Chapter2

The lock clicked.

I pulled the locker open. The solid black violin case sat there quietly. A thick layer of dust blanketed its surface.

I dragged it out. The velvet lining cradled the violin that had accompanied me for fifteen years. Tucking the wooden chinrest between my collarbone and jaw, I took a deep breath, gripped the bow tightly with my right hand, settled it against the strings, and yanked out the very first note.

An excruciating screech, like a saw grinding against raw wood, exploded across the practice room. Refusing to concede, I tried to execute the most basic vibrato on the E string to stabilize the pitch. The second my fingertip pressed down, it felt as though my flesh was being driven into a razor blade.

Over the past three years, my left hand's calluses had completely softened to serve as Julian's perfect piano accompanist. In under thirty seconds, angry red divots were sliced into my fingertips. The glissandos were a disaster; every staccato note was horribly out of tune. I was genuinely worse than a beginner who had only been playing for two years.

I aggressively lowered my bow, grinding my back teeth as I glared at my aching fingertips.

"If you're trying to murder the academy's judges with that noise, I can congratulate you in advance. You succeeded."

A mocking voice rang out from behind me. I turned around.

Adrian leaned casually against the doorframe. He was the acknowledged tyrant of Juilliard Pre-College, the only piano monster in the entire academy aside from Julian who had commanded a standing ovation at the orientation ceremony. His technique was god-tier, and his temper was straight out of hell.

"Three years without touching a string." Adrian's eyes scraped coldly over my trembling fingers. "Three years ago, when you played Prokofiev, even the judges were shaking. And now? You ran off to be Julian's on-call, full-time nanny for three years. He crippled his hand, so you're planning to pick up this piece of scrap wood and replace him?"

I didn't answer.

He strode into the room, towering over me. "Get out and practice somewhere else." He pointed toward the hallway. "Your garbage-tier noise is grating on my nerves."

I didn't move. Bending down, I fished a block of rosin from the hidden compartment of the case and scraped it heavily against the bow hair twice.

"I'm not going anywhere." I stood up straight. "In this preliminary round, I'm taking back the guaranteed spot for the solo performance."

A cold smirk tugged at the corner of Adrian's mouth. "With those ruined hands that can't even press a basic chord? Aria, did the steel frame on the stage pound your brain to mush today?"

I didn't speak again. I simply smashed the bow violently back onto the strings. My left hand shifted past the lower positions, and my right arm drove the bow with fierce, relentless force.

Paganini's Caprice No. 24. An absolute showpiece that pushed technique, shifting, and explosive power to their breaking points.

The bow dropped. The moment the double stops bit into the strings, the soft flesh of my left hand felt like it was being flayed by sandpaper. It burned. Second measure. My index and middle fingers swelled rapidly. I didn't stop.

Tenth double-stop leaps. As I shifted positions, my finger pads slid over the steel strings like they were gliding across open razor blades. My breathing fractured, but I forced the tempo forward by a quarter beat. Faster. Even faster. During the high-position harmonics, the blisters tore wide open. Blood seeped through the creases of my fingers, trickling slowly down the violin's neck.

When I slashed out the final, explosive chord, I abruptly lowered the instrument. I let my left hand hang at my side. The flesh on the tips of my index, middle, and ring fingers was torn open, and droplets of fresh blood pattered methodically against the hardwood floor.

I stared at the floor as the dark red dots blossomed. He was in the infirmary right now. Chloe was handing him coffee. He was probably smiling.

I raised my head and met Adrian's gaze head-on.

"Be my accompanist," I spoke. "For these preliminaries, I want you to be my partner."

Adrian didn't say a word. He just stared at me, then suddenly grabbed my bleeding left wrist.

"You're gambling with your life on these hands," his voice was low and raspy.

"As long as I'm breathing, I can get on that stage." I held his stare.

Adrian observed me for a long moment before letting out an abrupt scoff. He roughly tossed my wrist aside, pulled a tissue from his pocket, and wiped his fingers. "Lunatic," he muttered. He threw the blood-stained tissue into the wastebasket and pivoted toward the door.

As I bent down to pack up the violin case, the light spilling through the doorway flickered for a fraction of a second. Someone was standing there, but they hadn't stepped inside. I looked up just in time to see the hem of a short white skirt disappearing around the corner.

I lowered my head and continued wiping the blood off the strings.

Adrian's voice drifted back from the hallway:

"Tomorrow morning, six o'clock, Practice Room Four next door."

"If you can't survive my hellish training, I will kick you off the roster in a heartbeat. And bring your hemostatic bandages tomorrow. If you dare let a single drop of blood hit my piano keys, I will kill you."