Chapter 3
THREE
I stood backstage in the recital hall, peeking through the curtain at the modest but respectable crowd that had gathered.
A few of my professors were scattered throughout the audience, and I could see my roommates, Rachel, Ayanna, and Talia, sitting in the third row, probably ready to cheer way too loudly when I finished.
Brody’s boyfriend, Jared, was sitting next to them.
But the real entertainment wasn’t in the audience at all. He was standing near the backstage exit, looking like he’d rather be literally anywhere else on the planet.
Drew Dumontier, in all his reluctant glory, was wearing the black #TinsleyHypeCrew shirt that fit him annoyingly well. His sandy hair was more disheveled than usual, like he’d been running his hands through it, and his jaw was clenched so tight I was surprised his teeth hadn’t cracked.
He looked like he was about to lose his damn mind.
Perfect.
“Harper, you’re on in five,” Brody said, appearing at my elbow with his usual pre-performance buzz of excitement. He would be on cello during our quartet performance, but my violin solo was first. “How are you feeling?”
“Good,” I said, and I meant it, despite the huge wrench that had been thrown into my plans when the practice rooms ended up locked for three days straight.
I’d only gone into a minor panic at first—okay, maybe I’d full-on hyperventilated that first day because I had a strict practice schedule to make sure I pulled off this piece tonight.
But by day two, I decided it was time to take things into my own hands and got creative with my practice spaces.
It had meant some very late nights and a few favors called in to get access to other places to rehearse, but I was ready.
More than ready, actually. At this point, I could probably play this piece in my sleep. Which was good, since I suspected that Drew was behind the locked practice rooms and I wanted nothing more than to show him exactly what he’d tried—and failed—to sabotage.
But before I went out on stage, I had some tasks for my assistant.
“Drew,” I called out sweetly, making sure my voice carried across the backstage area. “Could you come help me with my shoes? I think the strap is twisted.”
His jaw clenched as several professors and other performers turned to watch him make his way toward me. His hazel eyes were filled with disdain as he approached me like I was his personal executioner.
“The strap looks fine,” he muttered, dropping to one knee to examine my performance flats.
My breath caught at the sight of Drew Dumontier kneeling in front of me with his broad shoulders filling out that ridiculous shirt.
His hair fell forward as he bent his head, his fingers brushing over the strap in a caress that felt too tender for someone who was supposed to hate my guts with every ounce of blood that pulsed through his veins.
He looked up at me, and my pulse skipped in a way that had nothing to do with pre-performance nerves.
It was really inconvenient that my archrival had to be so damn attractive.
“Oh, you’re right! But could you adjust it a little? It feels like it might be too loose.” I smiled down at him, making sure my voice stayed bright and sugary sweet in a way that wasn’t me at all. “I’d hate to have my shoe slip during my entrance.”
The muscle in his jaw twitched as he pretended to adjust the perfectly fine strap on my shoes. “There. Happy now, Freckles?”
My spine stiffened at the way he spit out that word, but I didn’t let my face give away that I was bothered. He’d been teasing me about my freckles almost my entire life, and I hated how hearing that word now made a sliver of self-consciousness wiggle its way under my bravado.
“Thank you so much,” I said as he stood. “Oh, and I almost forgot—could you hold my water bottle? And my extra rosin? And my backup bow? And this spare cloth for my strings?”
I kept adding items until his hands were completely full, watching his expression grow darker with each addition. A few other musicians were openly staring now, some trying not to laugh.
It wasn’t every day we had a hockey god as our gofer for our small music recitals.
“Anything else?” he asked through gritted teeth.
“Actually, yes. Could you test my water? Sometimes the bottles get too warm and it affects the taste. Just a tiny sip to make sure it’s okay.”
Drew stared at me like I’d lost my mind. “You want me to taste-test your water.”
“Well, you are my assistant,” I said innocently. It was taking everything in me not to break character and laugh at the expression on his face. “That’s what assistants do, right? Make sure everything is perfect for their performer?”
Drew glanced around at the observers and then shook his head before taking the smallest possible sip.
“It’s fine,” he said flatly.
“Wonderful! Oh, and one more tiny thing—could you adjust my music stand?”
He blinked. “You want me to what?”
“It’s crooked. I can’t carry it out there like that.”
The look he gave me could have melted steel, but he set down the various things I’d handed him on a table nearby. He sighed and reached for the stand, muttering something under his breath.
“Too high,” I said immediately. “Oh, shoot, now it’s too low.”
I bit my lip to hold back my grin as a low rumble came from him. God, this was fun.
I was pretty sure I heard someone chuckle.
“There. Happy now?” His look told me if I pushed him even a millimeter further he’d lose his shit.
“Perfect,” I said, just as Brody stepped forward.
“Harper, you’re on, babes. You all set?”
“I am now, thanks to my amazing assistant.” I beamed at Drew, who looked like he was contemplating homicide. “He’s been so incredibly helpful.”
Before he could say anything, Mr. Peterson, the chair of the music department, spoke from the stage. “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome our next violin soloist of the evening, Harper Tinsley.”
I took a deep breath and walked out into the soft stage lights, leaving Drew backstage with all my accessories like the world’s most reluctant roadie. The applause was warm and encouraging, and I could see my friends beaming from the third row.
My revenge on Drew no longer mattered as I soaked in the energy from the audience.
“Good evening,” I said into the microphone set up at the front of the stage.
“Thank you all for being here tonight. I’ll be performing the Sarabande, the third movement of Bach’s Partita No.
2 in D minor for solo violin. This piece holds special meaning for me as a music therapy student, because it captures the emotional complexity music can carry—from joy to sorrow, hope to despair, and everything in between. ”
I positioned my violin and raised my bow, catching Drew’s eye one more time. For just a second, his expression shifted from irritation to something that looked almost like curiosity.
Then I began to play.
The opening notes of the Sarabande flowed through the hall, and everything else fell away. There was no Drew, no revenge plots, no family drama, nothing. When I played, the world made sense in a way it never did otherwise.
The Sarabande was a dance of profound introspection, each phrase lingering like a breath held too long, then let go with aching resolution.
I let myself sink into Bach’s masterful architecture, where every note served a purpose in the greater emotional landscape.
My fingers found each position with precision, but more than that, I felt the gravity behind every sustained note, my body swaying with the movement of the music as I fully immersed myself in my performance.
I was no longer aware of the audience, my attention solely focused on the haunting music that I felt vibrating through every inch of my body.
I lost myself in the way Bach built tension before releasing it into something achingly beautiful, the slow, deliberate rhythm that made every note feel important, the way he made a single violin have the impact of an entire orchestra.
When I reached the final phrase, I let the last note ring out in the silence before slowly lowering my violin. For a moment, the hall was completely quiet, and then the applause erupted.
I smiled, my nerves finally catching up with me.
It was always like this—I’d be composed until I finished the performance and then be a jittery mess afterward, wrung out from pouring my soul into the music and the vulnerability it took to stand on that stage.
I took a small bow, my heart still racing from the performance high, and then walked off the stage with my head lifted, even though my hands were trembling.
There were two other soloists before our quartet performance, so I had a few minutes to pull myself back together.
My eyes landed on Drew, and my stomach braced for him to say something mean, but before he could open his mouth, Brody was pulling me into a hug once I was out of sight of the audience and fully backstage.
“Babes! That was fucking incredible. You damn near brought me to tears.”
My trembling settled as my chest warmed. “Thanks, Brody.”
And it was in that moment when I’d started to let my guard down that Drew spoke.
“Nice performance, Tinsley.”
“Thank you,” I said, still warm from Brody’s praise.
“Really touching, actually,” Drew continued, and there was something in his tone that made my stomach tighten. “I’m sure your parents are so proud. Oh wait—they didn’t bother showing up, did they?”
The words knocked the air right out of me, and Brody stiffened at my side. Not many people knew the truth about my family and their lack of support for my music, but Brody did.
Drew’s expression shifted slightly, like maybe he’d realized he’d gone too far, but it was too late.
“Must be nice to have such supportive family,” he added, but his voice had lost some of its edge.
I stared at him for a long moment, feeling something cold and sharp settle in my chest. He had no idea what he’d just said, no idea that my parents thought my music was a “hobby” I needed to grow out of, no idea that they’d been pressuring me to switch to a “practical” major for years.
To him, this was just another day feuding with me.
And I was so sick of it. I wanted to crush him until he was a pile of dust on the ground—or a social pariah since that seemed to be the only thing he cared about.
But like hell would I give him the satisfaction of knowing how perfectly he’d just struck me down.
“Your services are no longer needed. You’re free to go.” I kept my voice businesslike and neutral even though I felt like I’d just turned into an ice queen in the span of three seconds.
He clenched his jaw and then nodded once and walked out without another word.
But I knew this wasn’t over.
Not by a long shot.
Because I’d been playing nice, but now it was time to go in for the kill.