Chapter 1

Seven years ago, I staged an affair to set him free, letting him believe I'd betrayed him for money. Now he's back—a celebrated music director, weeks away from his engagement—and I'm just the cleaning woman kneeling at his feet.

"You know this cleaning woman?" someone whispered.

"Seven years, and look how far you've fallen," he said, his voice cold as ice.

I kept my head down, tugging my sleeve over the needle marks the chemo had left behind.

He still thinks I cheated for the money.

He has no idea what it actually cost me to give him this life.

——

Freya's POV

"Move it! The new music director will be here any minute!" The theater manager kicked my bucket, none too gently.

Water splashed across my canvas sneakers.

I was on my knees on the floor backstage at Lincoln Center, scrubbing at a red carpet that had just been trampled dirty.

A dense, needling pain crawled up my spine.

I calmly tugged at the loose sleeve of my work uniform, covering the cluster of needle marks on the back of my hand—left by chemo drips.

"We've got someone important coming to inspect the place tonight. You'd better get that carpet shining, or tomorrow we'll find someone else to sweep the trash." Contempt dripped from the manager's voice. "A mute like you who can't even be bothered to talk—the only reason this theater keeps you around is out of pity... never mind. Just get back to work."

He wrinkled his nose in disgust and, as he turned to leave, deliberately ground his heel into the corner of carpet I'd just cleaned.

That needling pain crawled up my spine again.

I said nothing. I only forced myself upright, letting my weight sag against the wall.

I had less than three months left to live.

The only reason I was still dragging this ravaged body through cleaning shifts at this theater was so I could see him one more time.

"Oh my God, Mr. Carlisle looks devastating in that suit today!" A young stagehand gasped under her breath, nearly dropping the prop case in her hands.

"Shh, keep it down. The new music director hates being gawked at."

I lifted my head. Through the dim light, my gaze landed on the man at the center of the crowd.

Valerian Carlisle.

Seven years, and he was no longer the poor boy who'd had to save for half a year just to afford a tailcoat.

He wore a perfectly cut, high-end suit, his posture straight and commanding.

On his arm hung the theater's newly appointed principal cellist, Daphne.

"Valerian, this place is so unpleasant." Daphne pouted, pressing a finger set with a pigeon-blood ruby ring to her nose.

Valerian looked down at her, his eyes soft.

"Once the performance is over, we'll head back to the apartment in Manhattan."

Something bitter twisted in my chest.

He used to look at me that way.

Now all his tenderness belonged to someone else.

Lost in thought, I accidentally knocked over a nearby music stand, and several loose sheets of music drifted toward Valerian's feet.

The chatter died instantly.

Valerian stopped walking, his gaze falling on me, cold.

Those eyes that had once been full of love now held nothing but open disgust and mockery.

His voice wasn't loud, but it landed like a slap across my face.

A ripple of suppressed laughter went through the crowd.

"Valerian, you know this cleaning woman?" A young man who looked like one of the musicians arched a brow, his tone thick with scorn.

"What are you talking about," a middle-aged woman beside him hissed, lowering her voice quickly. "That's Freya—the youngest prodigy cellist New York ever had. How did she end up like—"

She didn't finish. Instead, she gave the rag in my hand a long, pointed look.

Daphne stepped forward at once, tucking her arm through Valerian's.

"Everyone, please, don't say such things. Miss Freya has already been through enough." She furrowed her brow, playing the part of my defender. "Valerian, after all, she was once your... well, never mind. Let's not bring that up. Let's go, we shouldn't make her uncomfortable."

The words sounded kind. But every syllable made sure the room knew she was aware of our past.

"Seven years, and look at what's become of you—you can't even walk properly anymore."

Valerian closed the distance between us, step by step, looking down at me from above.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Carlisle. I didn't mean to." My head stayed bowed, my voice so dry it barely sounded like mine. "I'll clear the sheet music right away. I won't hold up you or the orchestra."

I lowered myself slowly, reaching out with a trembling hand to gather the pages from the floor.

Just as my fingertips brushed the paper—

A shoe came down hard on the back of my hand.

Pain tore through me, shooting straight to my skull, and my body convulsed uncontrollably.

"What, back then you dropped the cello fast enough to climb into some rich man's bed—now you've picked up scrap paper instead?"

Valerian pressed his heel down harder, grinding it in.

Daphne giggled behind her hand. "Valerian, don't be so harsh. Freya's already pitiful enough. I heard those hands of hers are ruined—she can't even hold a bow anymore."

The pain was almost enough to black me out, cold sweat soaking through my back.

But I didn't struggle. I didn't beg.

I only lifted my head, calm, and looked straight into Valerian's face, twisted with hatred.

Then, with everything I had left, I forced a pale, threadbare smile.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Carlisle. I've dirtied your shoe."

Something flickered in Valerian's eyes—his pupils contracting, as if that lifeless calm of mine had struck some nerve.

He jerked his foot back, pulling out a handkerchief with obvious disgust to wipe off his shoe, then threw it in my face.

"You disgust me."

He walked off with Daphne on his arm, straight into his private dressing room, without a single backward glance.

I stayed there alone, kneeling on the cold red carpet, smoothing out, page by page, the sheet music now stained with my blood.