Chapter 3

Rhiannon's POV

The grating sound of the bow dragging across the strings echoed through the hollow room for I don't know how long, until my right hand finally seized up from the tension, cramping violently.

The cheap bow slipped from my fingers, clattering against the hardwood floor. My vision began to swim.

The exhaustion of the past few days, the sleepless night at the hospital, and the soul-draining confrontation just now finally broke past my body's limits.

Everything went black, and I slid from the chair, sinking into unconsciousness.

When I came to, dusk was already settling outside the window.

I pulled myself up from the cold floor, every bone in my body screaming in protest. Leaning against the wall, I took deep, shuddering breaths. Cold sweat clung to my back, but in the dim room, my eyes burned with an intense, sharp clarity.

I walked into the bathroom and splashed freezing water over my face. Looking up, the woman in the mirror was haggard, her hair a tangled mess, her expression tainted by an ingrained habit of subservience and appeasement.

It was the mask I had forced myself to wear in this life just to satisfy Edward.

"Pathetic," I muttered, staring at my reflection.

Reaching for the shears beside the sink, I grabbed the waist-length hair that Edward loved so much without a second thought.

*Snip.*

Minutes later, the mirror reflected a woman with a sharp, blunt bob. Cold, severe, and striking—like a freshly unsheathed dagger.

The inferno of my past life, the sneering coldness of this one, the suffocating attachments—I severed them all with my own hands.

I returned to the music room, drew every heavy curtain shut, and unlocked the safe nestled in the corner. Beneath the pile of supposedly priceless jewelry Edward had gifted me sat a small black flash drive.

Over the past year, whenever Edward was away, I had quietly recorded myself playing in this soundproofed room. No orchestral accompaniment—just me, a violin, tearing through high-difficulty concertos that Edward had dismissed as flashy, useless showmanship.

It was how my suffocating soul had kept itself breathing.

I powered on my laptop and typed out a familiar, complex European email address from memory.

The Conservatoire de Paris. The cradle of the world's most elite violinists.

In my past life, that was where I had graduated before stepping onto the global stage.

The clatter of the keyboard sounded remarkably crisp in the quiet room. I didn't write a lengthy bio, nor did I mention any personal background. I simply typed a single sentence in French:

[This is what music actually sounds like.]

Then, I attached the video of my performance of Paganini's *Caprice No. 24* and clicked send.

Once it was done, I shut the laptop, walked over to the window, and looked down at the sprawling city lights below the hill. This city had kept me trapped for three whole years. It was finally time to break the cage.

The wait wasn't long. A mere four hours later, just as the wall clock ticked toward two in the morning, a crisp notification chimed from the screen.

I walked over and clicked open the email from Paris.

The sender was the dean of the conservatory himself, a world-renowned maestro. The reply was equally brief, but it pulsed with an almost feverish excitement:

[Mon Dieu, I cannot believe my ears. You have breathed new life into Paganini. Whoever you are, wherever you are, the doors of the Conservatoire de Paris are wide open for you. Unconditional admission, full scholarship, and if you are willing, I will take you on as my personal pupil. Please, tell me: when can you arrive?]

Staring at the words on the screen, my eyes grew hot. It wasn't out of sorrow, but a long-lost, electric resonance that belonged solely to music.

To Edward Sterling, I was dirt beneath his shoes, a failed musician who couldn't even manage the basics. But in the true halls of art, I was still the untouchable prodigy.

I took a slow, deep breath, rested my hands on the keys, and typed out my reply:

[I will be there in one week.]

Send. Close tab. Clear browsing history.

I stood up and packed the cheap practice violin back into its case. Starting today, I had only seven days left. In these seven days, I would return every ounce of humiliation Edward had inflicted upon me. And then, I would leave without looking back.

I picked up my phone and unpinned Edward from every messaging app.

Just as I reached to turn off the lamp, the screen lit up with a blast notification from the orchestra's group chat.

[Attention all musicians: Tomorrow at 9:00 AM sharp is our final full dress rehearsal before the international competition. As Ms. Lauren Vance is the featured soloist, all string sections must adjust strictly to her tempo. Chief accompanist Rhiannon Vance, please ensure you arrive early.]

Sent by Edward's executive assistant.

Looking down at the screen, my lips curved into a cold, sharp line.

Adjust to her?

Sure.

I set the phone down, climbed into bed, and closed my eyes. For the first time since my rebirth, I slept in absolute peace.

There was no fire in my dreams, no broken pleas from Edward. There was only the cool breeze along the Seine, and a melody whose strings would never snap.