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I practically grew up hidden in between those shelves, spending my afternoons and weekends tucked in dusty corners, behind the New England history section where nobody ever browsed, eavesdropping on minds that were completely, brilliantly mad.

If violin is my first love, literature is a very close second.

Before Dad died, we shared a secret in-house book club exclusively for the two of us. Every month, we’d choose a title and dive into the deep end together. We would spend hours sitting at the kitchen table, ignoring the draft rattling the window panes, while we dissected every hidden metaphor, every flawed character motive, and every turn of phrase.

God, I miss those days. I miss him.

I miss the way his entire face lit up when he spoke about the ‘greats.’ He raised me strictly on the classics. The unyielding structure, rigid prose, and beautiful sweeping tragedies that end in a way that makes you feel the ending was inevitable—even though it breaks you completely.

Mom, on the other hand. Well, she was always an entirely unashamed romance reader. I accidently picked up one of her paperbacks from the bedside table once. Just once. I was twelve, and I was utterly mortified. I had absolutely no idea that her head was filled with such unadulterated, scandalous filth. I dropped it almost immediately as if it had physically burned my fingers and did not speak to anyone about it. Ever.

Dad believed that the right book, in the right hands, at the right moment could change the course of a person’s life.

He opened Vance’s Volumes to prove it.

I open the library book, a bitter smile tugging my lips.

I wonder what my dad would say if he knew his Golden Girl was currently trapped in a forced duet with a boy who looked exactly like the black-hearted, dangerous rogues on the covers of Mom’s paperbacks. A boy who smelled of expensive tobacco, dark whiskey, and absolute ruin.

The last five years without him have moved at a very uneven pace of grief. It’s not fast, and it isn’t slow. It’s a deep and constant feeling that never quite seems to break. But even through all of it, I know with absolute certainty that he would be proud that I am finally here at Belrose.

He was the one who drove me to my private lessons every Saturday morning for over ten years, never once complaining about the time or the distance. He was the constant figure in the front row at every school recital, an old video recorder in hand—his face always the first thing I would look for before my fingers even touched the strings.

He was at every performance until cancer made his world shrink to the four white walls of a hospice room.

Belrose was not just an academic goal for me. It was the only way I knew how to thank him for his sacrifices.

My phone vibrates violently in the pocket of my oversized sweater.

6:00PM. Rehearsal. Practice Room C.

God, I didn’t need the reminder.

I snap the book shut, sitting with it for another moment in the amber glow of the library as I think about a man who made so many sacrifices for me.

Julian Thorne will not get in the way of any of them. I won’t let him.

By the time six o’clock rolls around, the reality of my situation settles back over me in full.

Practice Room C is a complete, suffocating replica of the night before. The rain continues to hammer against the glass, and Julian is already at the bench.

Of course he is. Except tonight, the arrogance in him is missing, replaced by dark circles visible beneath his eyes. He must have had another rough night drinking whiskey or ‘expressing himself creatively.’

What the hell is actually wrong with this guy?

Despite him being a complete prick, looking at him now, I can’t help but think he has deep issues that have absolutely nothing to do with me—or the duet.

I almost feel a little sorry for him. It’s like he is actively trying to destroy himself. It's just reckless. I don’t understand why he refuses to apply himself. Is the constant cycle of late nights and self-destruction really his answer to everything?

As much as I hate to admit it, he is my musical rival after all. Not in the sense that we are competing for the same seat in an orchestra. But, we are competing for the attention, the reputation, and the future that Belrose could give us. There can only be one ‘Golden’ student, and that will be me.

If he actually gave a shit though, he could be even better than me—as much as it pains me to admit it.

He has the raw talent, but he needs the discipline to match it. He needs to care enough to improve his technique—to actually try and listen. Though, I don’t see that happening anytime soon.

We begin to play, and within the first couple of phrases, it is an absolute disaster.

Julian’s playing fills the room with the suffocating dominance of someone who is used to being the only one heard. He is clearly finding the cooperative nature of this duet harder and more challenging than his ego anticipated, and he is choosing to take some of that frustration out on me.