The Miles Between Us

The screech of the 1-train was the only applause Jake got these days. He sat on his crate, the wood of his cello cold against his chest. He pulled the bow across the strings—a low, mournful G that seemed to vibrate through the very soles of the commuters' shoes. To them, he was a ghost. To the hospital, he was "Account #4902." To his sister, Mia, he was the hero who always brought home enough for her meds. Jake closed his eyes, losing himself in the music. He didn't see the black SUV pull up to the curb above. He didn't see the girl with the diamond-encrusted life step out, looking at the subway entrance like it was a doorway to another planet. Then, he heard it. The click-clack of expensive heels on the dirty tile. He didn't stop playing. He just waited for the usual—a penny, a nickel, or a look of pity. Instead, the music was met with a silence so heavy it made him open his eyes. Standing there was a girl who looked like she’d been carved from moonlight making a sound." Jake tightened his grip on his bow. "It's just music, lady. You want to hear 'Wonderwall' or something? That’ll cost you twenty." The girl, Clara, didn't flinch at his coldness. She reached into her silk clutch, pulled out a wad of hundred-dollar bills, and dropped them into his case without counting them. "Play the one that screams. I think it’s the only thing I’ll listen to today. *. *. *. * The ride from the Columbus Circle station back to the Upper East Side was only twenty minutes, but for Clara, it felt like crossing an ocean. She sat in the back of the armored Cadillac, her hands tucked into the sleeves of her coat. She could still feel the vibration of Jake’s cello in her bones—a raw, honest ache that made the luxury around her feel like a plastic stage set. "You were gone a long time, Clara," a voice said from the shadows of the seat beside her. Her father, Senator Sterling, didn't look away from his tablet. The blue light reflected off his silver hair and the sharp, predatory lines of his suit. He was a man who measured success in polling points and campaign contributions. "I needed air, Dad," Clara said, her voice practiced and neutral. "Air is for people who don't have a schedule," he replied, finally looking up. His eyes were cold. "The gala for the Preston-Sterling merger is in three days. Julian has already called three times. He’s flying in from Silicon Valley tonight. You will be at the airport to meet him. With a smile." Julian Vane. The tech billionaire. The man her father had chosen to be her husband—not because he loved her, but because Julian’s data-mining empire would guarantee her father the presidency. "I'm not a product, Dad," she whispered. The Senator leaned forward, the smell of expensive bourbon and tobacco filling the small space. "In this family, Clara, we are all products. I am the Leader. Your mother is the Grace. And you? You are the Heart. Now, fix your makeup. You look like you’ve been wandering in the gutters."