Aria’s bow danced across the violin strings, her slender fingers flying, auburn hair cascading over the polished wood instrument cradled against her shoulder. Each note rang out pure and crystalline, filling the vaulted concert hall. Row upon row of transfixed faces gazed up at the stage, held spellbound by the haunting melody the young soloist conjured.

At only 19, Aria was already hailed as a prodigy, a rising star in the classical music world. But as she poured her very soul into the climax of the titular solo of Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto, Aria played only for one – the dark-haired young man in the front row, whose intense eyes never left her face.

Nico. Her muse and her maestro. The renowned conductor who had plucked Aria from obscurity, honed her raw talent to perfection, and made her the virtuoso she was today. Under his tutelage and baton, she had blossomed, her gift flourishing. Together, they made magic, conductor and soloist in sublime artistic synergy.

As the orchestra swelled in a tempestuous wave behind her, Aria’s eyes locked on Nico’s. In that moment, they were the only two people in the world, everything else fading away besides the music that bound them. Aria’s heart raced, overcome with the same intoxicating passion she felt in Nico’s arms. Memories of forbidden kisses stolen in shadowed alcoves backstage, the illicit brush of hands in darkened practice rooms, swam through her mind.

With a final trembling note, the concerto ended in a moment of breathless silence before the audience erupted in applause. Flushed and exhilarated, Aria took her bows, flowers raining onto the stage at her feet. Pride radiated from Nico’s face as he too stood and applauded, his smile for her alone. Aria’s heart soared.

But as she looked out over the adoring crowd, Aria’s eyes fell on another familiar face in a balcony box – the regal, imperious visage of Helena Kosoff, the Symphony’s principal benefactor and Nico’s wife. Aria’s blood ran cold at the knowing look in the older woman’s eyes, a smile like a knife slash. She knew.

Aria stumbled from the stage in a daze, nearly running down the labyrinthine backstage corridors to her dressing room. With shaking hands, she fumbled the key into the lock. Once safely inside, she collapsed against the door, still clutching her violin and bow.

The craving for Nico’s touch burned through her, tempered by the ominous portent of Helena’s gaze. Tears pricked Aria’s eyes. Surely this sin, this all-consuming love, would be their undoing. The gossip columns would have a field day. Her skyrocketing career would lay in ruins. And Nico… he would lose everything.

A soft knock sounded at the door and Aria whirled, heart in her throat. “Aria, it’s me,” came Nico’s muffled voice. “Let me in, please.”

Hands trembling, Aria set aside her instrument and cracked open the door. Nico slipped inside, resplendent in his tailored tuxedo, dark hair disheveled as if he had run impatient hands through it. “You were transcendent,” he said hoarsely, crushing her to him. “A goddess.”

“Helena knows.” The words stuck in Aria’s throat. “She knows about us, Nico. I saw it in her eyes.”

He pulled back, face stricken, and cupped her cheek. “Then let her know,” he said fiercely. “Let the whole damned world know. I love you, Aria. Only you.”

“But your position, your reputation,” Aria protested, even as her traitorous body strained towards his. “I can’t let you throw it all away for me. I won’t survive losing you.”

“You listen to me,” Nico tipped her chin up, his thumb caressing her cheekbone. “You are my symphony, my masterpiece. Damn propriety, damn what’s expected of us. I’ll give it all up, the acclaim, the status, all of it, to be with you.”

The love and conviction blazing from his eyes kindled an answering fire within Aria. She wanted to believe him, wanted the fairy tale, a future where they could live for their music and their love and nothing else mattered.

Aria twined her arms around Nico’s neck, surrendering to the promise of his kiss, his touch. Tonight, she would believe in the fantasy. Tomorrow would take care of itself.

Feature Photo by Ylanite Koppens