Page 10 of My Bestie's Billionaire Brother

Tess

Itighten my grip on my cello case as I approach the Morrison Center, the early morning light casting long shadows across the pavement.

This morning, I arrived fifteen minutes earlier than usual. The Dvorák we're tackling today has a cello solo that's been living in my head for weeks. I've practiced it until the notes have become part of my muscle memory, but there's still that tiny knot of doubt that never quite unravels no matter how prepared I am.

When I reach the main entrance, a white sheet of paper taped to the glass door halts me in my tracks. I squint at the handwritten note:

REHEARSAL CANCELLED TODAY

Due to power outage

We apologize for the inconvenience

I stare at the paper, reading it again. My stomach tightens. A power outage is plausible enough, but looking down the street I see other buildings have their lights on. Could it be that PacWest was unable to pay their power bill?

I take a step back from the door. The cold reality of my financial situation hits me over the head: mortgage due in twoweeks, the vet bill for Oliver still unpaid, student loans that seem to multiply rather than diminish.

"Well, this is just perfect," comes a voice behind me. Lisa, our concertmaster, stands with her violin case slung over her shoulder, reading the note with a scowl. "Power outage, my ass."

"You don't believe it?" I ask, though I already know the answer.

Lisa gives me a look that tells me everything I need to know. “Randall in accounting told me they're struggling to make payroll."

More musicians are arriving now, gathering in clusters before the locked doors. The mood is somber, urgent whispers replacing the usual pre-rehearsal banter. I catch fragments of conversation:

"—heard they couldn't pay the heating bill last month?—"

"—donor pulled out after the gala?—"

"—looking at positions in Portland?—"

I clutch my cello case tighter, as if it might anchor me against the rising tide of panic. PacWest isn't just my employer; it's been my home for several years now. The thought of starting over somewhere new feels so overwhelming. Unless Seattle Symphony is looking to hire…

My phone buzzes in my pocket with a text.

Beck:Rehearsal cancelled. Coffee at Emerald City? I'm already here.

Me:On my way.

As I turn to leave, I notice our administrator, Marion, approaching with keys in hand. Her face is drawn, dark circles prominent beneath her eyes.

"Marion," I say, "what's really going on here?"

She hesitates, jingling her keys nervously. "Just a power issue, Tess. Should be fixed by tomorrow."

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. As I walk away, I can't help looking back at the Morrison Center—its elegant façade now seeming as fragile as a stage set that could collapse with the gentlest push.

I pick up my pace, desperate for coffee and Beck's steady presence. Maybe she'll have more information, or at least a perspective that doesn't leave me feeling like I'm standing on the deck of a sinking ship, watching the lifeboats drift away.

Emerald City Coffee bustles with morning customers. I spot Beck in the corner, hunched over her phone, her viola case propped against the wall.

The coffee shop radiates warmth against the gray May morning, the rich aroma of freshly ground beans and steamed milk a stark contrast to the cold knot of anxiety in my chest. Exposed brick walls and reclaimed wood fixtures scream Pacific Northwest chic—the kind of place that charges six dollars for a latte and somehow makes you feel grateful for the privilege.

Beck notices me and raises her hand in a half-hearted wave. At forty-five, she's been with PacWest since its founding. Two coffee cups sit before her.

"Figured you'd need this," she says, sliding one toward me as I set my cello case down carefully. "Double shot. I had them add a pump of vanilla."

"You're a mind reader." I take a long sip, letting the warmth and caffeine calm my nerves. "So…power outage, huh?"

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