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THE CON ARTIST
BRIELLE
“Ça va, ma chérie?”
I flinch away from Bastien’s touch and give him a tight smile. “Oui.”
“You look exquisite in this dress, Brielle.”
“This old thing?” I joke, but it falls flat because I do not care what this man—this leech—thinks of me. He may be conducting my orchestra because he is the best in all of France, but this is my concert, my stage, my audience, and he is my bitch now.
“Have dinner with me tonight, after the show.” It isn’t a question, it’s a demand.
“I do not think that would be a very good idea.”
“You’re still upset over something that happened a year ago?” He tsks. I don’t know how I ever found this man attractive. He’s old, and grey. He’s a sad, pathetic cheater, and his balls are wrinkly. “Brielle, I thought you were a woman, not a little girl?”
“Oh, but I am, Bastien. I’m a woman who your wrinkled little pin dick will never be inside again. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a show to perform,” I say with a smile that is far brighter than I feel. I’m nervous. I’m sick to my stomach, and I wish I had not eaten before coming out here.
The curtain rises. The applause from the audience fills the opera house, and I smile as I head out on stage and curtsey, before turning to take my bow and cello from the stand. I position myself and have to tune my instrument a little before I can begin thanks to the air conditioning.
“Bonsoir!” I say into the microphone and look out across a sea of black faces. I cannot make out their expressions, thanks to the lights shining in my eyes, but I know I have their undivided attention, because you could hear a pin drop in the room. I still have no idea how I got here. Perhaps it was my video on YouTube that went viral, or maybe it had more to do with the headlines surrounding me and Levi’s attempted suicide. Either way, I am sitting in a sold-out opera house, so I suppose I have arrived.
The audience claps as Bastien walks out on stage. He’s far too professional, and too proud to let our words behind the curtain affect the way he conducts the orchestra. I know I can rely on him for that one thing—at least.
“My name is Brielle Kagawa, and I am honoured to be here to play for you tonight. This song is one of my own compositions. It’s titled L'artiste Con—The Con Artist.
I wait for Bastien to count me in, and I slide my bow across the strings. I’m joined by the rest of the orchestra, and my heart swells with pride. I get lost in the rhythm, the melody, and the pain that is always an extension of me, as my bow saws across the strings in heart-wrenching strains. I try not to think of him. I cannot afford to think of him. The flash of his cold, pale flesh in the bathtub, his body so still, so lifeless when I pulled him out. As if he was just taking a nap. As if he hadn’t shattered my heart, and my world into a million pieces.
Instead, I play.