Follow her trace
The chandelier hung like a crown above the living room, its sheer size and splendour overwhelming the senses. It was at least six feet in length, a magnificent spiral of glittering crystals that cascaded in layers, capturing and reflecting every sliver of light. It bathed the room in an ethereal glow, casting a thousand shimmering patterns on the walls. The living room, fit for royalty, was a stage for wealth and influence. Five Tuxedo couches and five elegant Cabrioles were arranged with meticulous precision, their arms and legs gilded in gold, gleaming beneath the soft illumination. The emerald-green upholstery exuded luxury, a rich, velvety green that seemed to glow in contrast to the opulence around it. Eighteen crimson pillows, each adorned with a diamond fragment in its centre, punctuated the room's grandeur.
Beneath the chandelier, a marble table stood like an altar, displaying a rare, priceless vase. It was estimated to be worth a million dollars—a piece that was not merely a decoration but a statement. The vase was revered, its royal blue surface gleaming even in the dim light, with golden tracings winding delicately across its body. Tiny, intricate flower motifs protruded from its surface, giving it an almost lifelike presence. It stood proudly, cradling a bouquet of red flowers, which the staff, in this long-abandoned estate, meticulously replaced each day. Despite everything my father had abandoned, he had not forgotten this one ritual.
"Arthur, I just don't understand you sometimes. Why buy such an extravagant vase?" My mother's voice was calm but laced with exasperation as her fingers brushed against the vase's smooth surface.
Without turning away from the window where he stood, cigarette in hand and newspaper crinkled under his arm, my father responded, "Well, my love, it seems to have enchanted you."
She sighed, glancing at him briefly before giving her command. "It's not something I dislike, no. Never mind. Walter! Fresh red flowers for the vase, and don't forget to change them every day."
The air in the room grew heavier as memories stirred, memories that were never truly forgotten. Every beautiful moment was bound to something painful, hidden deep within. And no matter how hard the heart tries to resist, the mind recalls them so vividly it feels like the past is merging with the present.
"Arthur…" My mother's voice trembled as she laid the divorce papers before him, her hands shaking. "Please, answer just this one question."
My father's eyes remained closed, his breath slow and deliberate as he exhaled a cloud of smoke. He didn't look at her. He didn't meet her tearful gaze, not once. All he did was nod as if acknowledging her pain without the strength to address it.
"When did you stop loving me?"
I watched in silence, unable to move. My mother's sobs filled the room, and I could see the life draining from her as she waited for an answer that never came. My father, stoic and unyielding, remained silent. If only he had spoken—if only he had opened his eyes and offered her some glimmer of regret—I wouldn't have lost my mother. I wouldn't have lost Alex. And maybe, I wouldn't have lost myself.
It's astounding how much emotion can be tied to a single room. The living room, with all its splendour, was a reflection of my father's success—his induction into the Hall of Fame, his immeasurable wealth, and his influence. Yet, despite all this, he had lost the one thing that truly mattered: his family. He knew there was no one left to call his own. Still, he clung to me, hoping to accomplish for me what he had failed to do for Alex.
I stood frozen before the marble table, my eyes locked on the vase, the weight of everything crashing down on me. I barely noticed Michael approaching until he placed a hand on my shoulder, startling me. He handed me a set of documents.
"These are the rules and conditions for the violin competition. Read them carefully and sign within three days," he instructed, his voice firm.
I scoffed, my eyes narrowing at the absurdity. "Three days? Three days to watch my future crumble, to sit back while everything I've worked for falls apart?"
My father, still by the window, lit one of his expensive cigars, the smoke curling lazily around him. He didn't even look at me as he spoke. "Aubrey, remember: fame, wealth, and power are the defining traits of an Ardel. Happiness doesn't exist in our lives. It never has." His gaze drifted back to the vase as if it embodied the emptiness of his words.
I clenched my fists, anger boiling in my chest. He was the reason for all of this. How dare he preach about the absence of happiness? How dare he act like he understood? Slowly, I approached him, my tall, muscular frame towering over his. "Tell me, Father," I whispered, my voice dripping with venom, "did losing your wife knock any sense into that worthless brain of yours?"
For the first time, his expression faltered. Seeing the humiliation in his eyes brought me a twisted sense of satisfaction. "You can either agree with what I do," I continued, leaning closer, "or wait until I have you in the palm of my hand. And I swear, when that time comes, I'll make your life so miserable that you'll wish I had never been born. I'll strip you of everything you hold dear—your fame, your fortune—until you crawl back to me, begging for forgiveness."
I leaned in, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "How can you hope to control me, Father, when you couldn't even keep a woman?"
The crack of his hand against my face rang through the room. The force of it stunned me, and for a moment, I just stood there, my cheek stinging, my heart pounding. "You will not tear down the empire I built!" he roared, his voice filled with fury.
A wild, exhilarating spark ignited within me at his outburst. My eyes gleamed with a dark thrill as adrenaline surged through my veins. I wasn't going to let this moment slip away. "The old empire must fall," I said, my lips curling into a smile, "for a new one to rise."
I hadn't planned on hurting my father, despite all the cruel words I had thrown at him. But something inside me had snapped. I found myself standing by the painter's bench, staring blankly at the canvas, not even realizing I had moved. Snow covered the ground outside, a stark contrast to the suffocating heat in the house. Everything seemed so vibrant, so different from the world I knew.
My gaze drifted to a nearby café, the one where she worked. I don't know why, but I felt a strange urge to go inside, to talk to her. Maybe I was searching for an escape, something—anything—that could pull me out of this spiral.
I approached the café door, only to find it closed. It wasn't a holiday, but for some reason, they weren't open. Sighing, I turned to leave, thinking today wasn't going to be any better than the others.
Suddenly, the door slammed open, hitting me square in the face.
"Oh sh*t," I muttered, clutching my nose in pain.
A petite woman rushed out, her face filled with panic. "Oh no! Are you okay, sir? I'm so, so sorry!" She was small, with a button nose and wide, blue eyes that sparkled with genuine concern. Her brown blazer and beanie gave her a cosy, approachable look.
"I'm fine," I managed, though when I pulled my hand away, it was smeared with blood. The sight made her gasp, drawing the attention of everyone nearby.
"If you don't mind, may I come inside?" I asked, trying to manage the situation.
She hesitated, clearly unsure. But before she could respond, a tall, muscular man with dark curly hair and kind brown eyes stepped forward. He was clearly a café employee, and his presence was both commanding and gentle.
"I'm so sorry about the accident," he said, smiling warmly. "Please, come in. We'll take care of that."
"Thank you," I replied, not realizing that I wasn't just stepping into a café—but into a new chapter of my life.
"Who's that?" A voice called out from inside the café, one I'd been waiting to hear for what felt like a lifetime.