Chapter 621

Evelyn was acutely aware she was merely a placeholder contestant with no real shot at victory. Her only goal was not to embarrass Leonard too badly—making the top ten would suffice.

Isabella, however, radiated fierce determination when they crossed paths at the competition entrance.

"This is being live-streamed," Isabella said, voice sharp. "Our orchestra only has two representatives. I'll ask one last time—will you collaborate with me?"

Evelyn shook her head. "No collaboration."

She knew a duet would create an entirely different effect than a solo performance. Two instruments could weave together, enhancing the melody's depth and emotional impact. Historically, nearly all winning pieces were duets. By refusing, Evelyn was effectively forfeiting any chance at the prize.

Isabella's lips thinned. "Fine. Let's see what magic you can pull off alone."

What Evelyn hadn't anticipated was Cassandra's presence.

Typically, contestants were selected through national orchestra auditions or university recommendations. Cassandra had been arrested during internal selections, disqualifying her.

Yet there she stood, smirking. "Surprised? My father's the orchestra's vice conductor. Pulling strings to get me in was child's play." She tossed her hair. "If not for that unfortunate incident, I'd have won the cello division. Don't think Leonard's mentorship makes you superior, Evelyn. I'm still the cello queen."

Evelyn turned away without a word.

The dismissal made Cassandra's nails dig into her palms. She'd begged her father for this chance. Her arrest had spread through the industry like wildfire. Winning was non-negotiable—it would be her redemption, her ticket into the entertainment world.

She whirled toward Isabella. "First violin, how about we collaborate?"

Isabella hesitated. Freshly returned from abroad, she lacked connections. Most contestants already had partners. A cello's rich tones would make her violin shine brighter.

After a beat, she nodded.

In her assigned room, Evelyn noticed the camera pointed at her desk. So this truly was live.

The host's voice crackled through speakers, announcing the competition's start. Contestants would draw lots to determine their composition themes.

A hostess handed out identical spherical containers. Evelyn plucked one at random.

Unfolding the slip, she read: "Love."

A deceptively simple theme. Countless love songs existed across genres and eras—but that very breadth made it treacherous. The cello's melancholic timbre wasn't naturally suited for love's fiery passion.

Following instructions, she displayed the theme to the camera. The countdown began.

Soundproofing swallowed all noise from adjacent rooms. Over the next forty-eight hours, if selected for the top ten, she'd perform her piece live.

Evelyn tuned her cello absently. The piece she'd posted online days ago would've fit... but using pre-existing work was unacceptable.

She scribbled notes, the camera zooming in on indecipherable markings. Only she understood the chaotic scrawl.

Meanwhile, Isabella and Cassandra had also drawn "Love."

Cassandra's conservatory-trained mind conjured ideas instantly. Twenty years of rigorous training guaranteed that. Isabella, too, felt confident—her overseas education had honed her composition skills.

But collaboration cracks appeared immediately.

Both insisted their instrument take the melodic lead, relegating the other to harmony.

"The violin's brilliance is meant for melody," Isabella snapped, mindful of the cameras. "Expecting me to play second fiddle? Absurd. It's like buying flowers and keeping only the stems!"

Cassandra scoffed. "The cello's depth carries its own narrative power."

"Then we compose separately," Isabella proposed. "After twenty-four hours, we'll pick the stronger piece."

Two options increased their odds. Cassandra agreed.

Twenty-four hours later, Evelyn's composition neared completion.

She'd jotted initial thoughts: What was love to her?

Sincerity. Mutual respect. Arguments weathered together. Companionship that felt like coming home.

Her mind conjured Alexander's face.

The cello's voice, aged and wise, demanded closed eyes and an open heart. As notes flowed, her vision crystallized. She transcribed them meticulously.

Isabella and Cassandra, however, were deadlocked.

Their styles clashed violently. Both refused to compromise.

With time bleeding away, Isabella suddenly brightened.

"Split the piece," she whispered, pulling Cassandra aside. "Violin leads the first half, cello the second."

Cassandra frowned. "It'll sound disjointed. Our pieces don't mesh."

Isabella's smile turned sly. "I have a pre-written composition. Minor adjustments, and it's competition-ready."

The camera caught their conspiratorial huddle—but not their words.