Marriage Named Hatred Chapter 22
Annelise stayed in Paris and moved out of the shabby little dorm room she had lived in at first.
After she won the international competition, Annelise’s name began to be mentioned in classical music circles.
She passed the ensemble’s internal vote unanimously and officially became the concertmaster of the Orchestre de Paris, one of the youngest concertmasters since the orchestra was founded.
Her solo recitals followed one after another—Paris, Vienna, Berlin, Amsterdam.
At every performance, the seat in front of the piano belonged to the same person—Theodore.
They became one of the most renowned chamber-music partnerships on the international scene.
Critics said their coordination was as natural as breathing, violin and piano woven together so seamlessly that no one could tell who was leading and who was following.
Only they knew it was not technique, but trust.
After one rehearsal ended, Annelise leaned against the piano and drank water, watching Theodore turn pages of the score.
Sunlight streamed in through the window and fell on Theodore’s shoulders, gentle and quiet.
She suddenly remembered a long time ago, when someone had asked her what her relationship with Theodore was.
Back then she had thought about it, smiled, and said, “He was the one who, when I was at my darkest, did not try to pull me out—he just walked with me.”
He heard it from the side, smiled too, and then lowered his head and kept turning the pages.
But later, the person who had walked with her slowly came to walk beside her.
It was not forced; it happened naturally, like two different pieces of music gradually finding the same key.
That night after the performance ended, they walked back to her place together.
The Paris night was very quiet, and the streetlights stretched their shadows long.
When they reached downstairs, Theodore suddenly stopped and took her hand. “Anna.”
She stopped and turned to look at him.
He looked at her and fell silent for a few seconds, as if gathering courage. “Could I be more than just the one who walked with you?”
In that moment, she froze.
Theodore stood there, neither coming closer nor stepping back, only looking at her and waiting for her answer.
She remembered those late-night rehearsal rooms, the hot tea he had handed her; she remembered those silent moments, his perfectly timed companionship; she remembered the day before the competition, when he had sat at the piano and said to her, “Your light deserved to be seen by everyone.”
She remembered it had taken her many years to finally understand one thing.
Love was not possession, not control, not tying yourself to another person and waiting to be redeemed.
Love was him being there, and you still being you.
Annelise smiled, eased the strength in her hand, and drew him toward her. “Then come a little closer.”
Theodore smiled too and pulled her into his arms with all his strength.
That night, Paris saw its first snowfall since the start of winter.
They stood under the streetlight watching the snowflakes fall, and neither of them spoke.
Some words did not need to be spoken.
In later interviews, when people asked again what their relationship was, she only smiled and did not answer.
And he sat beside her, watching the slight upward curve at the corner of her mouth.