Chapter 35 Applause and Ambush
I was just starting to move toward the tables when someone appeared at my side.
“Ashley!”
Payton wrapped her arms around me with her usual, unfiltered enthusiasm, nearly knocking me over.
“Oh my God,” she said, pulling back just enough to look at my face. “I can’t believe we actually graduated. High school is over. We’re adults now.”
I smiled. “Apparently. Terrifying, isn’t it?”
“Terrifying but good.” She grinned. “And you look incredible.”
Before I could respond, my father approached us. He greeted Payton politely and asked about her family and her plans. Then his attention shifted to me, and something softened in his expression.
“You look very beautiful tonight,” he said quietly. “I don’t know when it happened… but you grew up without me noticing. You’re not my little girl anymore.”
“Thank you,” I replied, unsure what to do with the sudden tenderness.
Behind him, Marissa was already moving toward the microphone.
“If everyone could take their seats,” she called brightly, tapping her glass. “Dinner is served. Our wonderful staff has everything prepared.”
Payton leaned in close, lowering her voice. “Why did she seat me all the way over there?”
I followed her gaze to the neat place cards waiting on the tables.
Small, round tables. Six to eight people each.
My parents were seated with Juilliard contacts and my father’s business associates. It wasn’t just a graduation party. It was a stage.
Apple’s table sat close to the stage. She was surrounded by her friends, radiant and animated. Nick and Payton had been placed there too.
Marissa’s fingerprints were all over the seating chart.
My own table was further to the side. Amy was already there.
I felt my shoulders loosen as I walked over.
“Ash,” Amy said immediately, standing to hug me.
I returned it. “You made it.”
She smiled. “Wouldn’t miss this.”
“Wouldn’t miss this.” She smiled and gestured to the man beside her. “This is my brother.”
He stood to greet me.
He was tall, around six-two, with black hair cut neatly at the sides and brown eyes that were steady and observant. A short trimmed beard framed his jaw. There was something unmistakably grounded about him.
“I’ve been wanting to meet you,” he said. “Thank you for helping my sister. It means everything.”
“You don’t owe me anything,” I said honestly. “I’m just glad she’s okay.”
“I still owe you,” he replied simply.
We sat down then, Amy beside me and her brother on her other side.
As dinner was served, my attention drifted across the room despite myself.
I could only see Apple and Nick from behind, but it was enough. Apple kept leaning in toward him to say something, and Nick angled closer to hear her over the noise. She touched his arm once and laughed.
I looked away before the feeling in my chest could settle into something heavier.
After dinner, the lights dimmed.
Marissa rose first, tapping her glass again. She spoke about milestones, about talent, about pride. She talked about Apple’s acceptance into Juilliard and about the future.
My name was mentioned once, polite and brief, near the end.
Polite applause followed.
Then Apple stood.
She moved toward the small stage with practiced ease. This was her element, the kind of room where people leaned forward before she played a single note.
An attendant handed her the violin.
It was a professional-level instrument, modern make, bought after one of her early competition wins. It gleamed under the lights.
Apple turned to the room, smiling.
“Thank you all for coming tonight,” she said. “Music has always been my way of expressing things I can’t put into words. I hope you’ll enjoy these pieces as much as I do.”
She tucked the violin beneath her chin and raised the bow.
The first piece was Sibelius’ Violin Concerto, first movement.
It was technically demanding and unforgiving.
From the opening phrase, it was clear she was good.
Technically precise, confident, fearless.
Her bow control was clean, her intonation flawless.
She leaned into the difficulty without hesitation.
I watched the audience more than I watched her.
A few of the Juilliard guests exchanged looks, small nods of approval. My father sat straighter, pride unmistakable. Marissa clasped her hands together, eyes shining like this was proof of something she had always known.
Applause followed.
The second piece was Paganini’s Caprice No. 24. Flashy, ruthless, designed to dazzle. Her fingers flew. Gasps punctuated the room.
“Incredible,” someone whispered.
I didn’t disagree.
The third piece was Sarasate’s Zigeunerweisen. Fire, drama, seduction. She played it for them, swaying slightly, drawing the sound out until it felt intimate and confessional.
When the final note faded, silence held for a heartbeat.
Then the room erupted.
A standing ovation.
I stood too, clapping evenly. It would have been dishonest not to.
Marissa dabbed at her eyes, overwhelmed with pride. My father applauded loudly, his smile wide, already half turned toward the Juilliard contacts seated nearby.
Apple lowered her violin slowly, letting the applause crest.
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.