Chapter Text
Morning.
That wasn’t a dream. We had won. The lights, the roar, the heat of the stage—they were still echoing inside me. What I didn’t remember was how I got home. Too many drinks. Dante carried all my gear for me, as always—though I know he didn’t bring it here. My bass and amp are safe at his place, where they’ve been living for weeks.
Mother hadn’t noticed. Or pretended not to. Either way, I was safe.
“Are you ready for the new school?” she asked, pearls catching the light, tone as sharp as always.
I smiled the smile she trained me for. “Of course.”
She leaned closer, fixing my hair with her fingers. “I don’t want to hear any excuses, Tatiana. And remember—ballet at four, not a minute later. No more skipping.”
“Yes, Mother,” I murmured, my stomach twisting.
“And—” she paused, eyes narrowing, “—I expect you to keep your distance from Martínez. I don’t want her anywhere near you. You understand?”
“Yes, Mother,” I said again, forcing my face to stay calm. Inside, a small, forbidden thrill rose. Thalía was my cousin, my bandmate, my partner in crime… and now, apparently, my greatest risk.
“You’re learning to control your impulses,” she said, straightening my blazer. “Elegance is everything. One misstep, one slip, and the Volkova name is tarnished. Don’t forget that.”
“Yes, Mother,” I whispered, swallowing the urge to roll my eyes.
Inside, though, I was still the girl in the mask.
The gates of Sweet Amoris High buzzed with voices. No marble floors, no guards, just laughter and chatter. I straightened my blazer, posture drilled into me since childhood: Tanya Volkova never slouches. Tanya Volkova never stumbles.
But whispers started anyway.
“That’s her. Volkova.”
“Rich family.”
“Figures.”
Perfect. Exactly what I didn’t want.
A cheerful girl waved. “Hey! I’m Rosalya. You’ll be fine here.” She leaned closer. “Don’t mind the staring. It’ll pass.”
I doubted it.
Because across the courtyard, Thalía stood with Dante and Lucian. Shirt untucked, skirt rolled, laughing like rules had never touched her. Our eyes met for a second. Just a second. Then nothing.
Rosalya tugged me inside before I could look again.
The hallway buzzed with lockers slamming, books thudding. A boy with blond hair —Nathaniel — passed with his arms full. I recognise him for a couple of banquets for “rich people”.
Another leaned with a guitar case at his feet. Crimson hair.
I froze. The guitar case pulled me back into last night’s heat. The secret we couldn’t let anyone here discover.
The bell rang. Sweet Amoris had begun.
And then—impact. Someone brushed past me hard enough to knock me sideways.
“Watch it,” a sharp voice said.
I turned. Red hair, impatient glare.
“New kid, huh? Figures. You look like the type to get lost on the first day.”
My back straightened on instinct. “And you look like the type who doesn’t bother with manners.”
A smirk. “Sharp tongue. Careful. People might think you’ve actually got a personality.”
He walked off before I could answer, boots heavy on the floor. Snickers followed.
“Don’t mind him,” Rosalya whispered. “That’s Castiel. You’ll get used to it.”
If only she knew.
If only any of them knew who i really am inside.
Because last night, I wasn’t just the “new Volkova.” I was Crimson Veil.
And no one here could ever know that.
The classroom smelled of chalk and dust. Desks filled fast.
“Volkova,” the teacher pointed. “Next to Martínez.”
My chest tightened. Thalía.
Every step to that desk felt like breaking a rule carved into stone. My mother’s rule. I slid into the seat, notebook perfectly aligned. My hands steady. My heart wasn’t.
Thalía turned, hair falling into her face, eyes gleaming like it was a joke.
“Well, well,” she whispered. “Look who fate dragged in.”
“We’re in class,” I muttered. “Don’t start.”
She smirked. “Relax, princess. I won’t blow your cover.”
Behind us, Dante dropped into his seat with a grin, Lucian calm as ever. All four of us in daylight, unmasked.
No one had a clue.
The teacher droned on, but Thalía nudged me, sliding a folded note onto my desk.
Relax. I don’t bite. Not in class, anyway.
I scribbled back: Focus. We’re supposed to be invisible.
She read, smirking without looking at me. Invisible? You’re Volkova. Even in the back row, you’d glow like a neon sign.
Heat rose in my neck. I glared, but she only leaned back, doodling flames in her notebook.
My cheeks burned, but I gave her a warning glance. She shrugged, eyes twinkling with mischief, then doodled another flame.
That’s when I noticed him.
Castiel.
He was sitting a few rows over, guitar case leaning against the desk, lounging like nothing mattered. But his eyes—sharp, calculating—kept flicking toward us. First one glance, then another. He noticed the nudge, the paper slipping under the notebook, the tiny smirk exchanged.
He didn’t move, didn’t call attention to it. Just watched, piecing together the invisible thread between us. I felt a chill run down my spine.
Not a word. Not a confrontation. Just observation.
Then, as if to cover his presence, he tilted back in his chair and let his fingers drum against the desk. A casual, careless gesture—but I knew he was paying attention.
I slid the next note toward Thalía.
You’re impossible.
She read it, still smirking, and wrote back:
And you love it.
Castiel’s gaze flicked once more, then he looked away, letting the teacher’s droning words take his attention. But I felt it—he’d seen enough to be curious.
No one else noticed.
No one ever would.
Because to the world, Thalía Martínez wasn’t my cousin. She was just another classmate.
But to me? She was the only person who knew the real Tanya.
The clock on my wall ticked louder than it should have. Four o’clock. Ballet. Mother’s favorite time of day, her perfect little ritual, a trap disguised as art.
I didn’t move. Not yet.
A text buzzed on my phone:
Basement. Now.
—Thalía
I swallowed, heart racing. One glance at the door, one glance at my neatly pressed tutu waiting in my ballet bag, and I made my choice.
By the time I reached the basement of the old building Dante had found—a dusty, dimly lit space with cracked walls and the stubborn smell of damp—I could already hear it. Lucian’s drumsticks tapping, Thalía’s guitar whining, Dante’s voice testing the acoustics.
“About time you showed up, princess,” Thalía called, smirking.
I stepped inside and froze for a moment. My bass was already here—Dante had brought it earlier, grinning. “Thought you’d be late, so I saved you the heavy lifting,” he said, leaning casually against the wall.
“Saved me from what, exactly?” I asked, though my lips twitched with amusement.
“From carrying your precious bass,” Dante replied. “You’re welcome.”
Thalía tossed me a folded note, and I caught it without looking. Told you, the princess knows how to sneak.
I grinned, slinging the bass strap over my shoulder. Lucian tapped the table, counting us in.
One… two… three…
The sound hit instantly. Heavy, raw, alive. I stepped forward, swaying with the rhythm, fingers flying over the strings. Thalía leaned into her guitar, spinning, kicking a foot up, barely avoiding Dante’s dramatic flail with the mic stand.
“Watch it!” Dante shouted, laughing as she nearly clipped him.
I leaned toward Thalía, our instruments weaving together in an improvised duel. Lucian pounded harder, egging us on.
For a moment, the basement wasn’t dusty or cramped. It was ours. The lights dimmed, amps buzzing, music thick and alive.
“Encore, or quit while you’re ahead?” Thalía teased.
“Never,” I shot back, sliding my hand across the strings in a sharp, playful attack.
Dante flopped onto the floor dramatically, grabbing his mic like a sword. “You two are insane. Absolutely insane. And I love it.”
Lucian smirked. “Way better than ballet, princess.”
I laughed, letting the sound bounce off the walls, free and uncontrolled.
Thalía leaned over, shoulder brushing mine, whispering, “We should do this more often. Just us.”
I nodded, feeling the pulse of the music and warmth of my bandmates around me. “We will.”
For that little while, nothing else existed. Not rules, not Mother, not the world outside. Just the four of us, the basement, and the sound of Crimson Veil coming alive.
The basement buzzed with energy. I swung my bass low, sliding a riff across the strings, fingers moving fast, precise, letting the vibrations shake through my chest. Thalía leaned into her guitar, spinning on the balls of her feet, kicking one leg high, then bending back almost to the floor as she hit a screaming note.
“Careful!” Dante shouted, dodging her swing of the mic stand like a matador. “Or we’ll have a real accident!”
Lucian laughed, hammering the drums faster, harder, pushing us all. “Keep up! No slacking!”
I mirrored Thalía’s movements, twirling, stepping back-to-back with her, instruments clashing in a perfect rhythm. Our riffs tangled, crossed, sparred—every note a small challenge, a small victory. The way we moved together, it was almost like a dance, but faster, wilder, freer.
“Encore, encore!” Thalía yelled, tossing me a grin.
I answered with a growl from the bass, spinning on my heel, slapping the strings as Dante flopped dramatically to the floor, dragging the mic across with a mock bow. Lucian smirked, filling the space with pounding drums, a heartbeat we all synced to.
Then came the sudden sound that made my stomach knot: a door creaked somewhere above us. A shadow shifted in the stairwell. Someone was in the building.
I froze for half a second, my chest tightening.
“Did you hear that?” I whispered, eyes darting up.
Thalía didn’t pause. “Relax. Probably maintenance. Or a cat.” She grinned, but I could feel her tension mirror mine.
I couldn’t help it. My fingers shook slightly on the bass as the sound of a distant footstep echoed through the old wooden floors above. Sweat already streaked my face, but now my pulse raced for more than just the music.
Dante leaned over, smirking at me. “Focus, princess. You can’t play scared.”
I swallowed, forcing the rhythm back into my bones. Step, swing, slide. Keep moving. Don’t let fear break the flow.
We improvised a little more aggressively, our moves sharper, faster. Thalía leapt onto a wooden crate and landed beside me, shoulder brushing mine, our riffs colliding like playful sparring. I mirrored her move, bending low and flicking a string, hitting a counter-note that made the sound explode.
The footstep above shifted again. Someone was definitely up there, listening. I could feel my stomach flip, a delicious panic mixed with adrenaline. Every note we played felt louder, more urgent. Every spin, every jump, every synchronized move was both defiance and warning: we weren’t just playing—we were alive.
Lucian pounded harder, Dante’s mic swooped and dived, and Thalía leaned into my side for a brief, synchronized riff duel. We were a unit. And maybe someone above was hearing, maybe not—but we weren’t stopping.
Finally, the last chord rang out, sharp, fierce. I raised my bass high, Thalía dropped to one knee, Dante flung the mic stand, Lucian crashed the final cymbal. Silence fell.
The shadow moved again, and then disappeared. Whoever it was, they had heard—but didn’t dare come closer.
I exhaled slowly, letting the tension drain. “Okay… maybe that was too close,” I whispered, voice still shaking.
Thalía grinned, wiping sweat from her forehead. “Perfect practice. They might’ve heard us, but we still won.”
Dante flopped onto the floor, laughing. “And that, my friends, is how you make a basement feel like a stadium.”
I smirked, letting myself relax just a little. The risk, the music, the rush—it was everything I craved. And as long as we kept moving, as long as we kept playing… nothing else could touch us.
I had barely stepped through the front door when Mother appeared. She didn’t knock. She didn’t wait. Her eyes were sharp, blazing like cold fire.
“Where were you?” she demanded, voice low, venomous.
I swallowed, trying to keep my tone smooth, controlled. “In the library, Mother. Studying for a—uh—surprise quiz,” I lied, holding my bag tighter.
Her eyes narrowed, sharp and unforgiving. “The library? At four o’clock? Don’t lie to me, Tatiana. I know you weren’t at ballet. And I know you weren’t in the library.”
My stomach sank. Her voice was ice, but beneath it, there was a simmering, dangerous heat.
“Mother, I—” I began, but she cut me off.
“You think you can defy me in little ways and it won’t matter?” Her hand shot out, grabbing my wrist. The grip was hard, painful, twisting. “You think I won’t notice every step you take, every glance you give?”
I flinched, trying to pull away. She held me firm.
“You will obey. Ballet. Rules. Family. Everything I tell you!” Her palm slapped against my cheek before I could speak. The sting flared hot across my skin. “Amber told me that you didn’t show up”.
Oh, that bitch…
“I… I was just—” I choked on the words, trying to maintain composure, failing.
“Just what?” Her voice rose, cruel and sharp. “Just thinking you can play at music, at freedom, while I command perfection? That is not allowed. Not for you!”
I shrank back instinctively, clutching my bag. My pulse pounded, my hands trembled. “I—I’m sorry, Mother.”
“You’re never sorry,” she hissed, gripping my shoulders, shaking me slightly. “You live in my house, Tatiana. My rules. My expectations. And you—” She shoved me into the wall lightly but firmly, testing my balance. “You will remember your place!”
I blinked back tears, swallowing my fear. Every instinct screamed to fight back, to run, to scream—but I knew better. A wrong word, a wrong move, and it would be worse.
“You lied to me,” she said, softer now, but still like ice on my skin. “Do you think you can hide from me? You cannot hide. Not from me. Not from your blood. You will obey, or—” She let the threat hang, suffocating.
“Yes, Mother,” I whispered, voice trembling. “I’ll obey.”
Her grip loosened. She stepped back, eyes still sharp, still watching. “Good. I will be watching. Always. Remember that.”
I nodded, heart hammering, trying to steady my breath. My bag felt impossibly heavy in my hands, the bass tucked inside still pulsing in my mind, alive.
I had lied. I had escaped. For a moment, I had felt free. And now, the weight of her eyes, her hands, her control, pressed down again.
I swallowed, forcing myself to bow my head, to align my spine, to wear the mask I had been trained to wear. Tanya Volkova, obedient daughter. Perfect. Controlled. Invisible.
But somewhere deep inside, a part of me still throbbed with the bass, the music, Thalía’s laugh, Dante and Lucian’s grins. That part would not disappear.