Page 129 of The Pucking Arrangement

I thought he’d ask me to stay.

I wanted him to say we could make it work. That he wanted to make it work.

That Ris loves me.

That he?—

But nothing came.

Just a calm, measured acceptance, like he’d been expecting this all along. Like I was always meant to leave.

Like what we had—what I thought we had—was never something worth holding on to.

Had I been wrong the whole time?

Had I built this up in my head, let myself believe in something that was never there? Maybe this was just him scratching an itch. Banging the nanny because it was convenient. Because I was there.

I thought I was special. And why? Just because he doesn’t chase women the way other players do? Because I was his first since his wife?

Is that even true?

The thought hits like a knife between my ribs.

I should’ve asked him when I had the chance. Should’ve forced the words out when he was lying between my legs, breathless and wrecked, murmuring my name like a prayer.

But I didn’t.

Because I was afraid of hearing the answer. And what that meant. And now it’s too late.

He still ruins me every night. Just as desperate. Just as starved for me. Just as possessive. His mouth is ruthless against my skin, his hands unrelenting, his body demanding everything from me.

But he never says a word about what comes next.

Never asks me not to go.

And that silence is destroying me.

I force my fingers to keep moving, to shape the notes even as my mind spirals. Because if I was wrong, if I was just temporary, then leaving should be easy.

So why does it feel like I’m tearing myself in half?

The melody soars—pure, devastating, ruthless.

My thoughts drift to Dubrovnik, to the weight of history pressing in on every performance.

I imagine rehearsing in ancient chapels, my warm-up scales dancing through stone corridors steeped in centuries of whispered prayers. I see myself standing beneath chandeliers that once flickered over legends, in theaters where the ghosts of virtuosos still hover in the wings.

The honor of it stirs something deep in my chest, the kind of privilege that feels like kismet.

But then?—

A sharp pang cleaves through me.

Because I’m the one walking away.

And maybe that was inevitable, maybe this was always the plan.

But God, I didn’t think it would feel like this. Like I’m gutting the music mid-phrase, silencing something vital before it had the chance to reach its crescendo.

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