Chapter 7 A New Beginning

# Chapter 7: A New Beginning

Six months later, I stood on the terrace of our seaside villa, watching the Mediterranean glitter under the afternoon sun. The coastal town of Almuñécar in southern Spain had become our sanctuary—remote enough to ensure privacy, yet vibrant enough to ward off isolation.

Our home clung to a cliffside, white walls gleaming against the azure sky, bougainvillea cascading over the garden walls in vibrant purple streams. From this vantage point, I could see fishing boats returning to the harbor, their decks laden with the day's catch.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Veronica's voice came from behind me. She wrapped her arms around my waist, resting her chin on my shoulder.

I leaned back against her, savoring the warmth of her body against mine. "I still can't believe this is real sometimes."

The journey here had been elaborate, just as Veronica had planned. A private plane to Toronto, then commercial flights under false identities to London, then Madrid, and finally a rental car to this hidden corner of Spain. By the time anyone might have thought to look for us here, we were already settled, invisible among the expatriates and locals who valued their privacy.

Veronica kissed my temple before releasing me. "I have something for you."

She held out a tablet, open to an American news site. The headline made my breath catch: "Former Congressman Greene Sentenced to 8 Years for Fraud, Corruption."

"It's over," I said, scanning the article. "Really over."

"Justice," Veronica murmured, "at last."

I set the tablet down, my emotions complicated. Richard's downfall had been spectacular and complete. The evidence Veronica had compiled was irrefutable, leading to multiple federal charges. His political allies had abandoned him one by one, former friends suddenly unable to recall their close relationships.

"Have you heard anything about my mother?" I asked, as I did every few weeks.

Veronica's expression softened. "My contact says she's moved back to her family home in Connecticut. She's filed for divorce."

I nodded, relief mingling with lingering guilt. The letter I'd left for her had been maddeningly vague—assurances of my safety but no explanations, no way to contact me. Sometimes I imagined her reading it, the confusion and hurt in her eyes.

"She's strong," Veronica said, as if reading my thoughts. "Stronger than you give her credit for."

"I know." I turned back to the view, gathering my composure. "I just wish..."

"That you could talk to her?" Veronica finished when I trailed off. "Maybe someday, when enough time has passed."

We'd had this conversation before. The risk was still too great—not of legal consequences, as we'd broken no laws, but of being found, of losing the life we'd built here. Richard still had powerful friends, even from prison, who might seek retribution if they discovered Veronica's role in his downfall.

"Come," Veronica said, changing the subject. "Elena is waiting for your lesson."

Elena Morales was a local piano teacher, a stern woman in her sixties who had once performed with the Madrid Symphony. When she'd discovered I played, she'd insisted on hearing me, then immediately declared my technique "promising but undisciplined." For the past three months, I'd been studying with her twice weekly, rediscovering my love for music without the pressure of performance that had always accompanied it in my previous life.

I found her waiting in our living room, where my piano—a restored Bösendorfer that Veronica had surprised me with for my twentieth birthday—stood by the windows overlooking the sea.

"You are late," Elena announced, checking her watch though I was certain I was precisely on time.

"Lo siento, maestra," I replied, my Spanish improving but still halting.

She sniffed, but I caught the hint of a smile as she opened her worn leather music case. "We begin with Chopin. The nocturne you were butchering last week."

Veronica excused herself to her study as I settled at the piano. For the next hour, I lost myself in the music, Elena's occasional "No, no, no!" and rare "Mejor, mejor" guiding me through the complex emotions of the piece.

When the lesson ended, Elena packed her music with methodical precision. "You play with more heart now," she observed. "Less technique, more feeling. This is good."

Coming from Elena, this was high praise. "Gracias."

"Your woman," she said, nodding toward Veronica's study, "she watches you when you play. Like a man dying of thirst watches water."

I felt heat rise to my cheeks. Elena had never directly commented on my relationship with Veronica before, though I knew she understood the nature of it.

"Is that disapproval I hear?" I asked cautiously.

Elena shrugged. "Love is love. My brother, he lives with his Manuel for thirty years now. But you—" she tapped my forehead with one bony finger, "—you hold back still. Why?"

The directness of the question startled me. "I don't—"

"Sí, you do. When you play, you give everything. When you look at her..." She made a gesture like something being restrained. "Why?"

I had no answer, or perhaps too many answers. Elena studied me for a moment, then sighed.

"Next week, we begin the Beethoven sonata. Practice the first movement." With that, she swept out, calling her goodbyes to Veronica as she passed her study.

I remained at the piano, playing softly, letting my fingers find their own path through melodies half-remembered, half-invented. This had become my ritual after lessons—decompressing, processing, playing for no one but myself.

After some time, I felt Veronica's presence. She leaned against the doorframe, watching me with an expression that reminded me of Elena's words: like a man dying of thirst watches water.

I stopped playing, suddenly self-conscious. "How long have you been standing there?"

"Not long enough," she said, coming to sit beside me on the bench. "I love watching you play."

In these quiet moments, I sometimes forgot who we had been—the politician's advisor, the politician's stepdaughter. Here, we were just Veronica and Alicia, two women building a life together far from the shadows of our past.

"Elena says I play with more heart now," I told her, our shoulders touching comfortably.

"She's right." Veronica ran her fingers lightly over the keys without pressing them. "You've changed since we came here. You've... bloomed."

I turned to look at her profile, struck as always by her beauty—not the polished, intimidating presence she'd cultivated in her political role, but something softer, more real. Here, she wore her hair looser, her clothes more casual. The perpetual tension I'd first noticed in her had eased, though she still maintained certain habits—checking the security system, scanning for surveillance when we went into town, maintaining her network of contacts who kept us informed about developments back home.

"We both have," I said, covering her hand with mine. "I never saw you smile in Richard's world. Not really."

"There wasn't much to smile about." She interlaced our fingers. "Here, there is."

We sat in comfortable silence, watching the sun begin its descent toward the horizon. After a while, Veronica spoke again, her voice hesitant in a way I rarely heard.

"Are you happy, Alicia? With this life? With..." She paused. "With me?"

The question surprised me. Veronica rarely displayed insecurity of any kind. I shifted to face her fully.

"Why would you ask that?"

She shrugged, not meeting my eyes. "Sometimes I wonder if you regret coming with me. If you miss your old life, your plans for college, your future."

"The future I have now is the one I chose," I said firmly. "I don't regret it."

"But do you resent me for it?" she pressed. "For how it began? For the manipulation, the lies?"

I considered the question carefully. The beginning of our relationship had been built on deception—Veronica insinuating herself into my life for reasons I still didn't fully understand, manipulating circumstances to bring us together. Yet what had grown between us since felt genuine, a connection I'd never experienced with anyone else.

"I used to wonder about that," I admitted. "Whether what I felt for you was real or just... Stockholm syndrome or rebellion or some psychological reaction to the circumstances."

Veronica nodded, her expression carefully neutral, though I could see the tension in her jaw. "And now?"

Instead of answering immediately, I began to play—softly at first, then with growing confidence. It was a piece I'd been working on secretly, composing in the quiet afternoons when Veronica was busy with her consulting work. The melody spoke of uncertainty transforming into clarity, of hesitation giving way to certainty.

As the final notes faded, I turned to find Veronica watching me, her dark eyes bright with unshed tears.

"That's my answer," I said softly. "What I feel for you is as real as this music."

She reached up, her hand trembling slightly as she touched my cheek. "When did you start composing again?"

"About three months ago. When I realized I was truly happy here. With you."

Her kiss was gentle, reverent almost, her lips soft against mine. When she pulled back, a tear had escaped, tracking down her cheek.

"You know," I said, brushing the tear away with my thumb, "I've been wondering something for a long time."

"What's that?"

I smiled, echoing the question that had been in my mind since the night we fled. "When did you start loving me?"

Veronica's expression softened, her usual composure giving way to something vulnerable and open. "From the moment you started hating me," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "That first night, at the dinner party. You looked at me with such defiance, such fire. Everyone else in that room was either afraid of me or trying to use me. But you—you saw through me immediately."

"I didn't hate you," I confessed. "I was fascinated by you. Terrified of you, maybe. But I never hated you."

She smiled, a genuine smile that transformed her face. "I know that now. But at the time, it felt like hatred. And it was... exhilarating. To be seen so clearly, even if what you saw frightened you."

I leaned forward, resting my forehead against hers. "And now? What do I see now?"

"The truth," she whispered. "Just me. No masks, no agenda. Just Veronica."

"Just Veronica," I repeated, kissing her softly. "That's all I ever wanted."

As the sun set over the Mediterranean, casting our living room in gold and amber light, I played for her again—the piece I'd been composing, our story translated into music. The complicated beginning, the tension, the flight, and finally, the peace we'd found here.

Outside our windows, the fishing boats returned to harbor, seagulls circled lazily on thermal currents, and locals began to fill the cafés along the promenade. Our life here was simple but full—I had my music, Veronica had her consulting work that she conducted remotely, and we had each other.

We were not the same people who had fled in the night six months ago. The revenge that had driven Veronica for years was complete. The rebellion that had fueled my decision to go with her had transformed into something deeper, more sustainable.

I didn't know what the future held for us. Perhaps someday we would return to America, face the past we'd left behind. Perhaps I would reunite with my mother, explain the choices I'd made. Perhaps Veronica would finally tell me the full story of why she had noticed me in that newspaper photograph years ago.

But for now, this was enough—the music, the sea, and the love that had begun in the most unlikely of circumstances. From hatred to fascination to something that felt remarkably like freedom.

As darkness fell and stars appeared above the Mediterranean, Veronica lit candles around the room, their warm glow creating an intimate sanctuary. I continued playing, losing myself in the music and the moment, aware of her presence nearby—steady, constant, no longer a mystery to be solved but a companion to be cherished.

This was our new beginning. Not perfect, not without complications, but entirely ours. And for the first time in my life, I was exactly where I wanted to be.