Page 76 of My Bestie's Billionaire Brother

I follow her down another hallway, my cello cradled against my side. The audition room itself is warm and echoing, withhoney-toned oak panels lining the walls and deep crimson seats rising in gentle tiers before a single music stand at center stage. The acoustics in this room are legendary—designed to carry every nuance of sound to the furthest corner.

Five people sit in the third row—the audition panel. I recognize Maestro Cortez, the current music director, and a few other senior musicians. They watch me with polite, professional interest as I take the stage.

"Good morning, Ms. Whitlock," Maestro Cortez says. "Whenever you're ready."

I bow slightly, place my music on the stand, and position myself on the chair. I open my case at center stage, ease my endpin onto the polished wood, and settle the cello between my knees. My instrument feels alive against me, vibrating with potential.

I close my eyes for a moment, centering myself. When I open them, I begin with slow, deliberate scales that ripple through the high ceiling. The sound comes back to me, rounded and full, and something in my chest loosens. This is my element. This is what I know.

Without pause, I glide into my first piece—Bach's Suite No. 1 in G Major. My fingers find the strings with practiced precision, my bow arm steady and sure. The Prelude flows from me, each note resonating crisply back from the walls. I lose myself in the music, in the perfect mathematical precision of Bach.

I move through the required repertoire—a movement from Dvorak's Cello Concerto, a technically challenging contemporary piece that showcases range and versatility. My shoulders slide down in relief as I notice the panel exchange approving glances. One woman leans forward, her attention complete.

When I finish my final piece, there's a moment of perfect silence—that sacred space between the end of a performance and the beginning of the world again.

"Thank you, Ms. Whitlock," Maestro Cortez says, breaking the spell. "That was exceptional."

"Truly lovely," adds one of the musicians, a silver-haired man whose name escapes me.

"We'll be in touch very soon," Cortez continues. "There's a small reception in the Green Room if you'd like to join us after you've packed up."

I thank them, carefully return my cello to its case, and follow the signs to the Green Room, a flutter of hope in my chest. They liked it. I know they did. I could see it in their faces, hear it in Cortez’s voice. For the first time in weeks, I feel a sense of possibility—that maybe, just maybe, everything will work out.

The Green Room lives up to its name—walls painted a soothing sage, comfortable furniture arranged in conversational groupings, a small bar set up in one corner serving coffee, water, and what looks like champagne. Several musicians and members of the board are already there, mingling with what must be other auditioners.

I accept a glass of water from a server and stand near the window, allowing myself a moment to breathe. It went well. Really well. I replay certain passages in my head, analyzing, but finding little to criticize in my performance.

"Ms. Whitlock."

I turn to find Maestro Cortez beside me, his expression warm. "Maestro. Thank you for the opportunity today."

"The pleasure was ours. Your Dvorak was particularly moving." He glances across the room. "I believe Barbara Carlton wants to meet you. She's a key supporter of our string section."

He gestures toward a woman across the room. She's petite and blonde with a sleek haircut. Dark-rimmed glasses perch on the high bridge of her nose, and her navy blazer stretches taut over sharp shoulders as she lifts a flute of champagne to her lips.

"Of course," I say, following Cortez across the room.

"Barbara, this is Tess Whitlock, our cellist from this morning," Rodriguez introduces me.

Barbara Carlton's handshake is cool and brief. "Such a lovely audition," she says, her voice honey sweet. "Though I can't help thinking it was Mr. Astor's generosity that got you here."

The words hit me like a physical blow. I stare at her, momentarily speechless, as my cheeks heat with embarrassment and anger.

"I'm sorry?" I manage.

"Charlie Astor," she clarifies unnecessarily, her smile never wavering. "He's quite the advocate for the arts these days. Called in personally about your audition, I understand."

Around us, other people murmur and lean in, clearly interested in this bit of gossip. My jaw clamps shut, my fingers curling around my water glass as mortification washes over me.

"Ms. Whitlock's credentials speak for themselves," Cortez interjects, his tone firm. "Her position with PacWest?—"

"Yes, PacWest," Barbara interrupts, her smile sharpening. "Such a shame about their financial troubles. It must be a relief to have...connections."

The insinuation is clear: I didn't earn this audition. I'm here because my boyfriend pulled strings. That I've somehow slept my way into this opportunity.

"I've been principal cellist at PacWest for five years," I say, my voice steadier than I feel. "My resume and recordings were submitted through the standard channels." I pause, meeting her gaze directly. "But you're right that connections matter in our industry. They always have. I'm fortunate to know people who recognize talent when they hear it."

Barbara's eyebrows lift slightly, perhaps surprised by my directness. "Of course," she says, retreating slightly. "I only meant?—"

---