I finished the concerto with my traditional, this-sounds-natural-but-only-because-I-mastered-this-movement-years-ago flourish and allowed the silence to echo in the hall before facing the conductor.

Challenging song. Perfect performance. Charming smile.

That’s how the Old Morgan rolled. How the girl who was now pants-wetting terrified of auditions used to play these things.

My reaction was as practiced as the concerto. Conductors could smell nerves, and it wasn’t what they wanted polluting their stage. Confidence—anything from Anthony’s quiet composition to Simone’s aggression—could earn a spot, even if the song faltered.

Fortunately, my violin sounded good. No missed notes. No dropped accidentals. No freak-outs. Masquerading as someone who belonged inside a theater came easily when I did everything right.

The conductor and musical director leaned over the table. The nightclub was no Duchess, but it catered to an equally exclusive clientele—though these swingers were far more musical than the couples from Duchess. Jazzy scenes and neon lights masked the interior with an old-fashioned, Tropicana style. This wasn’t a stuffy theater with a graying conductor who forgot the time signature halfway through the song. The club felt alive, bursting with big-band excitement.

“Miss Bradley?” The musical director didn’t even look at the audition package I’d prepared. “Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome, sir.” I grinned, but even the slipped sir didn’t bother me. If nothing else, I became politer under Anthony’s diligent hand. Not necessarily a bad thing with a prospective employer.

I threaded my fingers over the neck of the violin and awaited the good news.

The director exchanged a glance with the conductor. They both shifted.

“No, Miss Bradley.” He moved my packet aside. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome?”

Another silent second passed. I swallowed, catching the eye of the director before he flipped the application for the person scheduled to audition after me.

Thank you.

All the prim and proper, forced politeness, regimented societal meanings behind the words crumbled like the flaking bits of my spine.

He didn’t commend my performance.

I didn’t get the part.

They hadn’t watched me as I’d played.

They hardly listened to the song I’d sweated to perform.

They didn’t even have the courtesy to learn my name while my heart bled out every last note I wrenched out from behind the scars.

My stomach twisted. The conductor said something. I didn’t listen. Not like it mattered. Ice webbed up my veins, the frost beginning with the betraying instrument in my hand.

I’d worked hard to bury the misery music cast over me a year ago, but I’d never forgotten the pain. Rejection, scorn, and humiliation seeped through the cracks of the haphazard confidence I’d cobbled together by mimicking Anthony.

I never thought I’d repeat this life lesson. A year ago, I’d sworn I’d never open my soul and let people terrorize the melody inside ever again.

This was my fault.

I deserved this agony. I’d attempted music even though I knew exactly the heart-rending destruction it’d cause.

I bolted from the audition as I began to cry.

And I left everything musical about me behind.