What He Never Knew (What He Doesn't Know, #3)(102)

And in his hands, he held a bouquet of lilies — my favorite flower.

Our eyes met at the same time, and we both smiled. Reese crossed the room to me, holding out the flowers as an offering between us.

“You look…” He swallowed, eyes trailing down again before they met mine once more. “You look like a dark queen, here to seduce us with your magic and eat us all alive.”

I laughed. “Thank you?”

“It’s a compliment. Trust me,” he said as I took the flowers from his hands.

I inhaled their scent with a smile, careful not to get any of the pollen on my hands or dress as I turned back toward the mirror, placing them carefully in one of the empty vases provided by the hall. I was still facing the mirror when Reese slid up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist and pulling me into his chest. One hand skated up, thumb brushing my bottom lip, which was painted a glossy, candy apple red.

“I like this,” he murmured, but it turned into a growl when he removed his thumb and saw it was still painted red. “Fuck, I really like this.”

I smirked. “You can take it off me tonight.”

“Woman,” he growled, pulling me into him more as he shook his head. I giggled, leaning into him, and our eyes found each other in the mirror as we both released a content sigh.

Three years.

Three years I’d been in New York City with that man holding me in the mirror.

Three years of living together, of learning together, of loving. There had been struggles from the very beginning — starting with Reese finding work after being removed from the city for so long. While I studied with James, working on my technique and networking my ass off to get the right connections to play at Carnegie, Reese had been looking for any place that would pay him to do what he loved. He’d started off as a tutor for private students, eventually landing a gig at a restaurant much like The Kinky Starfish. But it wasn’t until last year, until one of his old colleagues reached out to him that everything changed.

They’d invited him to teach at Juilliard.

It was part time for now, but ever since he started teaching, I’d watched him bloom into a brand-new man. His purpose had been refilled, refueled by these students.

“Their passion reminds me of you sometimes,” he’d said one night at dinner. “And I finally feel like I’m using my talent to make a difference in this world.”

Reese wasn’t the only one who had to struggle when we got to the city, either. On top of feeling the pressure of studying with James, of networking, and playing whatever gigs I could find to make ends meet, I was also dealing with the trial.

After I told my mother what happened with Wolfgang, she went with me to press charges. And in a long, grueling process, we tried to fight against what happened to me — what could possibly have still been happening to others.

Unfortunately for us, no one else spoke out against him.

It was my word against his, no rape kit or witnesses to provide testimonies. The one and only person I told, Dr. Chores, testified against me, saying she had no recollection of my confession of what happened, nor would she have ever have brushed it off as I implied.

For the longest time, I felt crazy. Reese would hold me in our bed in our small apartment, rocking me as I sobbed and wondered if I’d made it all up. Did it really happen? Was I crazy? Did I invent the injury, the rape, all of it? Did I black out, thinking I’d told someone when I hadn’t really?

But Reese was there, holding me through it all and assuring me to trust myself, my gut, my voice. He believed me. Mom believed me. Even Reneé believed me when I came clean, and she assembled the other female students still at Bramlock to petition for Wolfgang’s suspension until the trial was over.

They won.

We, however, did not.

The trial had wrapped up over the following summer, and though it could have been a sad, painful day of loss, I didn’t see it that way. When the jury declared that Wolfgang wasn’t guilty, it didn’t change the fact that he was. It didn’t change the fact that he had assaulted me, and that against all odds, I’d fought back.

I didn’t just let him go free.

And even though he was acquitted of the charges, the university still fired him — and revoked the award they’d bestowed upon him after I’d left. As far as I knew, he was still without a job, without tenure, without a prayer in hell of working with students again. Our trial had been televised, it had made national news, and there wasn’t a pianist in this country who wouldn’t forever remember his name — only now, I was in control of the narrative.

It may not have been jail time, but it was justice.

And I was set free.

Therapy helped more than I ever thought it could after the trial wrapped up. Mom had a peer she had studied with who lived in the city — Doctor Erramouspe — and after even our first meeting, I knew she would be instrumental in my recovery. She had all the right words to say to help me see I wasn’t crazy, that my feelings were valid, that what happened to me did not define me, but it was still a part of my journey, and it was important to recognize that.

I still see her once every two weeks, and I know that with her help and the amazing team behind me, I wouldn’t be standing backstage at Carnegie Hall right now.

“What’s going on in that beautiful head of yours,” Reese asked, swaying me gently in his arms.