5. Daphne

Chapter five

Daphne

I have a lot of negative traits. At least I can 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 negative traits 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 learned long 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.

I’ve only just started to relax when the front door slams against the wall with such force that I jump. Alex and Celeste tumble in, a blur of limbs entwined with their lips locked. Alexandru’s presses Celeste to the cool plaster, his hands roaming without restraint, while she claws at him, a needy whimper escaping her throat.

“Alex,” she breathes out his name in a plea for more. It’s one I silently say to myself too.

Just when I thought my day couldn’t get any worse. Looks like Celeste is about to fulfill her promise. She’s going to fuck Alex right in front of me.

Kill me .

I can’t tear my eyes away, even through the sting. The sharp twist of longing and hurt is a physical thing, clawing its way up from my stomach to lodge itself firmly in my throat. Alexandru, the boy who occupies my every waking thought, is displaying an intimacy so intense with Celeste, the girl who refuses to spare me a kind word to save her life.

“Must be tough,” Victoria says, her voice cutting through the haze of my pain. She leans in close, her breath hot on my ear. “Watching the man you pine over devour someone else.”

“Shut up,” I utter, my voice barely audible. My cheeks flame with embarrassment, but I’m powerless to stop the flush that betrays my inner turmoil.

“Aww, did I hit a nerve?” Victoria mocks, a cruel smirk playing on her lips. “You really thought you had a chance with him?”

I want to scream, to lash out, to make her feel even a fraction of the hurt that’s slicing through me. But all I do is glance away and avoid, because what’s the point? Celeste giggles, high-pitched and oblivious, as Alexandru kisses down her neck, his hands venturing beneath her shirt with a boldness that wrenches my heart.

“Pathetic, really,” Victoria continues, relentless. “Did you think he’d ever look your way? With her around?”

“No,” I admit. There’d be no point in competing.

I should move, but my body refuses to obey. Instead, I’m rooted to the spot with a mixture of anguish and an unwilling fascination. The sounds of their kisses, the soft moans, are an auditory assault. Each noise is a lash against my already fraying composure .

With each passing second, the air grows thicker. My anxiety is through the roof. All I can do is clutch the cushion beside me, knuckles white, as I force myself to watch them through self-deprecation. I’ll die on this couch.

Victoria leaves me with a parting shot as she turns away. “Checkmate.”

I swallow hard, blinking rapidly to clear my vision. It’s pointless to wish for the unattainable, yet here I am, wishing still. I realize that, sometimes, there’s no greater agony than a love that can never be reciprocated.

Then, giving me mercy, Alex stops. His vision darkens, and he removes his lips from Celeste’s body. Meanwhile, Celeste, as any woman would right now, huffs in annoyance.

Victoria groans. “Don’t tell me you’re stopping because of Daphne’s puppy-dog eyes.”

At the mention of my name, his eyes find me. And then I hear him clear his throat—an awkward, strangled sound that seems to echo painfully off the walls.

I don’t think he knew I was here, watching.

He peels himself away from Celeste, who clings to him like a second skin, her eyes heavy with desire. Very quickly, though, she composes herself and chimes in. “Must be uncomfortable for you, Alex,” Celeste says with a voice as smooth as silk and twice as suffocating. “Having her constantly nearby and watching you with those needy things she calls eyes.”

Guilt paints Alex’s face, a shadow that seems to envelope him. His gaze remains downcast, avoiding mine as if the sight of my pain might shatter the illusion he’s built around himself. His hands are trembling slightly, and whether it’s from the adrenaline, their heated encounter, or the discomfort of this confrontation, I can’t tell.

Nor does it matter.

“Let’s go to my room,” Celeste coos, her fingers encircling Alexandru’s wrist, tugging insistently. “We need some privacy, away from jealous eyes.”

He allows himself to be pulled along, taking my shattered heart with him. He casts a fleeting glance in my direction, a look so quick I might have imagined it, but even that is enough to send shards of ice through my veins.

I’m going crazy thinking that, deep down, he has feelings for me like I do for him.

As they disappear down the hallway, the door to Celeste’s bedroom closes with a click.

The tears come unbidden, hot and relentless. They carve tracks down my cheeks, each one a testament to the love I can never express, the touch I can never feel. I press my palms against my eyes, willing the world away, wishing I could melt into the cushions and become as inconsequential as I perceive myself to be. Why can’t I stop loving him?

As the sounds of Celeste’s giggles filter through the walls, accompanied by the low murmur of Alex’s voice, I realize that some wounds cut too deep.

I curl tighter on the couch, pulling my knees to my chest as if I can somehow shield myself from the reality that unfolds feet away. I’m lost in my thoughts when a key turns in the front door lock.

Thank God. At this point, I’d welcome just about any company.

A murderer, for example. Gimmie.

Eden steps into the living room. Her auburn hair is pulled back in a loose ponytail, a few strands framing the honest concern etched across her face. She pauses, takes in my tear-streaked cheeks, and her eyes soften.

“Hey,” she says gently, setting her bag down with a soft thud. “I was thinking how about we make some dinner? Could distract our minds from the day.”

Must be obvious why I’m crying alone on the couch.

I nod, the motion sluggish, as if I’m underwater. “Yeah, sure.” My voice is a hollow echo, distant and detached. It’s all I have right now, so I’ ll take it.

We shuffle to the kitchen together. The clink of pots and pans is a welcome reprieve.

“Professor really laid into us today, huh?” Eden breaks the silence, reaching for a cutting board. “Guy’s got a stick up his ass so far it’s a wonder he can even conduct.”

Hmm. I honestly forgot all about our instructor calling me out during class with all the Alex drama that unfolded.

Truthfully, I feel a bit better having something else to talk about with Eden. Let’s rewind and go back to earlier today when my only embarrassment was a poor musical performance.

A ghost of a smile flits across my lips, dissipating as quickly as it came. “Yeah, he does.”

“Want to run through that piece again later?” Eden asks, slicing through a tomato with precision. “Could use the practice, and misery loves company.”

“Sounds good.” Eden has always been a lifesaver. “Thanks,” I add softly, catching her eye across the counter.

“Anytime. That’s what friends are for, right?”

Just like that, the weight in my chest lifts ever so slightly again. Solace found in shared struggles and the simple act of chopping vegetables side by side helps my nerves settle .

The sizzle of onions in the pan harmonizes with the dull thud of the kitchen door swinging open. What? Even when depressed, I manage to find music in everything.

Anyway, I don’t need to look up to know it’s Alex; his presence fills the room.

“Food before fun, Celeste,” he calls over his shoulder, an attempt at humor failing to mask the edge in his voice. Through the gap in the door, Celeste’s high-pitched whine fades as she complains about her, and I quote, “sopping-wet pussy”.

“Hey, Daphne. Eden,” Alex greets us, attempting nonchalance.

“Hi,” I murmur. I center my attention on stirring the vegetables, hoping to hide the tremor in my hands.

“Smells good. Need some help?” His eyes meet mine for a brief second, and I’m caught in their familiar warmth.

“Sure. You used to enjoy cooking, right?”

“Used to,” he mutters, tying the apron strings with deft fingers, a shadow crossing his face.

I don’t believe it. I still think he’s avoiding cooking, though he never stopped loving it.

Eden glances between us, her eyes knowing. She wipes her hands on a dish towel and smiles thinly. “I’ll just, ah, use the bathroom.”

Once she leaves, the door clicks shut behind her, leaving Alex and me alone amidst the aroma of garlic and basil. For a moment, we’re suspended in time, lost in the rhythm of chopping and stirring.

“Remember when you taught me that silly song about herbs?” I ask, hoping to lighten the mood and, okay, I’ll admit I want to remind him of happier times, with me in them. The corners of his mouth twitch upwards, and a soft chuckle escapes him.

“Ah, yes. ‘Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme,’” he sings under his breath, off-key but endearing.

“Exactly.” My laughter feels like bubbles rising in my chest, popping gently against my ribs. I venture after a beat, “Why’d you stop cooking? You were so passionate about it.”

He pauses, his knife hovering above the cutting board. “It never made me any friends,” he admits, his shoulders slumping.

“That’s not true,” I counter softly, placing my hand over his, feeling the rough calluses against my palm. “You’ve always had me.”

His gaze lifts to mine, brown eyes searching as if trying to uncover a secret within me that I can’t see myself. Then, he offers a small, grateful smile, and it’s like watching the sun break through storm clouds.

Always and forever.

“Thanks,” he says. There’s something vulnerable in the way he says it .

As we continue cooking, the laughter and conversation flows easily. For a fleeting moment, I allow myself to pretend he feels it too.

The simmering pot on the stove releases a cloud of aromatic steam, but the scent of garlic and basil can’t mask the tension that slices through the air when Victoria strides into the kitchen. Her eyes are dark thunderclouds as she zeros in on us, and I feel a preemptive shiver run down my spine.

“Alex,” she snaps, her voice sharp enough to shave ice. “Celeste is throwing a fit on the sofa. She’s crying.”

I glance over at Alex, his laughter dying in his throat, the corners of his lips tilting downward as if they’re weighted with lead. He coughs awkwardly, casting a look towards the living room that’s equal parts guilt and exasperation.

“Of course she is,” he mutters, almost under his breath, and there’s a note of irritation there that makes me wonder about the cracks beneath their perfect facade. With a resigned sigh, he wipes his hands on a dishtowel and heads towards the sound of Celeste’s whimpering sobs.

I watch him go, feeling a hollow sensation gnawing at my stomach. The kitchen suddenly appears colder as if his departure has let in a draft. My fingers twitch at my sides, useless without his warmth nearby .

“Really?” Victoria’s voice cuts through my melancholy musings. I jerk my head up, meeting her gaze, which feels as though it’s aiming to peel me apart and uncover my innermost thoughts. “What are you doing?”

“Uh, just—” I start, but my voice betrays me, quivering like a plucked harp string. “We were only—”

“Getting cozy with my brother?” Victoria’s eyebrows arch in a silent accusation. “I swear, if this is some ploy to mess with me, I’ll make your life a living hell.”

“Victoria, no, I wasn’t… I wouldn’t—” I fumble for the words, but they’re slippery eels in my grasp. I’m not even sure what truth I’m trying to defend.

Is that why she hates me so much? It started when we were kids because she thought I got special treatment for being “poor”, as she calls it, but has grown because she thinks I’m toying with her brother?

Absolutely not true. I’d never hurt her brother to teach her a lesson. In fact, I care for him despite her.

I don’t get the opportunity to tell her any of this because she interrupts me. “Save it. My family gave you opportunities out of pity, and this is how you repay us? By seducing Alex?”

How she implies that I have no real feelings for him is enough to make my skin itch. As if I’d let him become entangled in the crossfires of my and Victoria’s rivalry. I could never. In fact, when I’m with Alex, I never bring up Victoria. Our competitive nature is a poison, and I’d rather poison myself than expose him to it.

“I promise you that’s not what’s happening. I would never do something like that.”

She studies me for a moment longer as if she’s peering into my soul, searching for deceit. Then, with a heavy sigh that seems to carry all the weight of her suspicions, she turns on her heel and strides away, leaving me to stew in a broth of confusion and hurt feelings.

Alone in the kitchen, I wrap my arms around myself, trying to hold together the pieces of a day that has shattered like glass. The boiling pot bubbles over, forgotten, as I collect myself.