Velvet Chains

Prolog: Shattered

Her fingers hovered over the ivory keys, the cold smoothness familiar beneath her touch, anchoring her to the present. The warm lights of the empty concert hall cascaded over the polished piano, casting soft glows and shadows across the lacquered surface. She was midway through rehearsing her set for the evening’s performance, a subtle sadness in the piece. Music had always been her sanctuary.

Then her phone rang.

It was Vincent.

“Vi,” her brother’s voice cracked — a sound so foreign, it felt like a jolt to her chest. Violetta had never heard him like that — not her fearless older brother who once retrieved her precious doll from the inside of the hound house on their estate. He had always he her hero. Solid. Unbreakable. But now, he sounded hollow.

“Vinny?” she asked, standing from the piano bench, her heart thudding with alarm. “What’s going on? Are you okay? Is Dad okay?”

There was a long, trembling breath on the other end — and then, a sob.

“He’s gone,” Vincent whispered, voice torn. “Vi… they killed him. He shouldn’t have even been there. It was supposed to be me. Dad is gone.”

The words didn’t register at first. Just noise. And then — impact. Dad is gone.

A high-pitched ringing filled her ears. Her grip loosened, the phone nearly slipping from her fingers. Her knees buckled. The walls of the concert hall seemed to tilt inward, like the entire room was folding around her.

“Okay,” she whispered, her voice mechanical, detached. “Okay, Vinny… I’ll be home tomorrow.”

She hung up the phone.

For a moment, there was only silence in the grand concert room — the echo of memory lingering in the space where music had once lived. Then grief arrived like a wave crashing through glass. Her body collapsed to the floor, and a raw, heart-wrenching sob escaped her lips. She couldn’t breathe. Her chest heaved, gasping for air that refused to fill her lungs. She stayed there, crumpled and shaking, her cries bouncing off marble and velvet for what felt like eternity.

But after minutes that felt like hours, something shifted. A small, fragile thread of focus tugged at her mind: Go home. Your family needs you.

Numb, she pushed herself to her feet. She walked — or floated — to the concert hall’s main office. Her managers barely had time to stand when she stepped inside.

“I won’t be playing tonight. I’m going to New York,” she said simply.

They erupted — confused, angry, demanding answers. She didn’t hear a word of it. Their voices were distant echoes as she turned and walked away, her heels clicking against the floor like gunshots in the silence.

The streets of Paris blurred as she wandered through them. The city’s romance, once intoxicating, was now a distant stranger. Her breath clouded in the night air, but she barely noticed. She was both in her body and outside it — watching herself from above, detached from everything but the pounding ache in her chest.

Her phone vibrated. She glanced down absently. The family jet had been booked. Departure: one hour. Charles de Gaulle Airport.

She didn’t remember walking to the hotel, only realizing she was there when she found herself standing at the foot of the grand stone steps. Her body moved on instinct now. Up the staircase, down the quiet ornate hallway to the room she had called home for the past two weeks.

The room looked the same — soft light through gauzy curtains, a half-drunk cup of tea on the nightstand, sheet music spread across the desk. It felt like another life. She gathered her things methodically, carefully folding her clothing and placing her beloved doll, the one her brother saved in her suitcase. Her hands trembled, but she didn’t cry. Not yet.

Standing at the door, she looked back once — a long, heavy glance at the world she was leaving behind. A world of music and light, of freedom. Of peace.

The taxi ride was quiet. The city slipped past the windows like a dream dissolving. She watched people walk by, laugh, kiss, argue. Lives continuing. Theirs untouched.

She was going home — but it wasn’t really home anymore.

That house in New York would feel like a mausoleum now. Cold. Silent. Fatherless. Her protector, her anchor, was gone. And though she’d spent her life apart from the blood-stained legacy of her family’s empire, sheltered in concert halls and boarding schools… she knew deep down that she could never escape it forever.

Now, it had come for her too.