Until the Last Note: Chapter Three - The Performance

On the stage of the Orpheum Theater, the music becomes a confession. With Brooks in the front row, Rey plays the performance of her life, leading to a backstage confrontation where the line between hatred and desire finally snaps.

Chapter Three

The Performance

Audry

The Orpheum Theater is a cathedral of gold leaf, velvet, and ghosts.

As I stand in the wings, the scent of dust and old perfume clinging to the curtains, I feel the familiar weight of my Amati in my left hand. Normally, this is the moment where my heartbeat slows to a rhythmic, professional thrum. This is where the world falls away, and I become nothing more than a vessel for the composer’s intent.

But tonight, the humidity of the city feels like it is inside my lungs. My palms are damp, and the silk of my black concert gown feels like it is constricting my ribs.

I know he is out there.

I don't need to check the seating chart. I can feel him like a low-frequency vibration in the floorboards. Brooks is a man who occupies space with a gravitational pull that defies logic. Even when we are miles apart, I spent five years feeling the tug of him. Now that he is in the same room, the air feels electric, dangerous.

"You're on, Rey," the stage manager whispers, giving me a light pat on the shoulder.

I step out into the blinding warmth of the spotlights. The applause is a roar, a wave of sound that usually feels like an embrace. Tonight, it feels like a challenge. I walk to the center of the stage, my heels clicking softly, and bow.

And then, I see him.

Front row, center. Just like he promised.

He wears a dark suit that makes him look like a shadow in the sea of faces. He isn't clapping. He just sits there, his hands resting on his knees, his eyes locked onto mine with a terrifying intensity. He looks like he is waiting for me to fail. Or worse—he looks like he is waiting for me to remember.

I turn to the conductor, give an abrupt nod, and lift my violin to my chin.

The first movement of the Tchaikovsky concerto is a test of fire. It requires technical perfection and an almost aggressive level of passion. I dive into the notes, my bow arm moving with a precision that I’ve honed over thousands of hours of practice. I play for the balcony. I play for the critics. I play for the version of me that doesn't have a wedding ring tucked away in a velvet box at the bottom of a suitcase.

But then comes the second movement. The Canzonetta.

It’s a mournful, lyrical piece of music. It’s the sound of longing. It’s the sound of a heart trying to explain itself when words have failed.

I try to keep my eyes on the conductor’s baton, but the music pulls my gaze downward. I look at Brooks. He hasn't moved. But his expression has shifted. The hard, corporate mask is gone, replaced by a look of such raw, aching recognition that I feel my fingers falter on the strings.

For a split second, I am not in the Orpheum. I am back in our house in Charlotte, the night before I leave for London. We're standing in the kitchen, the air thick with the smell of the rain outside. He asks me to play this very piece for him. I refuse. I tell him I need to pack, that the music is for the stage, not for a Tuesday night in the suburbs.

I have been so protective of my "art" that I forgotten it is supposed to be a gift.

I close my eyes, the notes flowing out of me like a confession. I play the movement for him. I let the violin cry out the things I was too proud to say five years ago. I let the vibrato carry the weight of every silent night in every lonely hotel room in Europe. I let the music tell him that even though I have the applause of the world, I still wake up reaching for a ghost.

When the final note fades into the rafters, the silence in the theater is absolute.

I open my eyes and look at Brooks. He looks stripped raw. His jaw is tight, and for the first time in five years, I see the man I married—the man who loves the girl, not the violinist.

The third movement is a blur of adrenaline and speed. I finish the concerto with a flourish that brings the audience to their feet, the roar of the crowd deafening. I bow, I smile, I accept the bouquet of roses. But I never take my eyes off the man in the front row.

He doesn't stand. He doesn't cheer. He just stands up slowly, adjusts his jacket, and walks toward the exit before I can even leave the stage.

Twenty minutes later, I am in my dressing room, the door locked. I have stripped off my gown and put on a robe, my skin still buzzing from the performance. My fingers are throbbing, the tips raw from the strings.

There's a knock on the door. It isn't the polite, tentative knock of a fan or a stagehand. It is the staccato demand of a husband.

I stand up, my heart hammering against my ribs, and open the door.

Brooks is standing there, a single glass of scotch in his hand. He doesn't say anything. He just pushes his way inside and shuts the door, the click of the lock sounding like a gunshot.

"You played it," he rasps, his voice sounding like it has been dragged over gravel.

"I played the concerto, Brooks. It was on the program."

"Don't lie to me, Rey. Not tonight." He steps closer, the smell of bourbon and woodsmoke filling the small room. "You played the Canzonetta for me. You played it the way you used to when we were in the Marigny. You played it like you were dying."

"I am playing for the audience," I say, my voice shaking. I reach for my violin case, needing something to hold onto. "I am playing for my career. The things you never understood."

He grabs my arm, spinning me around to face me. His eyes are dark, a turbulent storm of anger and something that looks dangerously like hope. "I understand more than you think. I understand that you are using that violin to build a wall between us. I understand that you were so afraid of belonging to me that you chose to belong to everyone else."

"I choose to exist, Brooks! I choose to be more than a footnote in the Garrett family legacy!"

"You were never a footnote! You were the goddamn headline!" He slams his glass down on my vanity, the scotch splashing onto the marble. "I would have given you anything, Rey. I would have followed you to the ends of the earth if you’d just asked. But you didn't ask. You decided for me. You decided that my love was a cage before I even had a chance to open the door."

"You asked me to stay," I whisper, the tears finally starting to burn my eyes. "You asked me to choose."

"Because I was lonely!" he roars. "Because I was a man who loved his wife and waned to see her more than twice a year! Is that a crime? Is it a crime to want the woman I married?"

I look at him—really look at him—and the anger suddenly drains out of me, replaced by a hollow, aching fatigue. "We were both wrong, Brooks. We were both too young and too stubborn, and we love our pride more than we love each other."

I walk over to the desk and pick up a manila envelope. I had Marcus prepare a fresh set of papers this afternoon. I lay them on the table between us.

"Sign them," I say softly. "Please. Let’s stop this, Brooks. It’s been five years. We’re both exhausted."

He looks at the papers, then back at me. He steps closer, until I can feel the heat of his body. He reaches out, his hand hovering near my face before his fingers finally brush the hair back from my forehead. The touch is so tender it feels like a knife to the heart.

"I can't," he whispers.

"Brooks—"

"I saw you out there tonight, Rey. I saw the way you closed your eyes. I saw the way you leaned into the music when you thought no one would notice." He moves his hand down to my neck, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw. "You're still in there. The girl I loved. She’s still in there, and she’s still mine."

"I am not yours," I sob, even as I lean into his touch. "I am my own. I am the music."

"Then let the music be enough," he says, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl. He leans in, his mouth inches from mine. "Tell me you don't feel this. Tell me that the last five years have killed it. Tell me you don't want me to sign these papers just so you can stop running."

I can't answer. I can't breathe.

He kisses me then. It isn't the kiss of a stranger or a ghost. It is the kiss of a man who has been starving for five years. It is a collision of teeth and tongue and all the things we haven't said. It tastes of scotch and salt and a love that refuses to die.

I fist my hands in his shirt, pulling him closer, my body betraying every logical thought I ever had. I hate him. I love him. I want to scream at him and I want to disappear into him.

He lifts me up, sitting me on the vanity among the makeup and the spilled scotch. His hands are everywhere—my waist, my hair, my thighs. He's marking me, claiming the space he lost, and I'm letting him. Letting him because for the first time in five years, I'm not playing a role. I'm not "Rey St. James." I am just a woman who has finally come home.

He pulls back, his forehead resting against mine, both of us gasping for air.

"I'm not signing them, Rey," he whispers against my lips. "Not tonight. Not ever."

I look at the papers on the table, then back at his dark, determined eyes. The "Until the Last Note" isn't just a title. It is a sentence.

"Then what are we doing, Brooks?" I ask, my voice a broken string.

"We're finishing the song," he says.

Come back next week for another story

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

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Published by LS Phoenix

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First Edition: February 2026

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