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I refuse to let him drown me out. I dig in and counter his aggression with my own playing—pushing my violin a little louder than necessary, I will admit. I will not surrender to him.

He abruptly stops playing, dragging both hands off the keys.

“You’re choking the neck of that instrument again, Bow-Peep,” his voice cutting through the sudden silence. He tilts his head back, his stormy eyes locking onto my hands with zero mercy. “You are completely disconnected. Let it breathe. You’re so stiff you look like you are going to snap. You need to relax.”

I don’t say a single word. I just stare at him. My body goes rigid and shuts down under the weight of his scrutiny.

“Do you need to stop, Vance.” His voice drops. There is a dangerous edge to his tone. “Are you in pain… again?”

He keeps going—over and over in between the phrases where we should be stopping and being constructive, discussing our sections like two professional musicians. We are not doing that. Julian is not doing that.

Instead he unleashes relentless observations, picking apart every single part of my technique—though he doesn’t raise his voice, which somehow makes it worse.

I remain entirely silent. I don’t defend myself.

I’ve always been the exact same way when the pressure builds too high, and the questions are too loaded. I go quiet. My system shuts down in a way that isn’t dramatic but completely paralysing. It’s a specific stillness that I cannot push through no matter how much I want to. The words do not come. My hands begin to tremble slightly against the neck of the violin, and the music score blurs at the edges.

Stop. I think, as my chest tightens. Please, just stop talking.

“Ellise…?”

Just my name. The word is barely a whisper, but the quality of it cuts straight through the paralysis like a blade.

I swallow the lump of panic in my throat.

“I’m playing perfectly fine, Julian.” My voice comes out steadier than I expected it to, which is an absolute miracle given the state of my nerves.

“Right,” he says, his eyes tracking the slight tremor in my fingers.

He doesn’t push the point, but the single word says enough, and we both damn well know it. He goes back to the keys, and I go back to the strings. We push through the next passage even though this rehearsal is not achieving a single useful thing.

Over and over, he tracks my movements from across the piano. Not with the smirk that I’m used to, but with something more focused and intense. He is looking for the cracks. And, he keeps finding. Yet, I refuse to acknowledge the slips, the errors. I refuse to give him that satisfaction, and I absolutely refuse to listen to another word that comes out of his mouth.

Worse than his critiques is the terrifying awareness of him. Even while he’s ruthlessly tearing my posture apart, the heavy scent of his expensive cologne hangs in the air of this room, acting as a constant intoxicating distraction I am desperately trying to fight.

My joints are already screaming, and we’ve only been here for thirty minutes. The heat gel I applied beneath my hoodie before I came here is doing nothing useful to help the situation, but I would rather die than let him see the weakness. I won’t give him another weapon to use against me.

Over and over. The same hellish sound.

We’re creeping into an hour of practice, but nothing is changing. Just him, overpowering me—and me countering it.

“Again,” he mutters, his voice flat. “And actually try to play like you mean it this time.”

My body has had enough of playing this silly game. He isn’t even trying now and looks as though he is going to pass out right on the ivory keys.

“No. I am not doing it again until you actually show up to this rehearsal, Julian,” I declare, dropping my violin from my shoulder.

He tilts his head back, his dark-circled eyes narrowing to dangerous slits. “I am sitting right here, Vance.”

“That’s debatable.” I huff.

“What are you on about?”

“Physically… maybe. But you’re completely checked out.” I can’t stop myself. He is thoroughly pissing me off. “Look at you.” I point towards him. “You look like hell. I don’t understand why you refuse to just apply yourself. Are the all-night benders really your answer to everything? You’re clearly hungover, and you need to get a grip and focus. This doesn’t only affect you, Julian. This is a big deal for me, too.”

“Hungover?” he repeats. “Is that what you think this is?”

Okay, ignore everything else I said.