Page 6 of Fire and Silk

I was preparing for the Apex Concerto Finals—the competition every student kills themselves over. One performance. One shot. And I was ready.

But then…

everything stopped.

I blink and the memory fogs. Not the moment the bow slipped. Not the judges' faces.

Beforethat.

Something broke.

And then I unraveled.

I bombed the qualifiers. Couldn’t focus. Couldn’t breathe without wanting to scream. Couldn’t sleep, so I started taking things to help. Then I needed other things to fix what those broke. My professors stopped calling. Friends stopped checking in. My scholarship vanished. No second chances.

I still remember packing my things into a secondhand suitcase, my fingers numb. My violin case tucked between hoodies and empty pill bottles.

They sent me to rehab. One year. A white-walled place with ocean views and motivational quotes taped to mirrors. I counted tiles to keep from shaking. I learned how to smile so the nurses would mark “stable” on my chart.

When I came back, the world had moved on.

The bills didn’t. The shame didn’t.

Now I pour drinks for strangers who tip in winks. I serve coffee to women who look at me like I remind them of a version of themselves they narrowly escaped. And on weekends, I tutor violin to rich kids whose biggest fear is boredom. Their mothers always smile like they’re doing me a favor.

Nicola, my best friend, found this job. She’s the only one who’s stayed.

I owe her more than I let myself admit.

But walking through this house, this museum of cold money and legacy— I feel who I could’ve been pressing against the cheap rhinestones on my dress.

And the blister burning on my heel suddenly feels like the least painful thing about tonight.

We round the corner, and I nearly collide with her.

Tall. Silk-draped. Red-lipped and perfectly timed, like she’d been waiting for the exact moment the hall turned quiet. Her heels are thin and echoing on the marble like a metronome gone smug. Bolina.

She stops when she sees me. Her face softens, then bursts open like a champagne cork.

“Lira, honey,you’re here!” Her voice is warm, theatrical, and loud for the hallway.

I inhale slowly. Deeply. Pretend the scent of perfume doesn’t make my stomach curl.

My smile blooms on command— wide, bright. “I’m here.”

She glides toward me in a floor-length cream dress that clings to her body like devotion. A slit up the thigh. Nails glossy and blood red. Her hair is platinum and perfectly set—no roots, no stray strands. The light hits the diamond at her throat and throws tiny prisms across the floor.

Bolina looks like wealth curated by a stylist. I look like a bar girl who got lost in the wrong neighborhood.

“Oh my God,” she breathes, clutching her pearls like I’m a long-lost cousin. “I have so much to tell you.August,fetch some wine—Château Margaux, please, not the local horror Conrado insists on saving for guests he dislikes.”

The man—August—tenses. Barely. Just the flicker of a jaw muscle. But I see it.

He bows without speaking and turns away, disappearing into the shadows like a reprimanded butler.

Bolina doesn’t notice. Or maybe she does and doesn’t care.

She reaches for me, both hands out like she’s reuniting with a friend she’s missed dearly. Her fingers wrap around mine—cool, smooth, forceful.