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Then the transition appears, and I see it. Her shoulder retaliates in a way that I’ve seen it do so many times before. From here, I can still see the way her body counters, the sudden change in her posture as she forces through the shift. The pain is entirely visible to me, mostly because I have spent hours studying the line of that shoulder in the practice room.

But she continues through it all anyway, the way she always does. The phrase landing exactly where it is supposed to land, sharp and lethal. And then the final bars hit, the final note, ringing out into the auditorium.

Wow. Fair play, Vance.

I’ve heard extraordinary things in world-class concert halls and prestigious practice rooms, but I have never stood in the dark and felt a piece of music pull the air straight out of my lungs the way that just did.

Ellise lowers her violin bow, her chest heaving. I recognise that look on her face. She is desperately trying to keep it together.

Jamieson says something to her, then gathers her things and leaves. Ellise is left standing entirely alone under the blinding white stage lights.

I know I should leave. My seminar has already started. But instead, I stay in the shadows and watch her for a while longer as she lifts her violin right back to her chin and begins to play the opening bars all over again.

That is what I want her to bring to the stage at Showcase for her solo and our duet.

That version. The dangerous one.

The one she has absolutely no idea I just witnessed.

I finally push off the wall, letting the heavy doors click shut quietly behind me as I slip out into the bright, bustling corridor.

I’m late. Fifteen minutes late.

I shove my hands deep into the pockets of my leather jacket and stride towards the old wing of the conservatory. I don’t rush. Rushing implies I give a shit.

When I reach the seminar room, I don’t knock. I never do. I turn the brass handle and waltz inside.

The entire room goes silent, a dozen heads turning to look at me. It’s a reaction I’ve grown used to over time. All eyes on me—honestly, it’s not that bad.

At the front of the room, Professor Bartlett pauses mid-sentence. Josh is walking across from the piano, heading back to his seat with a mound of sheet music in his hands.

“Nice of you to join us, Mr. Thorne,” Bartlett says, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “I trust your morning was far more pressing than our composition workshop.

“Significantly,” I say smoothly, not offering an apology.

I walk straight past the rest of the class and find a seat, casually taking off my leather jacket and draping it over the back of it. I sit down, leaning back in the chair as Bartlett lets out a heavy sigh.

“We were going to discuss Mr. Wood’s composition,” Bartlett says, glancing at Josh, before snapping his gaze back to me. “But, since you’re finally here, and you possess an abundance of confidence today, why don’t you share your latest ideas with us? The piano is free.”

The rest of the students shift in their seats. I know what they’re doing. It’s the competitive nature of Belrose that is vibrating through the room. They are waiting to see me fail.

Everyone always wants to see the prodigy with the shit attitude crash and burn.

Fuck them.

“Fine.” I state, unenthusiastically.

I stand up and walk casually towards the piano in the center of the room. This one is a standard studio upright—nothing special, nothing like the pristine Steinway grands I’m used to playing on.

I don’t need my music. This melody has been stuck in my head, playing on repeat for the better part of two years. I drop my wrists, clear the noise from my mind, and begin to play.

The room disappears instantly as my composition opens up. It’s heavy and dark, a deliberate progression of minor chords that builds a magnificent tension. It’s simple, yet intricate, and cuts through the stagnant room of the classroom like a blade.

It builds and builds, the rhythm becoming more erratic, as it races towards the grand emotional finale that the piece has been begging for.

And then, right then… I stop.

Completely stop.