Page 115 of What Goes Around

Then she smiled, soft and radiant and practiced, and stepped closer to the microphone.

“Thank you,” she said, breathless, sincere. “That really means a lot.”

More applause. She waited again, hands folded lightly in front of her, violin tucked safely under her arm.

“And,” she continued, “this night isn’t just about me.”

A ripple of approving murmurs moved through the room.

“It’s a graduation celebration,” Apple said warmly. “For both of us.”

My stomach tightened.

Her gaze found mine. Slow. Intentional.

“And my sister Ashley,” she went on, “has always been incredibly talented too. Especially on the piano.”

Heads turned.

“She doesn’t play much anymore,” Apple added gently, almost regretful. “But she used to be amazing. Truly.”

A little pause followed.

“I thought it would be nice,” she said, smiling wider, “if she played tonight. Just one piece. To show how different instruments can tell the same story.”

The room reacted exactly as she intended. Soft gasps, smiles, that collective oh how sweet energy. People leaned forward in their chairs, already convinced they were witnessing something touching, something supportive, something sisterly.

Apple turned slightly toward the piano positioned near the edge of the stage.

“I just played Paganini’s Caprice No. 24,” she said. “Ashley, would you like to play it for everyone?”

I felt Amy shift beside me. Her fingers brushed my arm.

“That bitch,” she whispered under her breath.

The trap closed.

Paganini’s Caprice No. 24 was not simple. It required sustained control, delicate phrasing, and, most importantly, endurance in the hands.

In my last life, I had stood up. I had gone to the piano because refusing would have looked petty, ungrateful, jealous. Halfway through the piece, my fingers had cramped, tendons locking, pain flashing sharp and unforgiving. The melody had faltered. Whispers followed. Pity. Amusement.

Apple watched me now, her expression open and encouraging, her eyes bright with anticipation.

“Only if you want to,” she added lightly, as if offering me an escape she knew I could not take.

I felt the weight of the room pressing in. The expectation. The memory.

My pulse slowed.

This was not my first life.

I stood.

Chapter 36: Rewriting the Script

s I walked toward the stage, I allowed myself a single glance at my father. He had gone rigid in his seat. His jaw was clenched, eyes sharp with something dangerously close to anger. He hadn’t known about this. That much was unmistakable.

Marissa, by contrast, lifted her wine glass and took a slow, satisfied sip.