Page 1 of Never Enough

Chapter one

Daphne

Whenever I play my harp for crowds, surges of electricity course through me. Each note that leaves my fingertips seems to pierce the ceiling, bouncing back with such force that it feels like I’m merely a vessel. It’s a desperate release of pure catharsis.

In fact, the best part is that I’m actually good.

Years of playing since middle school had earned me a full-ride scholarship at Whitmore University, the Midwest’s most prestigious art college. That’s why I transferred here as a junior this year. Despite the benefits of getting a quality education, the decision wasn’t easy. Attending WU meant encountering the Whitmore siblings, whose family looms over the university like a pair of imposing figures.

I have a complicated history with both of them. Okay, fine, I’ll admit I’m anxious. Not sure why. Maybe it’s just the change of scenery, the anticipation of meeting new people, or the thought of seeing him again. Him being Alexandru Whitmore, my biggestcrush. Annoyingly, he’s Victoria’s brother. The same Victoria who is my biggest rival.

To give credit where it’s due, I also have a bit of natural talent, and home wasn’t exactly a safe place for me.

I think that’s why Victoria hates me. Our teacher gave me keys to practice in the studio overnight. The truth is the teacher sympathized with my home life. Being able to have a protected space for practice carried significant meaning. From Victoria’s standpoint, I bet it looked a lot like favoritism.

The familiar anxiety creeps up as I walk towards the music building for my first class of the day: plucked strings. Yet the thrill of playing my beloved harp quickly tempers my nerves. It was Grandma who introduced me to the instrument, leaving behind money to cover lessons at the prestigious Whitmore Institute for teenagers. The same Whitmores that own this university. They have quite the monopoly on musical education around these parts.

From cradle to grave. From Whitmore Institute for teenagers to Whitmore University for adults. To my surprise, my grandmother gave all of her money to me instead of my mother, who had hoped for it. This caused even more tension between us as she tried to get all of the payments back before my grandmother passed away. It turned out that the Institute had strict contracts against refunds or cancellations.

A year later, my dad moved out and started a new family in Iowa, or so I’ve heard.

So, naturally, playing the harp now brings mixed emotions. It’s like a double-edged sword. On one hand, it reminds me of Grandma and all the good times we had. But on the other, it brings back all those bad memories with Mom and Victoria.

As I walk towards the music building, the Midwestern sun beats down on me. I hope that, now that we’re adults, Victoria will have moved past her animosity towards me. After all, it has been nine years since we last saw each other.

Pushing open the door to the main hallway of the music building, I am greeted by a rush of fresh, air-conditioned breeze. I must still have Alex on my mind because when a tall, lean figure with dark hair emerges from a doorway, I do a double take, convinced it’s Alex. But I quickly dismiss the thought. Alex had no interest in music; he much preferred video games and baking.

I wonder if he would even remember me. It’s been nine years, after all. Either way, I’ll never forget him, even if I’m alone in my sentiments. My soul called out to his from the moment I saw him, and he will always be my should-have-been.

The music building is a bustling beehive. Students, laden with instruments, practice in the hallways or engage in animatedconversations. My heart pounds as I navigate the throng, my mind racing.

I’m on a mission to find my plucked strings class.

My palms are sweating as I approach the room. A part of me wants to turn back, but I can’t. Grandma Rosaline always taught me to give my entire being to my passions. I won’t be run off that easily.

I shove my sunglasses onto my forehead, take a deep breath, and remind myself that Victoria no longer holds sway over me. I closed that chapter of my life.

As I nudge open the door and step into the brightly lit room, I’m in heaven with the plethora of string instruments—lutes, zithers, banjos, and harps. Even so, my attention immediately draws to Victoria Whitmore.

Victoria, as always, is the picture of perfection. Her hair is flawlessly styled, her makeup impeccable, and she’s wearing Chanel No. 5 perfume. Hey! I might not be able to afford it, but I’ve indulged in free samples at the mall. I’m not a total helpless cause.

Victoria is chatting to Celeste Morgan, who is casually leaning against an empty wall.

Holy hell, Celeste looks completely different than how I remember her. It’s like Khloe Kardashian in season one ofKeeping up with the Kardashians, versus season 20. Both are beautiful,just different. Victoria laughs at something Celeste says, and I’m brought back to the past.

As if sensing my scrutiny, Victoria and Celeste turn to meet my gaze. Dread washes over me as they approach, their confident strides echoing the predatory grace of lions stalking their prey. I’m reliving an old nightmare.

“Daphne! What an unpleasant surprise.” Victoria’s grin lacks any warmth, making her gaze feel like needles on my skin.

As a Whitmore, she probably knows I’m on a scholarship. It wouldn’t surprise me if she memorized my entire schedule.

I’ll never forget the first time she scowled at me. It was right after I’d joined the Whitmore Institute and earned the coveted First Chair in our section. First Chair is a big deal; it means the teacher thinks you’re the best musician in your group. Equally so, it’s also a constant battle. One week you’re on top, and the next you might be back in the middle.

Victoria’s mood soured after I’d won First Chair. So, when her brother walked into class at the end of the day and I practically had little hearts coming from my eyes with drool pooling from the corner of my lips, she immediately noticed.

Victoria has always been a spoiled brat. Even at eleven, she wore fur coats and got weekly beauty treatments. I know because sherubbed it in my face after I’d come to the Institute with a terrible homemade haircut.

Alexandru, her brother, couldn’t be more different. He’s a year older and always seemed more down to earth. The first time I saw him, he was twelve and wearing glasses, a baseball cap, and ripped jeans. How could I have known they were related? Their eyes might look similar, but that’s where the resemblance ends. I had no idea he was her brother; I swear.

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