The name Volkov stayed with me long after the bells of Saint Brigitte's fell silent.
It tasted like iron in my mouth, a heavy, ancient sound that did not belong in the dusty corridors of an orphanage. For the next week, I was a girl possessed. I practiced until the pads of my fingers were raw, and my neck bore a permanent red mark from the violin's chin rest.
Sister Marianne watched me from the shadows of the chapel, her rosary beads clicking like a ticking clock. She did not offer words of encouragement; she offered prayers, as if I were a soldier preparing for a war I could not win.
But the war began before the car even arrived.
"Look at her," Claire sneered, blocking the doorway to the dormitory on the morning of the gala. She was flanked by two other girls who followed her lead like hungry dogs. "The little charity pet is getting groomed for the circus."
I tried to step past her, clutching my violin case to my chest, but Claire shoved me back. I hit the edge of my narrow bed, the wooden frame digging into my thigh.
"Sister Marianne gave you a new ribbon for your hair, didn't she?" Claire hissed, reaching out to yank the hood of my cloak. "She thinks you are royalty. But we know what you are, Isabelle. You are a foundling. You are the trash someone left at the door because they don't want the burden of you."
"Let me go, Claire," I said, my voice trembling with a mix of fury and fear. "Madame Beaumont is waiting."
"Let her wait," Claire snapped. She grabbed my wrist, her fingernails digging into the skin. "You think you are going to escape this place? You think those people in their silk dresses will see anything but a gutter rat? They will laugh at you. And when they are done, they will send you back here, and I will make sure you never forget where you belong."
She shoved me again, and I stumbled, my violin case banging against the floor. The sound echoed through the quiet room like a gunshot. My heart hammered against my ribs as I scrambled to pick it up, checking the latch with frantic fingers. I did not look at them. I did not give them the satisfaction of my tears. I simply pulled my hood low, hiding the red fire of my hair, and walked out into the biting morning wind.
The transition from the gray stone of the orphanage to the Beaumont estate was a blur of sensory overload. As I stepped out of the black car, the air felt thin and sharp. It smelled of power, a scent I did not recognize but instinctively feared.
Dmitri's POV
The Beaumont ballroom was a sea of shimmering silk and false smiles. I stood near the marble pillars, a glass of sparkling water in my hand that I had no intention of drinking. My tuxedo was tailored to a degree that felt restrictive, black armor designed to hide the fact that I was only eighteen.
"Dmitri, you look like you are planning a funeral," Adrien Beaumont remarked, leaning against the pillar beside me. He looked effortless, his hazel eyes scanning the room with a boredom I envied.
"I am here as a representative of my father," I said, my voice low and stiff. "Father does not attend charity mixers. He expects a full report on the shareholders by tomorrow morning. I do not have time for a funeral."
My father had stayed behind in the city, buried in a operation he deemed far more important than a Beaumont gala. But his parting words had been a warning. The Beaumonts were growing desperate, and he wanted to know who they were trying to influence.
I turned my head, ready to dismiss whatever charity case the Beaumonts had dragged out for a tax write-off. Then, the world stopped.
A girl walked onto the stage. She was wearing a satin gown that looked like it had been spun from moonlight, but it was not the dress that arrested me. It was the hair, a violent, breathtaking shade of crimson that seemed to glow under the crystal chandeliers. And her eyes were a piercing, ghostly silver.
My heart gave a sudden, painful thud against my ribs. I had seen that face before. Not in person, but in the tattered photographs my father kept locked in his desk. She was the image of the woman my father had been obsessed with for decades.
"Who is she?" I demanded, my grip tightening on my glass until it groaned.
"Isabelle Duval," Adrien replied. "An orphan from Saint Brigitte's."
Duval was a mask. I watched her lift the violin. She did not look like an orphan. She held herself with a chilling, natural elegance that spoke of old blood. When she drew the bow across the strings, the sound did not just fill the room; it tore through it. It was not a performance. It was a haunting.
Isabelle's POV
I played for my life. I blocked out the diamonds and the judgmental stares. I played the music that lived in the back of my mind, the melody that felt like a secret shared between me and a mother I could not remember.
When the final note shivered into silence, the room was so quiet I could hear the flame of the candles. Then, a roar of applause broke the spell. Madame Beaumont rushed to the stage, her eyes wet with tears as she guided me down.
As she led me toward the refreshments, a man stepped into our path. This was Alexandre Rousseau, the Director of St. Aurelia's.
"You have a gift that does not belong in an orphanage, child," he said. He looked at me with an intensity that made me want to shrink back. It was not just admiration; it was recognition. "It belongs in the halls of history."
He turned to Madame Beaumont, their eyes meeting in a silent conversation. "We need to speak, Genevieve. Now."
They stepped away, leaving me alone in a corner of the ballroom. I felt exposed, like a bird with clipped wings. I turned to find a way out, but a shadow blocked my path. I looked up, and my breath hitched.
A boy stood before me. He was tall, with sharp features and eyes the color of a winter ocean. He was beautiful in the way a storm is beautiful, something you admire right before it destroys you. This was a Volkov. I knew it before he even spoke. The strange energy I had felt all week was radiating off him.
"Isabelle Duval," he said. His voice was a low, dark velvet. It was not a greeting. It was an accusation.
"Yes?" I tried to keep my voice steady, but my hands were trembling.
He stepped closer, invading my space until I could smell the scent of rain and expensive cologne. He did not look at my violin. He looked into my eyes, searching for something with a gaze so predatory it made my blood run cold.
"A pretty song," he whispered, leaning down so only I could hear him. "But you are playing a dangerous game, little ghost. You do not belong here. And my father does not like it when the dead come back to haunt him."
"I do not know what you are talking about," I snapped. My instinct to fight back was overriding my fear. "I was invited here to play. I am not a ghost."
A dark, mocking smile touched his lips. "We will see. But a word of advice, Isabelle. Stay in the shadows. Because if you step into the light, I will not be the only one who wants to break you."
He turned and walked away, leaving me standing in the center of the glittering room, cold to the bone. I looked down at my hands.
Dmitri Volkov had looked at me like prey.
The hunter was standing right in front of me, and for the first time, I realized that the orphanage had been a sanctuary, not a prison.