Chapter 36 Rewriting the Script
s I walked toward the stage, I allowed myself a single glance at my father. He had gone rigid in his seat. His jaw was clenched, eyes sharp with something dangerously close to anger. He hadn’t known about this. That much was unmistakable.
Marissa, by contrast, lifted her wine glass and took a slow, satisfied sip.
I reached the stage and accepted the microphone from Apple with a small smile.
“Thank you,” I said. “That was beautiful.”
Apple smiled back.
I turned to face the room.
“Hello, everyone. I’m honored you’d want me to play,” I said. “But I should explain something first.”
The room quieted.
“When I was eleven,” I said, “I had a freak accident and every tendon in my left hand was severed.”
A ripple of murmurs spread through the hall.
“I’ll spare you the details,” I said. “But I spent months in rehabilitation, relearning how to hold objects, how to write, how to play at all.”
I let the pause settle.
“My hand never fully recovered.”
Apple’s color drained with every word.
“So unfortunately,” I went on, “a piece at that level is beyond my physical capability.”
I didn’t look at her.
I didn’t need to.
The silence thickened. Brows furrowed, whispers stirred, and confusion settled into discomfort.
“I would have assumed my sister knew that,” I added gently.
Silence.
Then I smiled.
“Still,” I said, softening my tone, “I’d love to play something simpler. Something my hands can manage. Just to thank you all for being here.”
I stepped past Apple and moved toward the piano.
I sat, smoothing my dress, letting the room exhale. For a few seconds, I did nothing. I simply studied the keys, grounding myself.
I adjusted the microphone mounted beside the piano, something I had quietly arranged earlier with one of the staff, and placed it within reach.
I rested my hands on the keys.
And began.
The opening notes of Dernière danse drifted into the room, soft and restrained and aching.
Then I sang.
? ma douce souffrance
Pourquoi s’acharner? Tu r’commences
Je n’suis qu’un être sans importance
Sans lui, je suis un peu paro…
My voice was clear. Controlled. Raw without breaking.
I focused on nothing else. No faces. No judgment. No memory. Only the music. The grief threaded through it. The longing. The quiet fury of loving something you’ve already lost.
I wasn’t performing.
I was confessing.
Je déambule seule dans l’métro
Une dernière danse…
Every restrained breath and every controlled note carried the weight of things I had survived and things I had buried. The longing to move forward tangled with the pull of what was gone.
They didn’t know I could sing. Really sing.
I had made sure of that in my last life, hidden it to keep the peace, to stay smaller, to avoid provoking Apple.
Not tonight.
When the final note faded, I remained still for a breath longer than necessary.
Then I lifted my hands from the keys.
Then the room erupted.
Applause. Gasps. Someone audibly whispered, “oh my God.”
I stood and inclined my head once.
I had chosen that song deliberately. Because the ache in its melody matched the one in my chest. And French had been my mother’s first language. Singing it felt like reaching toward her, like standing closer to her memory than I ever had before.
When I stepped away from the piano, people were already moving toward me.
Including my parents.
A woman with silver hair and a sharp, practiced gaze reached me first. She didn’t bother lowering her voice.
“That voice,” she said, studying me like an investment. “Where has that been hiding?”
Before I could respond, a man leaned slightly toward my parents, his expression openly impressed.
“Your daughter’s French is excellent,” he said. “And her tone shows remarkable control.”
Marissa’s smile tightened.
Someone else chimed in, eager now.
“If she’s ever interested in pursuing music seriously, I know people. Vocal coaches. Producers. A label that would absolutely want to hear her.”
My father blinked, genuinely stunned, and then recovered with unsettling speed. His spine straightened, his expression smoothing into something polished and proud.
“Yes,” he said easily. “Ashley’s always had a gift. We’ve always encouraged her. She just preferred to stay out of the spotlight.”
I said nothing.
Marissa looked like she’d swallowed something sour. Her grip tightened around her wineglass, knuckles whitening before she caught herself. She nodded stiffly.
“She doesn’t usually perform,” she added. “She’s very modest.”
Apple moved fast.
She slipped in beside me, the perfect little sister. Her hand settled on my arm in a gesture that read as affectionate to anyone who didn’t know better.
“She is amazing, is she not?” Apple said brightly. “I am so proud of her. She has always been talented. I keep telling her she should perform more. She is just shy.”
Her voice carried the exact mix of warmth and false humility she used whenever she wanted a room to adore her.
Apple was already working to rewrite the moment, smoothing it into a story where she had orchestrated everything.
In her version, she was the supportive sister who had gently coaxed me out of my shell, not the one who had tried to set me up to fail.
I met her gaze briefly.
One of the men turned back to me.
“I would be very interested in hearing more,” he said. “Voices like that do not come around often. If you ever want to pursue a career in music, please reach out. You could be something special.”
I inclined my head politely. “Thank you. I’ll think about it.”
Apple laughed lightly and squeezed my arm, her touch just a little too tight.
“See? It was not that bad. I tell her all the time she needs to put herself out there.”
She sounded proud and encouraging.
I returned the smile, just as polished.
A few people nodded. Others exchanged glances.
Before the attention could settle too long on me, Marissa stepped forward.
“Well,” she said brightly, clapping her hands once, “now that we have had such a special moment, please, everyone, enjoy yourselves.”
She gestured toward the far side of the hall.
“The buffet is open. Finger foods and desserts are just past the columns. And the center floor is cleared for dancing. Tonight is about celebrating.”
On cue, servers reappeared with trays. The background music resumed at a conversational volume. Guests drifted away in small clusters, conversations reforming, attention redirecting exactly where Marissa wanted it.
I watched her for a second as she slid seamlessly back into hostess mode, redirecting attention with gentle touches and murmured suggestions.
Then arms wrapped around me from both sides.
“Ashley,” Payton breathed. “What was that? Oh my God.”
Amy was smiling too.
“You were incredible,” she said quietly. “I knew you were good. I didn’t know you were that good.”
I exhaled slowly, realizing only then how tightly I’d been holding myself together.
“Thank you.”
“Seriously,” Amy added, shaking her head. “I have chills. Actual chills.”
Payton nodded enthusiastically.
“People were crying. Actually crying. And did you hear them? Those music people? They were losing their minds.”
I had noticed.
Snippets carried across the room as my parents spoke with two men near the bar.
“…remarkable control for someone so young…”
“…French diction was flawless, almost native level…”
“…that voice has depth, not just range…”
My father stood with them, nodding and smiling in that vague, proprietary way he had perfected. As if this had always been part of a plan. As if he had always known. Always supported me.
Marissa stood just behind him, expression tight, trying and failing to steer the conversation back toward Apple and her performance.
We talked about nothing and everything. School being over, summer plans, how unreal it felt to be here instead of worrying about finals. Payton rambled happily. Amy listened, observant, her gaze occasionally sweeping the room.
And somewhere across the hall, I could feel Apple watching.
Plotting.