Chapter 34
Violet's POV
"In your dreams!" I ground my teeth, my back held rigid and unyielding. My shoulders throbbed beneath the weight pressing down on me, yet I would not bend an inch.
Ethan was just about to order his friends to pin me to my knees when the restaurant’s grand carved glass door burst open without warning.
A resonant, commanding voice thick with cold displeasure cut through the air of the dining hall.
“What’s going on here? When did L’Aura become some den for vulgar brawling?!”
Everyone instinctively looked toward the sound.
Owen Sheldon, wearing an impeccably tailored dark patterned suit and carrying a silver-handled cane, stood at the restaurant entrance.
He had originally come here just to enjoy a quiet dinner, but when those sharp eyes behind his gold-rimmed glasses saw through the gaps in the crowd that the person being roughly held by several men was me, his expression instantly darkened.
Owen's cane struck the marble floor heavily, producing a dull echo.
That sound was like an invisible pardon. The two blond rich kids holding my shoulders let go as if electrocuted and unconsciously stepped back half a pace.
Ethan reacted extremely quickly.
The vicious malice on his face instantly dissipated, replaced by an extremely practiced fake smile.
He turned around and quickly approached Owen.
"Mr. Sheldon, you've misunderstood." Ethan spread his hands, putting on a relaxed, casual attitude, "There's no gang brawl here. We were just chatting with Violet, friends having a harmless joke."
"A joke?" Owen sneered coldly. Those sharp eyes behind his gold-rimmed glasses swept mercilessly over Ethan and Sienna before finally settling on me. He frowned slightly, looking at my wrinkled coat and somewhat disheveled hair.
"Violet, is that true?" Owen asked in a deep voice, his tone carrying undeniable authority, "If you've been under any coercion here, tell me directly. I'll have security throw these people out of L'Aura's doors."
Ethan turned to look at me. The instant his back was to Owen, an extremely vicious warning flashed in his dark brown eyes. He stared at me hard, silently threatening me with his gaze to go along with his lie.
I rubbed my shoulders, which ached from being gripped, the fury in my chest still churning.
But I knew that antagonizing Ethan now would do no good.
This was his territory, and Mr. Owen was a titan of the classical music world. I didn't want to drag him into this despicable rich-kid bullying game.
Moreover, Ethan was an unscrupulous lunatic. I didn't want to cause trouble for the orchestra.
"Yes, Mr. Sheldon." I took a deep breath, forcibly suppressing the tremor in my voice, and met Owen's probing gaze, "It's just a small misunderstanding. We've finished talking."
Owen looked at me deeply.
He was a smart man and could naturally see the undercurrents here.
But he didn't continue to expose it. He just tapped his cane on the ground and glanced coldly at Ethan: "It better be just a misunderstanding. L'Aura is a place for listening to music, not a club for you spoiled brats to run wild. If I see this kind of 'joke' again, you'll never set foot in here again."
"Of course, you're right to reprimand us." Ethan smiled obsequiously, though his eyes were terrifyingly gloomy.
I didn't look at them again. I bent down to pick up my violin case from the floor, quickly passed those men, pushed open the restaurant's heavy glass door, and fled into Manhattan's late autumn cold wind.
Walking on the noisy street, cold air rushing into my lungs, my taut nerves finally slowly relaxed.
Just as I reached the subway entrance, my phone suddenly vibrated in my pocket. Ethan's name flashed on the screen.
I frowned and answered the call.
"You performed well just now, good to see you know what's good for you." Ethan's voice came through the receiver, carrying a condescending charity and smugness, "Knowing to shut up in front of Owen shows you're not hopelessly stupid."
Standing at the noisy intersection, listening to his naturally arrogant tone, I only felt a wave of physiological nausea rising in my stomach.
"Did you call just to say this nonsense?" I asked coldly.
"Violet, let's make a deal." Ethan didn't seem to care about my coldness, his tone becoming like charity to a beggar, "As long as you submit your resignation to the City Symphony Orchestra and give your position to Sienna, I can be magnanimous and overlook you hitting her and making her angry."
He paused, throwing out what he considered tempting bait: "As compensation, I can use the Hall family's resources to arrange a better job for you in Manhattan. Even, if you're willing to apologize, I can set up a private account to fully sponsor you through college. You're short on money, aren't you? For you, this is a no-lose deal."
Hearing his words, I suddenly felt incredibly absurd.
He thought everything could be bought with money, including my dignity and the future I had worked desperately hard practicing for.
"Ethan, do you think everyone in the world is like you, with heads filled only with transactions and scheming?" I gripped my phone tightly, my voice cold and hard as iron, "Put away your condescending face. The position I earned on merit, I will never give to anyone. As for your sponsorship, save it for Sienna to buy designer bags."
"Violet! Don't be so shameless—"
I didn't give him a chance to continue ranting and hung up directly.
Then I found his number in my contacts and without hesitation clicked "Add to Blacklist."
Looking at the confirmation prompt on the screen, I let out a long breath.
I swore I never wanted anything to do with this megalomaniac ever again in my life.
Over the next few days, my life fell into unprecedented difficulty.
Although I no longer had to pay rent, New York's cost of living was suffocatingly high.
I relied on the refunded hospitalization fees and the tip Julian had given me, carefully budgeting to maintain three meals a day.
To avoid being penniless before next week's orchestra rehearsal, I had to quickly find a new part-time job.
Every afternoon after finishing academy classes, I would carry my violin and shuttle through Manhattan's various neighborhoods.
From upscale French restaurants on the Upper West Side to jazz bars in Greenwich Village to independent coffee shops in SoHo, I visited almost every place that might need a resident musician.
However, reality dealt me a heavy blow.
"Sorry, we don't need a violinist at the moment."
"Your resume is excellent, but we're fully staffed."
At first, I thought it was just bad luck.
But as the number of rejections increased, things started to become strange.
Several restaurant owners had been very satisfied after hearing my audition and had even started discussing hourly wages with me, but after they glanced at my resume or took a phone call, their attitudes would do a complete one-eighty, rejecting me as if I were the plague.