The music has risen to a crescendo. Most people in the square rise to their feet and start clapping. It's as if the entire world around us celebrates, but we're cocooned in a beat of intense silence.
"No." My hands are shaking, but my voice is steady. "I'm done with Pierce & Sons. Done with your expansion plans and your control and your... your way of making everyone around you smaller just so you can feel bigger."
"You're being ridiculous." He sets down his knife with dangerous precision. "If this is about that teacher?—"
"This is about me." The words feel like breaking free, like finally breathing. I'm done measuring my worth in profit margins and social connections. Done pretending my hands were made for boardroom handshakes instead of piano keys and ice cream scoops. Done watching other people live while I exist in a gilded prison. "I'm changing the shop. Making it my own place, with my own recipes. No more Pierce & Sons."
"I'll cut you off." His voice drops to that quiet tone that used to terrify me. Somehow I hear it clearly above the cacophony happening around us. "You'll have nothing."
I laugh, and the sound startles all of us. The reality of what I'm doing hits me like the gust of a hurricane. I have maybe twenty thousand inGrant's Coastal Creamery'saccount—barely enough to keep the shop running for a couple of months once tourist season ends. No safety net, no trust fund, no carefully curated list of business connections. Just me and a tarnishedcart and some recipes I created between board meetings and charity galas.
I should be terrified. By all rights, I should back down, apologize, and crawl back into Father's good graces. But as I meet his gaze—really meet it, maybe for the first time in my life—I realize something: even if I fail, even if I crash and burn and lose the shop and end up having to take on other work just to make rent, I'll be free. My hands shake, but my voice is steady when I say, "Do it, then. Disinherit me."
Father recoils as if I've slapped him. He drops his wineglass with a clatter that splashes burgundy liquid across the pristine tablecloth. For the first time in my life, I see something flash across his face—almost like fear. Not of me—never that—but of losing control. Father, realizing his carefully constructed puppet show is falling apart because one son finally found his voice.
"You're making a terrible mistake," he growls, but the words somehow lack their usual steel. He looks smaller, sitting there with his perfectly pressed suit, in a place where no suit belongs—just a man who built his entire identity around controlling others, watching that control slip away.
I take a step back, and that's when the last chain breaks. No more threats. No more manipulation. No more carefully designed tests of loyalty. The power he's held over my entire life evaporates like sea spray in the summer sun. I'm just... free.
Father's face turns an alarming shade of purple. "You ungrateful?—"
"Goodbye, Father." I turn away from his sputtering rage, from Owen's wide-eyed shock. The entire square has transformed into a celebration of everything Father despises—messy, imperfect, and absolutely alive with joy. This is what the prince felt, I think, riding toward the dragon. This is what it means to choose yourself.
I want to stay, to watch Rachel shine in her element, to tell her she was right about everything. To join this beautiful rebellion she's inspired. But first, I have plans to set in motion. Dreams to resurrect. A future to build.
I only hope I haven't found my voice too late.
For the first time in my life, I'm writing my own story.
And I know exactly how I want it to end.
Rachel
My shoes' familiar tapping echoes through the empty hallway as our small group makes its way to the band room. One-two-three-four. One-two-three-four. The rhythm feels different today—lighter somehow, filled with possibility instead of dread. Even the fluorescent lights seem brighter, as though they're celebrating with us.
"I still can't believe it," Mia says, practically bouncing beside me. She's pulled her caramel waves back into a bun and holds a pile of boxes under one arm, a roll of packing tape in the other. The entire former-band-group-turned-book-club carries packing supplies. Everyone is talking over each other. We've all been up since dawn, preparing to pack up the band room for renovation. Mia's voice is almost a squeal as she continues, "The news coverage, the donations, everything. Rachel, you did it!"
"We did it." I fumble with my keys. The familiar brass one catches the light, warm from being clutched in my palm. "I never could have pulled this off alone."
"I can't believe the local news piece got picked up by a national morning show!" Rhianna's grin is infectious, her pins catching the fluorescent light as she practically vibrateswith excitement. "And then #SaveTheMusic started trending? I mean, who knew our little flash mob would go viral?"
"Don't forget Violet's article." Tom drops a stack of boxes to the ground. "Or Zoe's dance routine. Pure genius. Though I still say my trombone solo was the real showstopper."
"You mean the part where you almost passed out trying to hit that high note?" Rhianna bumps his shoulder.
"Hey, I nailed it! Eventually."
Our laughter spills down the empty hallway, echoing off the metal lockers in a way that instantly pulls me back to our band days. Those awkward teenage years when we found our rhythm among brass and woodwinds, when simple friendships became the foundation of a lifetime.
The door creaks open, the sound as familiar as an old song, and I pause in the threshold, taking in the space that feels like my second home. It’s hard to imagine it’s about to change—new ventilation, updated wiring, fresh coats of paint. The donations didn’t just keep the program alive—they breathed new life into it. Summer music camp scholarships. New instruments. Things I never dared to dream were possible, now within reach.
"Remember when we used to sneak in here during lunch?" Mia’s voice is soft, a fond memory wrapped in the past as she steps into the room. "All of us crammed onto the back riser, sneaking candy bars and grumbling about marching band formations?"
"Ugh, those polyester uniforms in the August heat," Tom adds with a dramatic shudder. "Not even cooling magic could help. But you know what? I’d do it all over again. Every sweaty practice, every missed note, every early morning rehearsal."
Rhianna throws an arm around his neck, pulling him into an affectionate headlock. "Because it gave us this." She lets go and gestures to our group, a quiet pride in her eyes. "This. Us. Aplace where we could fit in. We could just be... ourselves while we figured everything else out."
I swallow hard, the sudden tightness in my throat betraying me. They understand. They get it. Why I’ve fought so hard, why saving this program is more than just about music—it’s about creating a space where kids can find their people, discover their passion, and set their own rhythm in a world that can often feel too chaotic to bear.
