Chapter 93 Was It Him Who Did It?

Chapter 93 Was It Him Who Did It?

Isabella's POV

The next week, my life was completely consumed by rehearsals.

Leaving at seven in the morning, getting back at eight at night or even later.

The lift combinations with Dustin were the most draining. Every time he grabbed my waist and hoisted me into the air, I had to use every ounce of strength to maintain my balance and pitch.

The bruises on my sides and thighs kept multiplying. By the time I showered, I'd stopped bothering to count them.

Maurice was really trying.

He parked his car at the music academy's side entrance almost every night to wait for me.

"Babe, you worked hard." He'd hand me an energy bar and lean in to kiss my cheek.

Chocolate chip flavor.

I don't eat chocolate chip—only oat and nut—but I didn't say anything. I tore open the wrapper, chewed, and swallowed. He's trying, I told myself.

The effort didn't last long.

Thursday night, rehearsal dragged on until eleven-thirty.

I stood on the empty street corner and called Maurice three times. All went to voicemail.

He was probably passed out on the couch again.

I pulled my coat tighter and went to catch the last bus full of drunks.

One in the morning, I turned the key to the apartment. The living room was pitch black.

Click.

The sound of a lighter wheel striking, a blue flame flickered to life, illuminating Terrence's face.

He sat in the armchair, lights off, his eyes fixed on me in the darkness.

"Why didn't you call me?"

"Maurice fell asleep..."

"I'm not asking about that useless Maurice!" He shot to his feet. "I'm asking you—why would you rather squeeze onto some shitty bus in the middle of the night than make one phone call to me?"

My back pressed against the door.

"I didn't want to bother you."

The lighter went out. He was silent in the darkness for a long time.

"Bother?" he repeated quietly.

Without his usual bite.

He didn't say anything else, just turned and went into his room, slamming the door hard.

From that day on, I started deliberately avoiding him.

But the apartment was too small. There was nowhere to hide.

Silent mornings at the dining table, only the sound of silverware against plates.

Weekend afternoon, Maurice went out to play ball. I sat on the couch looking at sheet music while Terrence did push-ups on the carpet a few steps away.

He wore only gray athletic shorts, sweat sliding down his back.

I stared at the music, even my breathing controlled.

Maurice kept bringing up travel lately.

"Let's go to Velora in two weeks! Sun, beach, tequila! Terrence, you come too, celebrate your leave."

"Not going." Terrence cut his steak without looking up.

Maurice turned to me.

"Isabella, go buy some bikinis, relax a little."

"I can't go either. Two weeks from now is the most critical rehearsal time."

"Come on! You can't take three days off?" Maurice threw his fork on his plate. "Is there anything in your life besides that damn violin? I can barely get a full dinner with you!"

"This is an audition I've been preparing for three years!"

We had a huge fight, the first time we'd screamed at each other in front of Terrence.

Maurice stormed out.

He apologized over the next few days, but I didn't budge.

Friday night.

After five days straight, I dragged my lead-heavy legs back to the apartment. No one in the living room, Maurice's car not downstairs.

I walked into the bedroom, dropped my violin case, and peeled off my sweat-soaked fitted T-shirt.

Wearing only a black lace bra, I turned to grab my pajamas.

"Fuck."

An extremely low, rough sound from the corner of the room.

I screamed, yanking a blanket to cover my chest.

Terrence sat on the air mattress beside the bed.

Lights off, his whole body hidden in shadow. I hadn't seen him when I came in.

He stood up, closing in step by step.

"Why are you in my room?" I stammered, backing up until my back hit the closet door.

"Looking for a charging cable." His voice was stretched tight.

He wasn't looking at my face, or at the blanket covering my chest.

He was staring at my side.

There was a large, horrifying purple-blue bruise.

From this afternoon's lift practice with Dustin, where his strong arms repeatedly gripped my waist, leaving these marks.

Against my pale skin, it looked shocking.

Terrence's jawline instantly tightened, fury nearly erupting from his eyes.

"He did this?" he asked through gritted teeth, his fists cracking as he clenched them.

I knew he thought it was Maurice.

"No!" I rushed to explain, my voice shaking. "It's from rehearsal... when Dustin and I were working out the lift. He accidentally hurt me. He's too strong, has to grip my waist to lift me up."

Terrence's chest heaved violently. He walked up to me, stopping less than half a foot away.

He didn't come any closer, but the dangerous pressure radiating from him made it almost impossible to breathe.

He slowly raised his hand.

I thought he'd mock me like usual, say I was too fragile.

But no.

His rough, calloused finger, with extreme gentleness, hovered in the air near my side.

He didn't touch it. Not once. His finger hung a hair's breadth from her skin, tracing the bruise's edges as if the hurt could pass through still air and reach him.

"You shouldn't suffer like this, tearing yourself up for some damn stage."

"I have to do this." I bit my lip, fighting back tears. "This is my only chance."

He looked at me deeply, that look containing too many emotions I didn't dare examine.

Then he withdrew his hand and walked out of my room.

Time flew by, and a week passed in the blink of an eye.

My parents were finishing their trip next week.

Which meant Maurice and Terrence had to move out of this apartment.

Sunday morning, Maurice went to a team meeting.

Terrence was in the living room packing his pathetically few belongings.

I stayed in the bedroom, organizing the bottom drawer of my closet.

My fingers touched a soft piece of fabric.

I pulled it out. A large black men's dress shirt.

That stormy night when I was soaked through, Terrence had thrown this shirt at my head.

After washing it, I'd hidden it in the deepest part of the drawer and never taken it out again.

I sat on the floor, holding that black shirt in my hands.

The fabric seemed to still carry that crisp pine scent and faint tobacco smell.

My fingers slowly tightened, pressing the shirt hard against my chest. That sour, secret ache in my heart spread through me again.

He was leaving.

After tomorrow, he'd move back to his world of wealth.

And I would continue being Maurice's good, understanding girlfriend.

Everything would return to normal.

Wasn't this what I wanted?

I took a deep breath, telling myself that when Maurice got back, I'd give him this shirt to return to Terrence.

That was the most decent, safest approach.

Just then, the bedroom door suddenly pushed open.

"Isabella, have you seen my car keys..."

Maurice's voice stopped dead at the doorway.

I sat frozen on the floor, still clutching his brother's black shirt in my hands, still in the position of pressing it to my chest, head lowered as if smelling it.

Maurice's gaze fell on the shirt in my hands, then slowly moved to my face.