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I take my cue, drop my bow onto the strings, and begin.

I’ve played this piece for three gruelling months, over and over until my joints were screaming at me in agony. There were times when I wanted to throw my violin at Julian, when I was so consumed with anger, and I couldn’t connect with the music.

I’ve never, in my entire life, played like this.

As my bow sweeps across the strings, the melody doesn’t just play, it sings. It’s spectacular. I have loved the violin for as long as I can remember, yet tonight I feel connected to it in a way I have never felt. Tonight, I'm not playing for a grade or a scholarship.

I'm playing for us.

The Nocturne continues to build, when suddenly Julian shifts completely off the score and into something that does not belong to Chopin, but something that opens a door in the music and leaves it wide open.

He looks up at me across the piano as he plays, his eyes gleaming, waiting, inviting me in.

“Lose yourself, Ellise. You’re perfect when you do.”

I think about the rules I’ve spent my entire life following—the scholarship, the image of composure, the meticulous management of every single move.

I’m done with following the rules.

I follow him off the score, away from the Chopin Nocturne, and into the unknown. My violin bow finds the melody that he opened for me, soaring above his piano. It’s an improvisation built on weeks of secretly watching his hands and learning how he plays.

It’s scandalous.

I can see Mathias’ frozen expression in the front row, a look that used to scare me, but now I think is pretty hilarious. I see the scouts exchanging bewildered glances, completely unprepared for this level of rebellion on a classical stage. I watch four hundred people lean forward in their seats simultaneously, no longer waiting for the catastrophe but something else entirely.

I look at Julian, whose eyes are wide with pure amazement. I offer him a sly wink, his mouth instantly curving upwards.

Let's do this.

Before my brain can rationalise what I'm doing, I begin to walk towards him, the violin melody soaring through the hall. My movements are slow and deliberate as I cross the stage, never taking my eyes off him. When I reach the piano bench, I slide down beside him and sit right next to him.

My back rests against his side, close enough that I can feel the warmth of him radiating through the silk of my dress, and we play together, side by side.

We are no longer rivals sharing a stage to survive an academic year. We are two broken pieces, sharing a moment that we have been building, until the very last note.

The applause breaks through the hall, a roaring ovation unlike anything I’ve ever heard. It is extraordinary, but I can barely even hear it because Julian has leaned towards me and pressed his lips to kiss my shoulder in front of everyone.

I turn to completely face him. Reaching up, I cup the sharp line of his jaw and pull him down to kiss him properly—right on the lips—totally unashamed and dead center on the Belrose stage, because I’m done hiding.

“I love you,” I say against his lips. “Thank you, for everything.”

When he pulls back, his dark eyes are transfixed. The smile that slowly crosses his face is not the usual smirk, grin, or any of the defensive expressions I have seen. It is something entirely new.

Something that looks, I think, exactly like the three words I whispered against his skin.

41

Julian

Istay seated at the Steinway.

I don’t turn to face the audience. I don’t stand to take a bow, and I don’t give the faculty the satisfaction of a rehearsed nod. I sit on the padded leather bench, my hands still on the keys as the last notes of the revived Nocturne, Vance-Thorne style dissolves into the air of the great hall.

And I look at her.

Ellise Vance.

Her flushed cheeks, her parted lips, and the fierce spark in her eyes tell me everything I need to know. She lost herself completely tonight, throwing away every rigid rule she spent years hiding behind, and it was the most incredible sound I have ever heard.