Page 82 of Never Enough

It’s stifling, with hundreds upon hundreds of audience members all attentively watching and listening to her masterpiece.

Most of all, it’s magnificent.

I’m standing at the back of the ornate, wood-paneled auditorium, the air thick with anticipation. As Daphne takes her place at the harp, soft, warm spotlights illuminate the stage. The audience, a sea of faces, is hushed, their eyes fixed on her. The scent of flowers and perfume hangs in the air, mingling with the rich tones of the orchestra’s tuning.

Daphne’s playing fills the room with a wave of ethereal sound. Her fingers pluck the strings with a delicate touch, each note a shimmering jewel in a tapestry of melody. The orchestra’s accompaniment swells and fades, creating a harmonious backdrop for Daphne’s solo.

I sit transfixed the entire time, in complete awe. It’s hauntingly beautiful. Gothic even. It’s like every single beat transcribes from the beat of my heart.

Seconds turn into minutes, and I don’t think I’ve blinked a single time. But it still ends much too soon.

The last haunting note of Daphne’s harp lingers in the charged air like a whispered secret, weaving its way into the deepest recesses of my soul. I can’t breathe, can’t think. Her fingers have plucked more than just strings; they’ve unraveled the very fabric of my being. She’s always been this enigma, a melody in human form that I’m forever trying to deconstruct and understand.

“Wow,” I murmur under my breath, the word entirely inadequate for the storm of emotions she’s stirred within me. I’m so glad I’m here.

The auditorium cascades into applause, but the sound feels distant, drowned out by the thumping of my heart against my ribcage. People rise from their seats, their standing ovation a thunderousroar to match the quiet intensity of her performance. But it’s not the crowd I see; it’s her.

As the lights flicker on, piercing through the dim afterglow of her solo, our eyes lock over the heads of the audience. There’s an ocean of people between us, but at this moment, it’s as if we’re the only two souls in existence. The corners of her eyes glisten with tears, and it’s like looking into the sun—blinding and raw.

“Look at her,” I whisper to myself, though I’m not sure why I bother with words when my chest is already so full of her it might burst.

She stands there, a solitary figure bathed in the spotlight, chin-length wavy hair framing her face, the sharpness of her jaw a contrast to the vulnerability in her hazel eyes. Tears trail down her cheeks, carving a path as poignant as the music she’s just shared. She’s beautiful. No, that’s too simple a word. She’s magnificent.

And she’s mine, even if nobody else knows it. Even if she doesn’t realize it yet. I’ll do anything to get my girl back.

Daphne’s lips part in a tremulous smile, pride shining through the dampness on her skin. That’s my girl, strong and resilient, a survivor of more darkness than anyone should ever know, standing proud in the light of her own brilliance.

I want to rush to her, wrap her in my arms, kiss away those tears, and promise her the world. But I stay rooted in place, my love forher a secret kept in the shadows of my heart. A secret I’ve clung to since the day she pulled me back from the edge, saving me from myself.

Daphne looks happy, her usual melancholy swept away in the tide of applause. I imagine her joy is a fragile thing, something rare and precious, and it fills me with a fierce protectiveness. She deserves every cheer, every tear, and every moment of happiness that life can spare.

The crowd disperses.

I’m not one of them, though, because I’m still caught in Daphne’s gravity, unable to look away. And I know, without a doubt, that I would do anything, be anything, just to see her smile like that again. We make eye contact, and she grins.

Thank fuck, she looks happy to see me.

I have to get to her. I’ll make a grand gesture, including screaming how much I love her, at the top of my lungs in this crowded auditorium .

In tangent, we weave towards each other, still too far away to shout above the heads of others.

Before she can reach me, she’s intercepted by Victoria. I immediately tense, expecting a show-down of sorts, but thankfully, they both glow with crinkled eyes and massive smiles.

Again, I need to give my sister more credit.

The audience’s adulation is a living thing, but it pales next to the storm of emotions swirling within me. With renewed awe, I’m sauntering towards her, but this time she isn’t focused on me. I’m still a few hundred feet away. Daphne’s eyes are still glistening when, suddenly, they widen in alarm. She’s frozen in place while staring at someone to the right of me.

There, like a shadow amongst hues of evening wear, stands a skinny woman with dark, long hair. Her resemblance to Daphne is uncanny—same sharp jaw, same wavy darkness of hair, except five times the length.

A relative? No, there’s something more sinister in the way this woman’s eyes fixate on Daphne, something predatory. My chest tightens as my mind races with possibilities.

Who is she, and why does Daphne look terrified to see her in the crowd?

Before I can dissect further, Daphne turns on her heel and abruptly exits. Something’s not right. The feeling intensifies when the older doppelgänger follows suit, her movements deliberate.

Alarm bells clang in my head.

This isn’t right. I feel like I’m seconds away from losing her.

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