Chapter 3 - The Broken Violin
The rain began to fall heavy over Manhattan by 4:00 PM, lashing against the floor-to-ceiling glass windows of Adrian Sterling’s private penthouse suite on the top floor of the estate.
Inside the quiet room, the lights were dimmed to a soft golden hue.
Mia sat on the edge of the large velvet sofa, wrapped in a plush white blanket. Her left side was still neatly braided, but the right side of her head was covered by a soft cashmere knit cap Rosa had placed on her to hide the jagged, cut strands.
She wasn't crying anymore. That was what scared Adrian the most.
She sat perfectly still, her small fingers tracing the dark polished wood of her quarter-sized violin resting on her lap.
Adrian walked into the room softly, holding a tray with two mugs of hot chocolate topped with extra marshmallows. He set the tray on the low glass table, sitting down beside her, his long legs folded awkwardly on the rug.
“How is the ear, baby?” Adrian asked gently, brushing a stray lock of hair away from her face.
“It doesn't hurt, Daddy,” Mia whispered, her eyes glued to the violin’s scroll. “Dr. Harrison put a tiny bandage on it.”
Adrian reached out, placing his warm, heavy hand over her small knee. “Mia... I am so sorry. I should have been here. I should have seen what kind of person she was.”
Mia looked up at him. Her eyes—the exact deep emerald green of her late mother, Julianna—were wide and filled with a quiet, devastating sadness.
“Can I still play my song today?” she asked softly.
Adrian’s chest tightened so hard he could barely breathe. “Mia... the recital starts in two hours at the Lincoln Center. You don't have to go. We can cancel it. I’ll tell the director you’re sick.”
“No,” Mia said instantly, her small voice rising with a sudden, fierce determination. “Mommy taught me this song before she went to the stars. She said when I play Ave Maria, the whole world stops to listen. I don't want Vanessa to win, Daddy.”
Adrian stared at his seven-year-old daughter. Behind her fragile frame, behind the chopped hair and the tear-stained cheeks, he saw the iron spirit of her mother—a world-class concert violinist who had never surrendered to fear, not even during her final battle with illness.
A soft knock sounded on the open suite door.
Rosa stepped into the room, holding a tall, black leather garment bag and leading a young woman with short, edgy dark hair, wearing a sleek black jumpsuit and holding a leather stylist’s kit.
“Mr. Sterling,” Rosa said softly. “This is Clara Vance. She’s the head stylist from the Broadway theater district. Senator Vance called her twenty minutes ago.”
Clara stepped forward, offering a warm, quiet smile. She didn't look at Adrian like he was a billionaire; she looked straight at Mia with kindness and zero pity.
“Hi, Mia,” Clara said, dropping down to sit cross-legged on the floor in front of her. “I heard you’re playing a solo at Lincoln Center tonight.”
Mia pulled her cashmere cap down a little lower. “My hair is ruined,” she whispered.
Clara smiled, opening her leather kit to reveal dozens of silver clips, glitter ribbons, and professional styling shears. “Ruined? Honey, long hair is boring. Half the lead actresses on Broadway would give up their salary for a sharp, edgy pixie cut. Have you ever seen a rockstar violinist?”
Mia blinked, looking at Clara through her long eyelashes. “A rockstar?”
“Yup,” Clara said, pulling out a small pair of gleaming silver scissors. “If you let me fix this, you’re not going to look like a little girl at a school play. You’re going to look like a prodigy.”
Mia looked at Adrian.
Adrian took a deep breath, looking at Clara, then down at his daughter. He reached out, gently lifting the cashmere cap off Mia’s head.
“What do you think, Rockstar?” Adrian asked softly.
Mia took a deep breath, looking into the mirror across the room. She looked at her ruined curls, then at her violin, and finally at her father’s brave, waiting face.
May you like
She let go of her blanket.
“Do it,” Mia said.
