Chapter 2

"You can' t do this!" The words burst out of me before I could stop them. I stood up, my hands clenched into fists. I was looking at Ethan, only at Ethan. "That part is mine. We all agreed."

Chloe scoffed, leaning back in her chair with an air of pure arrogance. "Things change, Avery. We have to do what' s best for the quartet' s sound."

"Our sound?" I asked, my voice shaking with a fury I hadn' t known I possessed. "Or your ego?"

Ethan finally looked at me, his expression cold and unyielding. "Don' t make a scene, Avery. The decision is made."

"This isn' t just about a piece of music," I pressed, my voice dropping, trying to reason with the boy I thought I knew. "This is our future. Our reputation. The contacts we make at this competition could lead to everything. You know I play that part better."

Ethan' s face softened for a fraction of a second, a flicker of the old friendship, before it hardened again. He was the charming one, the one who could smooth over any conflict. He placed a hand on my arm, his touch now feeling like a brand. "Look, Avery. Just play along for now. Once we win, we can talk about rearranging things. We' re still a team. We still have the same dream."

It was a lie, a hollow promise meant to placate me, to keep me in line. But for a desperate, foolish moment, I wanted to believe him. I looked at his hand on my arm, and all I could think about was the years of shared laughter, the whispered secrets in between musical phrases, the feeling that we were invincible together. We were supposed to be Avery, Ethan, Chloe, and Noah. A single name. A single destiny. The memory was so sharp, so painful, it felt like a physical ache in my chest.

I let out a breath and slowly sat back down. I said nothing. The other three exchanged a look of relief. They had won. They had pushed me into a corner, and I had surrendered. In that moment, watching them move on to discussing logistics, their voices a low, conspiratorial murmur, I felt completely and utterly powerless. I was a ghost in my own life, a silent observer to the dismantling of my own future.

I didn' t fight them anymore. I poured all my frustration, all my pain and rage, into the one thing they couldn' t take from me: my music. I went home and instead of practicing the meaningless continuo part, I started writing. A new piece. It was a lament, a furious, heartbroken melody for a solo cello. It was everything I couldn't say out loud. The notes were dark and complex, full of jagged rhythms and soaring, sorrowful phrases. I practiced for hours, my fingers raw, my shoulders aching, losing myself in the composition until the world outside my room faded away.

A few days later, Professor Jenkins, my father' s old colleague and my mentor, stopped by the house. My mother had let him in, and he found me in the small sunroom I used as my practice space. He listened, standing silently in the doorway as I played through my new composition.

When I finished, the final note hanging in the air, he was quiet for a long moment. His eyes, usually so sharp and critical, were soft with an emotion I couldn't quite read.

"Avery," he said, his voice thick with feeling. "That is... extraordinary. The depth, the passion... your father would have been so proud."

His words were a balm on my wounded soul. It was the first piece of validation I had received in weeks. For a moment, I felt a flicker of my old self, the talented, confident cellist I used to be. I felt a surge of pride.

That pride was shattered the very next day.

I walked into the living room to find Chloe holding my sheet music, the one I had been composing. She was showing it to her father and my mother.

"I' ve been working on a new piece," she was saying, her voice bright and cheerful. "I think it really showcases a new direction for me as an artist. Professor Jenkins heard it yesterday and said it was extraordinary."

I froze, my blood turning to ice. I saw my handwritten notes, my frantic scribbles in the margins, my soul poured out onto those pages, and she was claiming it as her own.

"What?" The word was a choked whisper.

They all turned to look at me. Chloe' s smile didn' t falter. "Oh, Avery. I was just showing Mom and Dad my new composition. You know, the one for the competition' s solo showcase."

"Your composition?" I walked forward, my eyes locked on the papers in her hand. "That' s mine. I wrote that."

My mother sighed, a sound of pure exhaustion. "Avery, please. Don' t do this. Chloe has been working so hard. Can' t you just be happy for her?"

"But it' s mine!" My voice rose, bordering on hysteria. "Those are my notes! My handwriting!"

Chloe just laughed. "Oh, Avery. You' re just confused. You' ve been so stressed lately. Maybe you saw me working on it and thought it was yours? It' s okay. I' m not mad."

She was so calm, so convincing. Her father looked at me with open disgust. My own mother looked at me with pity, as if I were losing my mind. They believed her. Of course, they believed her. She was their perfect, talented daughter, and I was just the problematic, unstable stepdaughter who couldn' t handle failure.

I stood there, surrounded by my supposed family, and I was forced into silence. To argue further would only make me look more unhinged. I had to stand there and watch her take credit for my pain, my anger, my heart, all neatly transcribed onto a piece of paper and presented as her own triumph.