Page 81 of My Bestie's Billionaire Brother

I can't just sit around and wait for the phone to ring. I need a plan, a backup, something to hold onto before everything I've worked for crumbles.

After lunch, I’m attacking Bach's Cello Suite No. 3 with more force than the piece demands, as if I can drive away the morning's bad news through music. Art watches from his perch on the windowsill, tail twitching in what I choose to interpret as appreciation rather than criticism of my aggressive tempo.

My fingers find the notes automatically while my mind races through increasingly desperate financial calculations.

My savings account holds enough to cover about three months of expenses if I'm careful. After that? The thought makes my stomach clench tighly. I've always lived modestly, puttingaway what I could from my PacWest salary, but I never imagined preparing for twins on a suddenly nonexistent income.

I've just started the Bourrée when my phone vibrates against the coffee table. I lower my bow, irritated at the interruption, then freeze when I see the caller ID: Seattle Symphony.

My heart rate doubles instantly. I set my cello carefully against the couch and wipe my sweaty palms on my leggings before answering.

"Hello?" My voice comes out higher than I intend.

"Ms. Whitlock? This is Maestro Cortez from Seattle Symphony." His voice is warm, his slight accent wrapping around each syllable. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything important."

"Not at all," I say, watching Art jump down to investigate my abandoned cello. "It's good to hear from you."

"I'm calling with some news I hope you'll find exciting." He pauses, and I hold my breath. "We were very impressed with your audition last week. The panel was unanimous in their assessment of your talent."

A flutter of hope rises in my chest, but I temper it. There's always a "but" in these conversations.

"Thank you," I say cautiously.

"We'd like to offer you a position with the Seattle Symphony," he continues, and my knees actually buckle. I sink onto the couch, pressing the phone tighter to my ear. "It would be temporary to start—covering for Gloria Stewart during her maternity leave."

Maternity leave. The irony isn't lost on me.

"She's due in three weeks," Cortez explains, "and will be away for six months. During that time, you would assume her position as associate principal cellist. If things go well—and I have every confidence they will—there may be opportunities for a more permanent arrangement afterward."

I'm nodding vigorously before remembering he can't see me. "Yes," I say quickly. "I mean, I accept. Thank you so much for this opportunity."

"Excellent!" The pleasure in his voice sounds genuine. "HR will email you the details this afternoon. We'd like you to start rehearsals next week, if that works for your schedule."

"It's perfect timing, actually," I tell him, thinking of PacWest's sudden downward spiral.

We discuss a few more logistics before hanging up. The moment the call ends, I let out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob, startling Art from his inspection of my bow. Six months of guaranteed work with one of the best orchestras in the country. Associate principal cellist, no less—a step up from my position at PacWest.

Relief floods through me. This morning I was facing unemployment; now I have a lifeline. The temporary nature of the position is a concern, but six months gives me time to prove myself, to secure something permanent. And the salary is nearly thirty percent more than what I made at PacWest.

I should be purely, unreservedly happy. But as the initial euphoria fades, a needle of doubt pricks at my bubble of joy. Barbara Carlton's insinuation from the audition day creeps back into my mind: You're only here because of Charlie Astor.

Did I get this job because I genuinely impressed them? Or because Charlie has connections throughout Seattle's elite circles?

I pace the length of my small living room, trying to shake off the thought. Cortez said the panel was unanimous. He emphasized my talent specifically. Would they really give a temporary associate principal position to someone who couldn't handle it, just as a favor to a donor? That would be professional suicide.

No. I stop pacing, planting my feet firmly on the hardwood floor. I didn't get to where I am by doubting myself. I graduated from Juilliard. I've performed as a soloist with orchestras across the country. I earned my position at PacWest through a blind audition where no one knew my name or background.

Iamgood enough. And if there's any lingering doubt about that in anyone's mind—including my own—I'll erase it with every note I play.

The temporary nature of the position is both a challenge and an opportunity. Six months to prove I belong there permanently. Six months to make myself indispensable. Six months that, conveniently, end right around when the twins will be born.

That's a complication I'll have to navigate carefully. I'll start showing soon enough, and while pregnancy discrimination is illegal, I've seen enough pregnant musicians quietly sidelined to know that the classical music world isn't always as progressive as it pretends to be. But that's a problem for future Tess. Today, I have a job offer to celebrate.

I check the time on my phone—just past one. Charlie will be buried in meetings until evening. This isn't news I want to share via text or phone call anyway. I want to see his face when I tell him, want to share this moment in person.

For now, I turn back to my cello. There's a stack of Seattle Symphony recordings on my shelf. Time to pull them out, to listen with fresh ears, to prepare myself for the challenge ahead. They’ve offered me the position, but I'll earn it every day from now on.

I pick up my bow again, straighten my spine against the familiar weight of anticipation and determination, and begin to play—not with the desperate force of earlier, but with renewed purpose. Each note is a declaration: I belong here. I am worthy of this opportunity. I will prove it to everyone, including myself.

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