air thick with the scent of rosin and old wood. Ethan Miller, our first violinist, flashed me a charming smile, his bow resting lightly on his strings. Noah Thompson, a pres

a shared one, a single, shining point on the horizon: the New York Philharmonic. And the first

e easy way he laughed, the warmth in his eyes when he looked at me. I thought he felt it too. Sometimes, after a long practice, his hand would linger on my arm, and

them whispering in the hallway of the house I now shared with Chloe and her father. I had moved in after my mom marr

urn in the stairs, my han

voice was a low rumble of doubt. "

the praise, Professor Jenkins fawning all over her because of her dad. It' s my turn. With her out of the way,

throat. I leaned forwar

s for the good of the quartet. Avery' s good, but she holds us back with all that... emotiona

our future and twisted it into a horrifying, dissonant chord. Betrayal felt like this, a physical sickness twi

were supposed to flow like water, a piece I knew better than my own name. But something was wrong. A string, the A-string, was loose. It buzzed horribly, flat and dead against my fingerboard. I tr

on her face. Ethan wouldn' t meet my eyes. He just stared at the floor, his jaw tight. It wasn't an accident. They had done this. They had crept into the instrument room and loosened my string just enough for

se of an upcoming local competition. But the space between us was no longer filled with shared music and easy camaraderie. It was a gaping c

s voice clipped and professional, all the warmth gone.

with an adoring expression that made me feel

ntently on his sheet music, his face a perfect mask of indifference. He was a chameleon, blending i

s a childish promise, but it had felt sacred, like a secret pact against the world. Now, that memory was just another source of pain. I would look at their hands, at the fingers that ha

ce early and found Chloe alone, ru

I asked, my voice sh

beautiful instrument. A shame it' s wasted on someone who gets performan

iety, Chloe. You k

rves. "Do I? All I know is that I played my heart out,

silent plea to drop it. Noah just walked past us to his chair, completely ignoring the tension in the room

se people were not my friends. My dream of Juilliard was gone, stolen by the very people I thought would be by

London. It was a crazy idea, a desperate long shot. The application deadline was in two days. But it was a way out. It was a path that was entirely my

lent torture. My mother and my stepfather, Chloe' s father, dot

her father would boom across the table,

her eyes holding a mixture of pity and disappointment, as if my failure was a personal embarrassment to her. They never asked me what

father had bought her. "It' s Pernambuco wood," she said, her voi

cello for the competition. A good instrument can make all the difference, and since

trument, it was the last piece of my father I had. The thought of Chloe' s hands

oice quiet but firm.

said, his tone deceptively casual, "you' re being really selfish about this. We' re a quartet

terness out of my voice. "Is that wh

t know what you' re talking about. All I see is you trying to make this all

etition, a man who had known our quartet for years, called a meeting

s at us. "And I' ve made a decision. For the centerpiece, the Bach concerto,

had been working on for months. Continuo was background, a supporting role. I looked at Eth

that' s a wise decision. I

ehind my back, using their recording from after my audition, where my playing was tentative