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4

Julian

Aduet. A fucking duet.

With her.

I shove through the heavy exit doors at the end of the corridor and step out into the biting October air. I halt on the stone steps, one hand bracing hard against the iron railing, trying to breathe. I yank a cigarette from the inside pocket of my jacket and light it, cursing silently when I realise my hands are shaking.

A fucking duet.

This could not get any worse. I can’t seem to wrap my head around the absolute absurdity of it all.

It’s a bloody joke, that’s what it is.

I take a long drag and stare into the distance, trying to force the reality of the situation into focus. The Spring Showcase is only twelve weeks away. Every scout from New York to London will be in that hall, Mathias wasn’t exaggerating about that. A weak performance is not an option. A weak performance means the summer placements disappear, and without those, my father’s shadow gets considerably closer.

I spent four years at the Houston Conservatory doing everything I was supposed to do. The undergraduate performance degree, the recitals, the masterclasses—the endless distinctions that kept my father’s commentary to a manageable level. Four years of proving on paper that this was a serious pursuit, and not the expensive hobby he had decided it was going to be the second it finally stopped being convenient for him.

Then I came to Belrose for my masters. His idea, ironically. If I was going down the music route, postgraduate study at the most prestigious institution in the country was the only thing that looked acceptable to our family ‘brand.’ Belrose was the one thing that he approved of, and something useful for him to leverage, and use as a ‘trophy.’ Maybe it’s because he provides funding to the music department—it’s only right that his son goes here. But, I didn’t get in because of his money. I am here because of my talent alone. The music is the only thing left between me and a corner office at Thorne & Bell.

I cannot and will not let a girl with a silk bow in her hair be the reason my plan falls apart. Fuck, no.

Ellise Vance, you better be ready.

I drop the cigarette, crush it under my heel, and turn back toward the building.

She is still in the corridor. I didn’t expect that. I half expected that she would have run off to cry somewhere by now.

“Look what you’ve done, Bow-Peep.” The words slip out before I have entirely decided how to say them, sharp and immediate. It’s harsh, but I’m pissed off.

“Look what I’ve done?” Her voice has an edge to it that I haven’t heard before. It’s not the controlled icy fury of the lecture hall, but something more raw and menacing. “You pulled my bow off my head and pushed me for a reaction, as you always do. Yet, I’m the one responsible for the consequences?”

“If you hadn’t slammed your hands on the desk like you were trying to break—”

“Because you pulled my bow.”

“It’s a piece of ribbon, Vance. Get over it.”

“It’s none of your business what it is,” she snaps, her voice cracking on the last word. “This is insane. This is completely, absolutely insane.”

I say nothing.

She continues. “For twelve months, the Spring Showcase has been my mission. And now, I have to prepare another piece.” A pause. “With… you.”

I look at her, the reality of our situation settling heavy between the both of us.

How we are going to pull this off, I’ll never know. Twelve weeks to learn a new piece is going to be impossible. And the question is, whether we can do this together.

“You think I’m thrilled about this?” My fury is still there, but it has shifted slightly, my eyes narrowing. “You think I want to spend nearly three months playing alongside you?” I hold her gaze. “Trying to build something that actually works? Something that doesn’t sound like two people who are actively trying to kill each other?”

She says nothing.

I look at her properly, at the line of her shoulders and the slight tremor in her hands. This is not the Golden Girl performance I am used to. This isn’t the careful and composed Ellise Vance. This is someone standing in a corridor trying to hold themselves together. I know what that looks like.

“Practice Room C,” I say. My voice comes out harder than I intend to, but I don’t make any effort to soften it. “Six o’clock. We start tonight before either of us has time to talk ourselves out of it.”

She stares at me. “You’re not even going to acknowledge—”