Read Romance Online On One Easy Subscription. New Titles Every Month!

Chapter 1. Aachen Was Not My Idea

“Hurry up, Thomas!” my mother calls sharply, the rhythmic tapping of her heels echoing through the hall. “I’m almost ready, Katherine,” my father replies, spraying breath freshener into his mouth and straightening his striped tie with a mischievous grin. As he walks past me in the corridor, he adds, “Don’t lean against the doorframe, Daphne!”

“Exactly—it cost ten thousand euros!” my mother chimes in, draping a gauzy, translucent shawl around her shoulders. It complements her sleek black dress and shimmering silver envelope clutch. She retrieves a long, slim cigarette from the bag, only to reconsider and tuck it away, wary of spoiling her meticulously styled hair. After five hours at the salon, her copper-colored coiffure—matching my own natural hair—looks strikingly polished. Despite her many cosmetic procedures that blur the lines of age, the differences between us run deeper than appearances, and both of us are painfully aware of it.

I glance into the tall mirror for a final check. Tonight, I’m no less poised than them: my powder-pink dress, adorned with a delicate ribbon, pairs perfectly with matching ballet flats. We’re heading to a five-star restaurant to meet my aunt, who—remarkably—has just been appointed the federal chancellor of Germany.

“Daphne!” Aunt Sabine exclaims warmly, her arms outstretched. “You look stunning!” She clasps my hand, and I beam at her. She’s always been my greatest role model, and tonight I feel a swell of pride over her recent achievements.

We settle around a table that radiates sophistication, every detail curated to impress. My father exchanges glances with the waiter, who is clearly flustered by the chance to serve our distinguished family. In his haste to approach, he stumbles, nearly falling. I avert my eyes, unwilling to amplify his embarrassment by acknowledging it.

The restaurant manager quickly steps in, apologizing profusely for the mishap and attempting a joke that lands poorly, leaving an awkward silence in its wake. Aunt Sabine’s grace saves the moment; she diplomatically explains that we’re pressed for time and eager to sample the culinary delights as soon as possible.

With a flourish, the manager unveils a menu teeming with exotic offerings. I settle on French crêpes with cream and fresh fruit, letting my thoughts drift momentarily to Martin—my boyfriend. But Aunt Sabine doesn’t let me daydream for long.

“So, how are you, Daphne?” she asks with genuine curiosity. “Have you defended your bachelor’s thesis yet?”

“Not yet, but soon,” I answer. “I wish I could rent an apartment during my master’s studies... But my parents won’t allow it, nor will they let me take on a part-time job.”

I sigh dramatically, knowing full well they’re seated beside me. “Oh, you poor thing!” Aunt Sabine says sympathetically, covering my hand with her ring-laden ones. “How old are you now?”

At this, my mother’s composure cracks. She clears her throat purposefully, asserting herself. “Too young.”

“Too young?” Aunt Sabine scoffs conspiratorially. “I’ve been immersed in politics since I was old enough to toddle into the sandbox!”

“Did you earn any money at that age?” my father counters slyly, his interest in financial matters—especially cryptocurrency—ever-present.

Aunt Sabine’s eyes sparkle with mischief. “Who knows? Perhaps you should have joined me back then instead of digging up bones and playing archaeologists!”

She shoots a playful glance at my mother, who sits stiffly, radiating disapproval.

“Katherine,” Aunt Sabine continues, “did you hear Schmidt’s daughter was the guest of honor at the launch of a major airline? All because she worked part-time at the airport and mingled with the right people...”

“And?” my mother asks curtly.

“And...” Aunt Sabine leans forward, her voice dipping conspiratorially. “Maintaining influence is much harder than tending a garden. You have to look after everyone’s lawns—not just your own!”

Though one hardly needs Wikipedia to know Aunt Sabine once served as the Minister of Agriculture, her metaphor isn’t lost on anyone.

“Sabine…” my mother begins, her disdain barely concealed. “I understand your point. But what do you suggest Daphne do? She’s still too inexperienced to land a position that aligns with her potential, and I refuse to let her squander time in menial jobs like pizza delivery or distributing flyers.”

I bite my tongue, wanting to protest but knowing the discomfort etched on her face will only escalate if I do.

“Well,” Aunt Sabine says at last, “I was thinking of sending Daphne to Aachen for a small job...” She turns to my father. “What do you think, Thomas?”

“Aachen!” he exclaims, visibly thrilled. “The city of our youth!”

My mother’s face darkens. Her foot moves stealthily beneath the table, aiming for my father’s ankle but colliding with mine instead. The sharp pain jolts me, but I keep my expression neutral. Aunt Sabine, knowing our family dynamics too well, calls her out.

“Stop kicking your husband under the table, Katherine. I know you’re less than thrilled about my proposal. But hear me out. A friend of mine is looking for a substitute teacher, and since Daphne is a piano virtuoso, I suggested her.”

Before my mother can respond, three waiters arrive at our table. One pours the drinks, another serves the appetizers, and the third asks if we need anything else. Aunt Sabine thanks them warmly, and once they leave, the conversation resumes.

“Well, Sabine, how long are you talking about?” my mother probes.

“Oh, a month,” Aunt Sabine replies breezily. “I need her to teach piano at my friend’s music school.”

A month? My jaw nearly drops. I thought this “small job” was just a brief task, lasting a few days at most.

“Is there a problem?” Aunt Sabine asks, her tone tinged with surprise. “Why the unhappy face, sweetie? Aren’t you excited about leaving Berlin and tasting a bit of freedom? You might even meet the love of your life!”

But I’ve already met him. The thought of leaving Martin behind dampens my spirit. We’ve planned to spend the summer together, knowing the time will be cut short by my parents’ impromptu trips to tropical destinations.

“I’d prefer to stay in Berlin,” I say hesitantly, scrambling for an excuse. “I’m... not that skilled at playing the piano,” I add, even though I’ve been honing my talent since childhood. “And…” I pause, desperately searching for another argument. “Where will I live? Grandpa and Grandma moved to Berlin years ago, and renting something for less than a semester would be nearly impossible.”

My mother looks satisfied with my protest. Raising her glass with a smug smile, she takes a sip of her wine as if to say: well played, Daphne.

“Well, too bad—I’ve already handled the arrangements,” Aunt Sabine announces, pulling a slim file from her bag. “Here’s the contract. The pay is excellent, and the director of the school is a close friend of mine. I told him Daphne was the best candidate, and he dismissed all others for her. He trusts my judgment.”

She winks at me as if that seals the deal.

Panic bubbles inside me. The prospect of being separated from Martin and deviating from my plans fills me with dread. I mask my emotions, but Aunt Sabine senses my unease.

“You’ll stay at the Buenos Aires Hotel, Daphne,” she says brightly. “It’s top-notch—I always stay there. And Katherine,” she turns to my mother, who is seething silently, “don’t fret. I promise Daphne will be back in time for your family vacation. Where are you heading this year? Nicaragua?”

“Bali,” my mother replies through gritted teeth.

“Lovely!” Aunt Sabine enthuses, delicately transferring an appetizer to her plate. “You’re going to have a fabulous time.”

My mother, unwilling to be outdone, takes another egg and says, “You still haven’t explained why you’re so determined to send Daphne to Aachen! I’m certain you stand to gain something—and I’d like to know what it is.”

“Oh, I do admire your sharpness, Katherine,” Aunt Sabine says with a singsong lilt. Cutting her egg neatly in half, she finally lays out her rationale.

“As you know, I’ve allies everywhere—except North Rhine-Westphalia. The mayor doesn’t favor me, but his six-year-old daughter attends the music school we’re discussing. By sending Daphne there, I could earn favor with him. Plus, Katherine, you’ll have an excuse to indulge yourself at Carolus Thermen. I know how you adore grand, regal retreats like that. I might even reserve the entire place for your family for a day.”

“I see…” my mother replies, her tone softening slightly. “I’ll hold you to that promise, Sabine. Don’t disappoint me.”

“Disappoint you? Never, my dear Katherine!”

*

Their arrangement—a catastrophe that has thrown my summer plans into disarray—consumes my thoughts entirely. Even defending my thesis, which should have been a moment of triumph, feels hollow. Instead of reveling in this milestone, I am restless, my mind preoccupied with an unwelcome reality: I have to break the news to my boyfriend, Martin. Four long weeks apart, canceling all the dates he carefully planned... He has to understand, doesn’t he? He knows I can’t really stand up to Aunt Sabine.

Still, I spend the entire week trying to reach her, determined to convince her that me teaching piano in Aachen is a terrible idea. Deep down, an inexplicable sense of dread whispers that traveling there could derail my life in ways I cannot foresee. Despite pouring my heart out when she finally takes my call, her stance is unyielding.

“Daphne, nothing disastrous is going to happen,” she assures me with a placating tone. “Four weeks will fly by. Before you know it, you’ll be back, continuing with your life.”

I nod in resignation, feigning acceptance, but inside, anger simmers. I wish I had a sliver of independence—just a fragment of the freedom that most girls my age seem to enjoy. Instead, I hang up, frustrated, and call for our family driver, Leopold, to take me to the Pergamon Museum.

As the limousine glides to a stop and I step out, I quickly slip on oversized sunglasses. Being a recognizable figure in Berlin, thanks to always attending events alongside my parents, anonymity is a luxury I can’t afford. The risk of being photographed with Martin could spell the end of our relationship in the blink of an eye—my mother would ensure it.

At the museum entrance, a lively crowd of tourists swarms. Among them, two somewhat peculiar yet undeniably handsome men wander, asking strange questions like, “What year is it?” I feign ignorance of German, brushing past the souvenir stand, my focus solely on spotting Martin. He finds me first.

“Daph!” His voice, warm and familiar, precedes the gentle embrace from behind. He quickly lets go, and I turn to face him. My heart swells as I meet his light blue eyes, so clear they seem to reflect the sky itself. How could I ever doubt he’s the one? Everything about him, from his boyish smile to the subtle charm of his newly styled blond hair swept to the side, feels perfect.

“You look beautiful today,” he says, a grin spreading across his face.

“You’re the one who looks amazing,” I reply, leaning in to kiss him. Afterward, I compliment his semi-formal outfit of blues and greys, which he wears with effortless elegance.

We begin the tour he so thoughtfully planned for us—a journey into history. Though I usually enjoy artifacts and exhibitions, today my mind is elsewhere. All I can focus on is the comfort of his hand in mine, the warmth and sense of safety it provides.

Yet the dark cloud of Aachen looms over me, and I can’t shake the thought of abandoning him for an entire month. Predictably, he notices my unease; Martin has always been intuitive, attuned to even the smallest shifts in my mood.

“Are you okay, Daph?” he asks softly, tucking a strand of my copper hair behind my ear with his fingertips. “You seem a bit off today.”