"Fascinating," Harrington interrupted, silencing Alexander with a raised hand. Harrington tilted his head, feigning a theatrical generosity that masked pure venom. "Perhaps Ms. Jones believes she could demonstrate a more appropriate interpretation. In fact, I think our gala donors would appreciate seeing the full breadth of our student body—a raw contrast to our more seasoned, refined performers. Let's include Ms. Jones in the program."
Alexander smirked, catching on to his professor's cruelty. "Absolutely. Everyone deserves their moment in the spotlight. Let's see what the transfer can do."
The snare had snapped shut. If she refused, she confirmed their belief in her inadequacy, cementing her status as the untalented quota student. If she accepted, she faced public humiliation on the school's biggest night.
Destiny looked at Harrington, then at the gleaming, arrogant faces on stage. She thought of her grandfather's calloused hands, and the symphonies he was never allowed to join.
"I accept," she said quietly, her voice steady. "I'll play."
The night of the fundraiser, the auditorium glittered with generational wealth. Donors in bespoke tuxedos and designer evening gowns mingled in the lobby, sipping champagne, exchanging pleasantries, and writing checks that secured the future of Westmont's elite.
Backstage, the atmosphere was suffocating with expensive cologne and nervous energy. Destiny stood quietly in the wings. She wore a simple, unbranded black dress she had bought at a thrift store, ironed to perfection. In her hands, she held her grandfather's violin, the wood dark and heavy with history.
On stage, Alexander's quartet delivered a flawless, albeit entirely sterile, performance of Vivaldi's Spring. The audience's applause was polite, appreciative, and exactly what was expected. They were clapping for the Crawford name as much as the music.
Then, it was time for the final act. Professor Harrington took the microphone, adjusting his tie, his voice dripping with faux-magnanimity.
"Ladies and gentlemen, Westmont Academy prides itself not only on excellence but on our charitable initiatives. We believe in opening doors. Tonight, to conclude our evening, we have a very special performance from our newest scholarship transfer, Ms. Destiny Jones. Please, give her a warm, encouraging welcome."
He stepped off the stage, walking down the steps to his seat next to a group of VIP donors in the front row. Destiny, standing just out of sight behind the heavy velvet curtain, heard him clearly as he leaned over to the chairman of the board.
"She's never even held a violin before," Harrington whispered, setting up the perfect humiliation. The donors chuckled, exchanging knowing, cruel smiles. "Another charity event, another display of who belongs and who doesn't. Prepare your ears, gentlemen."
Destiny heard every single word.
Her grip on the neck of her violin tightened. Her calloused fingers remembered differently. They held three generations of music that men like Harrington had tried to erase. Westmont Academy had rules about talent, about pedigree, about who deserved to be heard. They had invited her on stage as a joke. They wanted her to squeak, to falter, to prove that their walled garden was justified.