Aria's POV
The coffee mug smashed against the wall two inches from my head.
"You stupid girl!" Mrs. Chen screamed, her face twisted with rage. "You ruined her! My daughter will never get into Juilliard now!"
I stood frozen in my tiny teaching room, my heart hammering so hard I could barely breathe. Sophie Chen, my eight-year-old student, huddled behind me, crying into her violin case. The concert had been this morning. Sophie had been amazing. But her mother had expected perfection, and one missed note in the final measure had apparently destroyed everything.
"Mrs. Chen, please— Sophie played beautifully," I said, keeping my voice calm even though my hands shook. "She's only eight. She has years to—"
"Years I'm wasting with a teacher who can't even afford a decent studio!" Mrs. Chen snatched Sophie's hand, pulling her toward the door. "We're done here. Don't expect payment for this month."
The door slammed so hard my few awards rattled on the wall.
I sank into the folding chair that served as my "waiting area" and pressed my hands against my face. That was three hundred dollars I badly needed for rent. Three hundred dollars I'd already spent on fixing my old violin's bridge last week.
"Miss Aria?"
I looked up. Mia Rodriguez stood in the doorway, clutching something behind her back. My last student of the day. Seven years old, missing her two front teeth, and the only reason I hadn't totally fallen apart yet.
"Hey, sweetie." I faked a smile, wiping my eyes quickly. "Ready for your lesson?"
"I made you something." Mia thrust a handwritten card at me, construction paper covered in glitter and crooked letters. "Happy Birthday, Miss Aria! You're the best teacher ever!"
My throat tightened. I'd forgotten it was my birthday. Twenty-six years old today, and I'd totally forgotten.
"It's beautiful, Mia. Thank you." I pulled her into a hug, blinking back fresh tears.
We made it through thirty minutes of scales and "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star" before Mia's grandmother took her. I locked the studio door and leaned against it, looking at the water-stained ceiling tiles and flickering fluorescent lights.
This was my life. A rented room in a building that should probably be condemned. Students whose parents either couldn't afford better teachers or, like Mrs. Chen, blamed me when their children weren't prodigies. A monthly check that came like clockwork from a lawyer's office—money from the father who'd never once called me his daughter.
My phone buzzed. Elena. I almost didn't answer.
"Don't you dare screen me on your birthday!" Elena's voice burst from the speaker before I could even say hello. "I know you're wallowing in that gloomy studio. Get out of there right now."
"Elena, I'm tired—"
"I don't care. I'm taking you to the Sinclair Foundation Gala tonight. Fancy people, free food, open bar. You're coming."
I laughed, but it sounded hollow. "I can't afford a ticket to something like that." "The hospital bought a table. I have an extra spot. Aria, please. When was the last time you did something fun? When was the last time you weren't alone?"
I looked around my room. The broken coffee mug still dripping on the floor. The stack of past-due bills on my desk. Mia's card, the only birthday recognition I'd receive.
"I don't have anything to wear to a gala."
"I'm bringing a dress. We're the same size. I'll be at your place in two hours. If you're not there, I'm breaking down your door."
She hung up before I could argue.
Two hours later, I stood in Elena's borrowed black dress, feeling like a fake. The fabric was too fine, the heels too high, the whole setting too far from my real life.
"You look beautiful," Elena said, but she was looking at her phone. "The gala site just changed. Some last-minute protection thing. It's at the Belmont Hotel now instead of the convention center."
Something cold twisted in my stomach. "The Belmont? Isn't that—"
"Yeah, super fancy. Even better." Elena grinned, missing the dread spreading through my chest.
The Belmont was where my father's people went. Where his legitimate family visited events. Where I was supposed to stay unseen.
But I hadn't seen my father or his real daughter in years. Chicago was a big city. What were the chances?
The ballroom was overwhelming—crystal lights, people in designer clothes, the hum of wealth and power. I stuck close to Elena, making myself small, trying not to draw notice.
Then I saw her.
Isabella Morelli stood across the room in a blood-red gown, her dark hair swept up, gems glittering at her throat. My half-sister. The real daughter. She was laughing at something a tall man in an expensive suit said, her hand possessive on his arm.
"I need to leave," I whispered to Elena.
"What? We just got here!"
"Please, I can't—"
"Ladies and gentlemen," a voice boomed over the speakers. "Please welcome our musicians for the evening."
My stomach dropped. The string quartet that was meant to play had been me and three other session musicians. In the chaos of the place change, I'd forgotten to cancel.
The coordinator emerged at my elbow. "Miss Morelli? We're ready for you."
Elena's eyes went wide. "You're performing? You didn't tell me!"
I couldn't speak. Couldn't move. Isabella was thirty feet away. If I played, if anyone revealed my name, she'd see me. She'd know.
But the coordinator was already leading me toward the small stage. My violin was in my hands—I'd brought it by habit. The other players were waiting.
I had two choices: run and lose the two-hundred-dollar payment I badly needed, or play and pray Isabella didn't notice.
I played.
For twenty minutes, I lost myself in Vivaldi, in the sweet ache of the strings, in the only thing I'd ever been good at. When we finished, polite applause spread through the room.
I was gathering my violin when I felt it—the weight of someone's stare.
I looked up.
A man stood at the edge of the ballroom, half-hidden in dark. Tall. Dark-haired. Wearing a suit that probably cost more than my yearly rent. But it was his eyes that stopped me in place—ice blue, intense, locked on me with a focus that felt predatory.
He said something to the scarred man beside him, never breaking eye contact with me.
Every sense screamed danger.
I grabbed my violin case and ran for the kitchen exit, my heart racing. Elena would understand. I'd text her once I was outside, once I was safe—
Strong hands caught me the moment I stepped into the alley.
A cloth pressed over my mouth and nose, chemical-sweet and stifling.
I tried to scream, but the world was already shifting, darkening.
The last thing I saw before everything went black was those ice-blue eyes, watching me fall.
And the last thought I had was the terrifying knowledge that someone had been waiting for me.
Someone had planned this.
Someone knew exactly who I was.