Page 6 of Twisted Empire: King's Gambit

That’s me. Right now, in the suffocating silence of this room, I am a human roller coaster, teetering on the edge of elation and panic.

They’re not saying anything else. Did they change their minds? I mean, shit, they have the power to, don’t they?

What if the guy who said, “Welcome to the Philharmonic, Ms. Smith,” now says, “Sorry, we actually meant to say Mrs. Smith, not Ms.?”

It’s irrational, I know, but doubt is a seasoned thief, always knowing when to strike.

My cello is still in my hands, and I feel the sweat forming on my palms. The bow is slightly heavier, or maybe my arms are just tired.

It’s as if the room is holding its collective breath, waiting for my reaction.

My nerves, which had settled into a sort of numb serenity as I played, surge back into life. There’s a weird mixture of dread and hope swirling inside me. What if they change their mind?

I become hyper-aware of every small sound—the faint hum of the air conditioning, the subtle shuffling of papers, the soft clearing of someone’s throat. Each one amplifies my anxiety, ratcheting up the tension notch by excruciating notch.

And then, finally, the head of the panel smiles. A genuine, warm smile that crinkles the corners of their eyes. It’s as if that smile releases all the pent-up tension in the room, a palpable sigh of relief that echoes my own internal release.

It’s only then that I manage to respond, my voice shaky but audible. “Oh, my gosh! Thank you so much!”

Mr Walsh smiles at me and nods his head. “Leave your details with Martha at the front desk, Bella. We’ll be in touch via email with everything you need to know,” he says.

“Yes, of course! Thank you again!” I say with my heart in my throat and tears springing into my eyes.

As I gather my cello and exit the room, those two simple words linger in my mind, grounding me, reminding me that this is real. I did it. I actually did it.

Still, it’s not until I’m outside the room, away from the intensity of that moment, that the significance truly hits me.

I lean against the wall, feeling its solid, cool surface against my back, and let out a breath I didn’t even realize I’d been holding.

I’m in. I really am! I got here all by myself, too! The Philharmonic is going to be a part of my life, a part of both Gabriette’s and Bella’s stories.

And it’s all because of that room, that panel, and that nerve-wracking silence that stretched on forever but was over in an instant.

I exit the building after leaving my details and the world outside seems brighter, lighter, a place of boundless possibilities. I’m almost floating in euphoria as I search for Jackson’s familiar face or the comfort of the car that should be waiting for me.

But he’s not there. A sudden chill rushes down my spine, the bubble of my newfound happiness bursting in an instant.

Jackson has never left me alone; not even when I needed to go to the bathroom in a public place. Come to think of it, I didn’t see him in the auditorium when he’s usually everywhere I am.

“Jax?” My voice catches, shaky. My hand scrambles for my phone, but I can’t find it in my pocket. Did I take it with me this morning? I can’t…. wait…

The edges of my world dim. A chill slices through me. Something’s wrong. I can feel it, a darkness seeping into the corners of my joyous moment.

“Jackson!” I call again, louder this time, my voice filling with panic. My heart races, each beat drumming out a rhythm of fear.

And then, just like that, the world tilts on its axis. I reach out, my fingers clawing through the air, seeking something, anything, to hold on to.

But there’s nothing. And as darkness swallows me whole, I have just enough time to think, what now?

And then, nothing

GABRIETTE

The air smells stale and heavy, like mothballs and damp carpet. I squint against the dim lighting, my vision blurred at the edges. My head throbs, each pulse a jackhammer in my temples.

A slow sweep of my surroundings confirms it—this isn’t my bedroom.

Generic motel art hangs on the walls, and a nondescript dresser sits opposite an equally nondescript bed, its sheets rumpled. I’m wearing what I remember from my interview, but how I ended up here is lost to me.

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