Page 10 of Never Enough
I feel a wave of nausea wash over me as I watch them, my heart tightening painfully in my chest.
“Maybe,” I mumble, pushing my food away. Celeste looks up from her passionate exchange with Alexandru, just long enough to give me a triumphant smirk before returning her attention to him. Meanwhile, Alex seems to look everywhere but at me.
A silence descends over our table. Eden tries to diffuse the situation by engaging lighthearted conversation, but it’s obvious that she’s not successful.
I hate how everyone pretends that everything’s fine when it clearly isn’t. The air is heavy with tension, and I can’t seem to shake off the oppressive weight pressing down on me.
In the end, I decide to leave without taking another bite of my meal.
As I walk away, I hear Victoria’s spiteful laughter echoing behind me. The sound cuts through me, reminding me yet again of my place in this twisted social ladder.
Yet I refuse to let them witness my collapse. I’ll keep my head high and my heart guarded. The worst they can do is shatter the shell, but they’ll never get to who I truly am—a fighter.
Chapter five
Daphne
Ihave a lot of negative traits. At leastIcan admit them.
For example, I crave relationships even when they’re toxic—my second set of foster parents had the whole “I hate you; don’t leave me” thing going on. The older I get, the more I let people talk shit about me—again, that whole “toxic relationship” thing. I’m cynical. I mean, my grandma left me a small fortune to learn the harp while my mom couldn’t pay the rent. Did I even try to barter the money back? Nope.
Yet all those negative traits pull together to create my greatest positive trait: discipline.
I learned the harp at eleven years old. Every note. Every string. Every sheet of music placed in front of me was mine to master. I practiced until the tips of my fingers bled. For when I play the harp, I’m no longer human. As Grandma says, I’m an angel.
So, getting berated by my professor in front of everyone because I didn’t have time to practice while transferring to another university across the country grates on my nerves. And all those negativetraits hold me down. Did I stand up for myself? No. I should have found time, even if it was in a freakin’ gas station bathroom.
It’s my fault.Please don’t leave me.
The key twists in the lock, a defiant click signaling my return to what I can’t really call a sanctuary. My fingers tremble as I push the door open, the weight of my professor’s latest scolding still pressing on my shoulders. Inside, the apartment’s dull lighting seems to mock the darkness settling in my chest.
Once inside, I toss my keys into the bowl by the doorway with more force than necessary. He wouldn’t have to criticize me if I’d just memorize the damn melody. My hands itch to pick up the harp, to prove I can do it, that I’m not the weak link he thinks I am.
I collapse onto the couch, the cushions hardly offering comfort as they swallow my frame. Then, for a moment, I let the silent apartment lull me into a false sense of solace.
Ruining the entire orchestra, I imagine him saying again, no hint of belief in my potential. Could one person’s failure really bring down an entire group? I draw in a shuddering breath, my resolve hardening. “I need to try harder. I won’t be the reason we fail.”
“Trying harder might actually require having some talent to begin with.” Victoria’s voice slices through the quiet like a blade,sharp and cold. I flinch, my eyes snapping open to find her standing over me.
“Please don’t—” I start, but she holds up a hand, silencing me.
Then, she sits next to me, crowding my space. “You’re going to ruin everything unless you get your shit together. Do you understand how important this is?”
“Of course I do,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper, but it’s lost on her like a soft note drowned out by a cacophony of strings.
“Then act like it!” Victoria’s lips twist into a sneer. “Memorize your music. Be professional. Or are you too busy mooning over my brother to focus?” Her words sting, but I shove the feeling away. Now’s not the time.
“Look at you, so pathetic it’s almost sad,” she continues, her voice dripping with disdain. “You think because you grew up poor and have some sob story that you deserve special treatment? That you’re entitled to anything?”
“Please,” I plead, trying to keep the tears at bay. “I’ve had an awful day, and I don’t need your bullshit to go along with it.”
“You’re so dramatic,” she snaps. “Be the best or be nothing at all. That’s the Whitmore way.”
Your way, maybe,I think but don’t dare say aloud. Instead, I nod, the fight draining from me as I sink deeper into the couch, my spirit fracturing under the weight of her contempt. I’ve learnedlong ago that arguing with Victoria Whitmore is akin to playing a harp with broken strings—a futile endeavor.
“Good,” she says curtly, straightening up. “I expect to see improvement, or else…”
“Or else,” I echo silently after she opts to scroll through her phone next to me. Thank Renié she’s finally shut up. Renié being the famous female harpist Henriette Renié. You know, one of my biggest idols.