Page 5 of Twisted Empire: King's Gambit

He sets his glass down, turns toward me, and takes my hand. “Bella, you’re going to do more than well. You’re going to own that room because when you play, it’s like the world stops to listen.”

It’s cheesy as hell, but it’s also exactly what I need to hear.

“Well then, world, get ready,” I say, lifting my wine glass.

Damien clinks his glass against mine. “To stopping the world.”

“And to us,” I add.

“To us,” he echoes.

GABRIETTE

The entire morning is a haze of anticipatory nerves, like I’m waiting for the jury to deliver a verdict on my life. I go through the motions, dressing up, picking the right shoes, fixing my hair. Every second ticking by is a reminder that it’s almost time.

Damien drops me off at the venue bright and early so I can have my heart attack and internal meltdown in public. “You got this, Bella. Knock ‘em dead,” he says, stealing a quick kiss before I get out of the car.

I force my legs to carry me inside, clutching the handle of my cello case so tightly it’s as if I’m hanging onto a lifeline.

While I’m walking inside, I see Jackson up ahead and feel David at my back, their presence offering me comfort when I need it most

Jackson gives me an encouraging nod as I pass him. I told him to get here before me so Damien could drop me off himself. Damien still thinks they’re only close family and doesn’t ask many questions about them.

“You’ll do great, Reginetta,” Jax says, kissing me on both cheeks.

“Thanks, Jax,” I mumble, my eyes scanning the grandeur of the entrance hall. He’s probably more confident in me right now than I am.

I get ushered into a waiting room, where other musicians are tuning their instruments, some lost in their thoughts, some practicing scales. I find a corner to sit in and take deep breaths, trying to center myself.

But every inhale comes laced with ‘what-ifs’ and every exhale seems to fan the flames of my inner turmoil.

Finally, my name is called. I snap back to reality, gripping my cello as I walk into the interview room. It’s both bigger and smaller than I imagined—larger in space but smaller in the sense that now it contains just me and a panel of impassive faces.

They nod, introducing themselves in a blur of names and titles, barely registering in my heightened state.

My fingers rest on the strings of my cello, the bow hovering above. The silence stretches thin, like a tightrope walker calculating the risk of the first step.

“Whenever you’re ready, Ms. Smith,” says the head of the panel, smiling kindly yet scrutinizing me with an intensity that feels like it could dissect my soul.

Here goes nothing.

I pull the bow across the strings and plunge into my piece. My hands shake at first, but as I lean into the music, something miraculous happens.

The room fades away, the faces blur, and all that’s left is the conversation between my cello and me.

Each note is a plea, a prayer, an assertion, a declaration. I pour every hidden corner of myself into the composition, Gabriette and Bella converging in a symphony of sound and silence.

When the last note vibrates into stillness, the room is hushed. I look up, realizing I’d closed my eyes at some point, lost in the music.

The moment stretches into infinity. The panel’s eyes are on me, and I realize that I’m holding my breath as if the slightest exhale could change their minds.

My fingers, just moments ago deftly guiding the bow across the strings of my cello, now grip the instrument like a life raft.

“Welcome to the Philharmonic, Ms. Smith,” says the head of the panel, breaking the magical silence. The words are simple, but their weight is monumental.

The pause is probably just a few seconds, but it feels like years. Time has the audacity to slow down when you’re waiting for a verdict that will define your next chapter. My heart is racing, doing laps around my ribcage like it’s on a track field, each beat a question mark reverberating through me.

You know that feeling when you’re on a roller coaster, climbing the steep slope to the first big drop? Anticipation and dread intertwining so tightly, you can’t separate them?

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