Chapter 1 One More Time
Isabella Taylor's POV
In the practice room, the moment Elena White looked up from the sheet music, I knew I was done for.
In the floor-length mirror, my spine visibly slumped, like someone had cut my strings. My right hand gripping the bow had gone white-knuckled, the tape on my left fingertips was peeling at the edges, sweat soaking through, and even my pressure on the strings wavered.
That sour note at the end just now—I'd heard it more clearly than anyone.
The bow had shifted a fraction of an inch, the high note suddenly spiraling out of control, and in this practice room full of professional musicians, it was so jarring I wanted to stop immediately.
My shoulders sagged.
My face in the mirror looked drawn and pale. I tried for composure, but the panic was already written in my eyes, impossible to hide.
The others kept practicing. No one stopped.
But I caught them tilting their heads slightly.
That look—I knew it all too well.
Spend enough time in this environment, and everyone can immediately catch someone else's mistake, then hide their schadenfreude behind carefully neutral expressions, secretly relieved that this time it wasn't them who screwed up.
"Again," Elena's voice wasn't loud, but it was more suffocating than any scolding.
I raised the bow again and took a deep breath.
When the bow touched the strings, the melody started over.
The first four measures went smoothly, but when I reached the high register, my fingertips faltered, and the final notes started wavering again.
The piano accompaniment continued, but Elena raised her hand to stop them.
"Isabella, where is your bow pressure?"
The entire practice room fell silent. All I could hear was my own heartbeat, hammering against my ribs.
"On the strings, ma'am." I tried to keep my voice steady, but my back was so rigid I barely dared to breathe.
"Of course I know it's on the strings." She closed the sheet music, set it beside the music stand, and tapped the stand with her baton—the sound sharp and cutting. "What I'm asking is, where is your mind?"
I didn't dare answer right away, even deliberately shallowing my breathing. Sweat from my fingertips ran down between my fingers.
She paced slowly around the practice room. "I've been teaching you for almost three years."
She stopped in front of me, lightly tapping my bow with the baton. "When you came here at sixteen, your talent was impossible to ignore. But talent isn't meant to be squandered."
I stared at the tips of her shoes, my fingers tightening again. The frayed edges of the tape bit into my palm, a dull ache.
"Next week's audition, there's only one solo spot. The level you just played at doesn't deserve that spot. If you're still in this state next week, I'll give this opportunity to those who actually focus on practice instead of letting themselves get distracted."
A few seconds of silence stretched out, so long the air felt thick, almost suffocating.
"Everyone, five-minute break."
I walked to the corner of the practice room and sank down onto the cold floor, pressing my palms against it, trying to stop my fingertips from trembling.
The calluses on my left fingertips had turned an angry red, new pressure marks layered over old ones. The frayed edges of the tape were curled up, soaked with sweat, sticky and uncomfortable.
Mia quickly sat down beside me, hugging her knees. "That last section was really rough."
"I know." I kept my voice low, my throat tight and aching. I didn't even have the energy to look up at her.
"You never used to mess up this part." She scooted closer, her shoulder lightly touching mine. "During all-night practice sessions, when you were so tired you could barely keep your eyes open, you could still nail this section. What's going on with you today?"
At her question, the emotions I'd been holding back suddenly burst through like someone had ripped off a seal. My eyes immediately welled up.
"I had a huge fight with Maurice." I clenched my sweat-soaked fingertips in my palm, my voice hoarse. "When I was playing, all I could think about was the argument. I couldn't settle down at all."
"With your boyfriend? What did you fight about?" Mia couldn't help but ask.
"We had plans to go to a violin concert together last night. I'd been watching for a whole month to get those tickets. But he didn't reply to any messages all evening, didn't send a text until early morning saying he forgot."
"Forgot? How could he forget? Last week you told him how hard those concert tickets were to get, and that you needed to hear it for inspiration before the audition."
"I found out later he didn't actually forget. He spent last night helping Susan buy ballet shoes." I bit my lower lip, forcing back the tears threatening to spill. "Susan said she couldn't find the ballet shoes she always wore, so he threw our plans aside and took her to three different stores. After all that, he didn't even give me a real apology. He said I was overreacting and shouldn't get angry over something so trivial."
Mia sat up straight immediately. "Susan? He knew you have the audition next week, knew how important this concert was to you, and he still stood you up for another girl?"
"I didn't want to fight either," I buried my face in my knees, my chest tightening as I spoke. "But he completely refused to see it from my perspective. The more I explained, the more impatient he got, and finally he just hung up on me. I barely slept all night, and today when I was playing, all I could think about was this. I couldn't calm myself down at all."
Mia sighed, reaching out to gently pat my back, her tone softening. "I know you feel hurt, but you can't let him drag you down. Think about it—this audition is your only chance to get back to center stage."
I shook my head, hugging my knees tighter. The pressure in my chest didn't ease at all.
She was quiet for a few seconds, then lightly bumped my shoulder with hers. "You need to get your head back in the game. Otherwise, Sophia's probably already rehearsing her acceptance speech."
I made a muffled sound and laughed quietly, though the moisture in the corners of my eyes still hadn't faded.
My tense emotions hadn't truly relaxed, but I knew perfectly well that I couldn't let anything jeopardize my chance at the solo spot.
This piece—I'd practiced it countless times. It should be mine.
Just then, Elena returned to the practice room. She didn't even glance at me, just dropped a line, "Isabella, this is your last chance."
I immediately stood up. The piano accompaniment started again at the same moment.
When the bow came down, the melody flowed out again.
Everything around me retreated into the background. I only felt my fingertips rising and falling on the strings, the bow moving back and forth through the air, movements clean and precise. The high register was stable and clear this time, the final notes ending crisp and accurate, every note landing exactly where it should.
I was completely immersed in the music, not thinking about Maurice Nelson, not thinking about the argument, only focusing on each press of the strings and each stroke of the bow.
When the last note fell, I lowered the bow, standing straight, slowly and evenly exhaling.
In the practice room, Elena stood in the corner, her expression still characteristically stern, showing no change.
I held the bow, my fingertips cold from nervousness, waiting anxiously.
I waited for her assessment, waited for her to point out my mistakes...