Chapter3

The stopwatch ticked relentlessly. I mashed my left fingers against the razor-thin E string, the skin on my fingertips splitting open for the fourth time.

"A quarter-tone flat. Are you deaf, or is your brain full of concrete?" Adrian leaned against the black grand piano, not even raising an eyelid. "Again."

I took a deep breath. A violent spasm suddenly shot through my left ring finger. The bow slipped from my palm and clattered against the hardwood floor.

I bent down to retrieve it, but my fingers trembled so violently I couldn't even pinch the stick. I reached for the paper cup resting on the edge of the music stand. The instant my fingers brushed the rim, my knuckles jerked violently, sloshing coffee all over the floor.

Adrian pulled a phone from his pocket and threw it straight into my chest. "If your hand is as thoroughly trashed as these idiots say it is, get out of my sight right now."

"I have no interest in playing house with a lost cause."

I picked up the glowing phone. The screen displayed the top-trending, pinned thread on Juilliard’s internal forum. It was a four-second candid video. It showed me in the pantry just moments ago, trying and failing three times to unscrew a water bottle because of my tremors, before giving up and walking away. My bandage-wrapped left hand had been magnified into a grotesque close-up.

The original poster was Chloe. The caption read: Heard the former prodigy is coming back to steal a spot in the prelims? With a garbage hand that can’t even open a water bottle, she should just go back to being a full-time maid. Don’t dirty the stage of classical music.

The comment section was a total circus, everyone reveling in my misery. Right beneath the post sat the top-voted comment, from Julian. He had only written one sentence: "Talent can't be forced. Please respect the stage."

Right next to that reply hung a link to another viral thread. It featured a photo of Chloe linking arms with Julian as they walked out of the Evans Orthopedic Clinic—the hardest clinic to book in all of New York. In the photo, Julian’s right wrist was braced in a splint, but he was holding up a high-profile thumbs-up perfectly to the camera. The headline screamed: SURGICAL MIRACLE: THE KING RETURNS FOR THE PRELIMS.

I stared at the screen, ignoring Adrian's cold, calculating gaze. I grabbed a fresh roll of medical tape, pushed open the door, and out of the practice room.

I needed to numb the nerves in my fingers with ice water.

Just as I reached the blind corner by the restrooms at the end of the hall, Chloe’s spoiled, gloating voice drifted over.

"...Exactly! Thank God I toasted that old creep a few times, otherwise Dr. Evans would never have expedited Julian's minimally invasive surgery."

She paused, then let out a low chuckle. "His career is saved, sure. But the doctor warned me privately just now—he can't play for extended periods. The nerve compression means there’s a constant risk of potential spasms. But who cares? As long as he secures the highest score and crushes that idiot Aria in tomorrow's prelims, he’ll be completely in my debt. Once that happens, the scholarship is guaranteed to be mine."

I stood frozen in the blind spot by the restroom door. So, his proud childhood sweetheart was nothing more than a parasite, leeching off him and ready to sell him out at a moment's notice.

Shoving her phone into her designer bag, Chloe rounded the corner and nearly slammed straight into me. She instinctively took a half-step back.

"Aria? Did you see the news about Julian’s recovery on the forum and run off to cry about it?" She covered her mouth, letting out a sharp laugh. "With a mangled hand like that, why even bother? If you go grovel to Julian right now, maybe he’ll take pity on you and let you be his page-turner backstage."

A rapid string of footsteps echoed from the other end of the hall. Julian appeared, wearing a crisp white dress shirt. The second he saw me confronting Chloe, his face darkened. He immediately grabbed her arm and yanked her behind him.

"Aria, why are you cornering Chloe?" he demanded, shooting me an icy glare. "I thought I made myself perfectly clear on the forum today. Without my halo protecting you, you even touching a violin right now is a joke. Don’t embarrass yourself on the prelim stage."

I looked at the medical splint on his right wrist—the symbol of his little "miracle"—and then glanced at Chloe, who was playing the innocent victim behind his back.

"Whether I embarrass myself or not is none of your concern." I met Julian's eyes dead-on. "You just need to worry about yourself."

I took a step closer, dropping my voice to a lethal whisper. "You better pray that miraculous minimally invasive surgery actually holds up. It'd be a real shame if your fingers spasmed tomorrow and you launched your bow straight into the judges' faces."

The arrogant confidence on Julian’s face instantly shattered. "What the hell are you talking about?!"

Behind him, Chloe turned as white as a sheet, her knuckles turning white as she instinctively death-gripped her purse strap.

I spun on my heel and walked straight back to the practice room. Adrian was still sitting in front of the Steinway, his back to me. He was waiting for me.

"Is the hand still broken?" he asked without looking back.

I walked up to my music stand, reached over with my right hand, and violently ripped all the medical tape off my left. The exposed fingertips were a mess, fresh blood seeping into the creases between my knuckles.

"Not broken."

I wedged the shoulder rest under my chin and clamped down hard, burying my raw fingertips into the strings. I bit down on my back molars to swallow the pain.

Adrian's fingers crashed onto the keys, laying down a fiercely oppressive allegro introduction. He didn’t slow down a fraction of a beat to accommodate me. He was pushing me to the absolute limit. The fresh blood from my fingertips pressed directly onto the ebony fingerboard, smearing into a long, dark crimson streak as I played.

"Since the strings haven't snapped yet," he said, coldly hammering out heavy chords. His gaze locked onto my bleeding fingers, a pure, psychotic competitive fire igniting in his eyes. "Then stop playing this tepid garbage. For tomorrow's prelims, we're switching to a piece that will push his hand to absolute ruin."