violin. But I didn't dare.

The look in Rocco’s eyes told me that if I upset Vivienne, I would pay a price I couldn't afford.

"What a piece of junk," Vivienne whined, leaning into Rocco's arms. "The strings are so rough. Rocco, this piece of junk is all trash from the gutter like her deserves. Take me to Vienna to buy a new one next time."

Rocco was busy blowing on her tiny cut. He didn't even look up.

"Alright. Whatever you want. We'll just throw this one out."

Throw this one out.

Four words. A death sentence for my mother's memory.

I bit down, the taste of iron filling my mouth.

But I stayed silent.

Rocco expertly bandaged her finger, a wound so small it didn't even need a band-aid. He picked up the risotto again, his voice soft in a way I’d never heard.

"There, don't be mad. I made you my special truffle risotto. Eat it while it's hot."

Vivienne sat at the table and poked at the food with her fork.

"It's okay, I guess," she said casually. "But honestly, Rocco, your cooking still can't compare to Leonardo's. Now his risotto was divine."

The air froze.

Leonardo.

The last Don of the Moretti family. Rocco's dead brother.

I saw Rocco’s hand clench around his wine glass. A storm gathered in his eyes. The softness on his face vanished, replaced by an icy chill.

"Vivienne," he warned, his voice low and tight.

Standing in the corner, I finally understood.

So that was it.

The name "Vivienne" I’d heard him whisper when he was drunk… it wasn't some ex-girlfriend.

It was his sister-in-law.

This woman.

He was in love with his brother's wife.

And me? I was just a substitute. A cheap replacement to fill the void.

I had to get out of this suffocating room.

"I'll… I'll get you both some water," I mumbled, looking at the floor.

"Don't bother," Rocco's voice cut through the air.

He put down his glass, his eyes still locked on Vivienne. He didn't even look at me.

He pulled a key from his pocket and tossed it on the coffee table. It landed with a sharp clink.

"Pack your things. Go to the old apartment on the edge of town."

I stared at him, stunned.

"Now?"

"Right now." He finally glanced at me, his eyes filled with annoyance. "Vivienne just got back from her tour. She doesn't like hotels. She's staying here. And..."

He glanced at the wreckage of my violin on the floor, a cruel smile on his lips.

"...she doesn't like seeing filth around."

My blood turned to ice.

So that's what I was to him.

After five years of being at his beck and call, the real owner was back. And I was just the "filth" that had to be cleaned out.

"Don't come back until I call for you."