Art of Misalignment

Chapter 18 Broken Thread

Josh leaned back in the wide leather chair, smoke curling around him. His eyes stayed flat, unreadable.

“Enough, Dylan. I don’t need the family story.” He cut Dylan off with a sharp wave. “I don’t care who the guy is. Bring that ‘benefactor’ to me—or just set up the meeting—and I’ll let you pay the two hundred grand back slow, lowest interest I’ve got.”

He lifted one finger. “You’ve got one week. If he doesn’t show, Ada starts at the club next Monday. Sharp.”

Dylan flinched. He looked over at Ada—pale, unsteady on her feet—then nodded once, stiff. He turned and walked out fast, the bodyguards watching every step.

The hallway lights clicked on as the heavy door slammed behind them. Ada grabbed Dylan’s arm so hard her nails dug in deep. “Dylan… who the hell is this ‘benefactor’ Josh keeps talking about? Besides Maya, who else helped us last time? What does he mean ‘pay slow’? You have to figure this out!”

“I’m trying!” Dylan snapped, yanking his tie loose like it was choking him. His mind was spinning.

He remembered last time he should’ve spent New Year in lockup. Maya had ripped into him hard, but the money had still shown up in the casino account anyway. He’d always figured she sold her old cello or pulled from their parents’ trust. But now, hearing Josh, it sounded like there was another guy involved—a man.

“Could it be Liam?” The name hit him. Maya’s painter boyfriend always acted broke, but maybe he had some rich gallery owner or collector in his pocket.

Dylan’s hands shook as he pulled out his phone and dialed Maya. She’d know. If anyone had the truth, it was her.

“The number you have dialed is switched off or out of service area…”

The robotic voice landed like a punch. Dylan cursed under his breath. Right—her intensive camp. Doris had taken everyone’s phones for the audition prep.

“s**t. Of all the damn timing.” He switched to text, fingers flying:

【Sis, emergency. Josh is back. He’s asking about the guy who paid my debt last time—the benefactor. Who was it? He wants to meet him or Ada goes to work at his club. Reply ASAP—borrow a phone if you have to! You’re the only one who can help us. Please.】Dylan stared at the screen, chest tight. He had no idea the “benefactor” he was hunting might be the same person already pulling Maya under.

Maya sat off in a corner, poking at a piece of bread she couldn’t swallow. A week of locked rehearsals had worn her down to nothing; the only thing keeping her going was the thirty minutes every noon when they handed phones back for “family check-in.”

She got her phone from the monitor at the front desk, powered it on, and Dylan’s messages flooded the screen—full of panic, “help,” and something about a “benefactor.”

Her hand jerked. She frowned hard and typed back fast: 【Benefactor? What benefactor? Dylan, what are you talking about? Didn’t I already pay that debt for you last time? Why is Josh coming after you again? What did you do now?】

She hit send and stared at the screen. Her heart slammed against her ribs, breaths coming short.

A few minutes later the phone buzzed hard. Dylan’s reply jumped up: 【Sis, it’s 200,000 this time! Josh says a man paid my debt last time, and now he wants to meet that ‘benefactor,’ or he’s taking Ada. Sis, think of something! Besides that guy, who else had that kind of cash to save me!】

200,000.

The number hit like a brick. Dizziness rolled through her. The phone slipped from her fingers and clattered onto the table. She’d thought that hole was closed for good. Now it felt like it had split wider, darker.

“2:00 PM sharp, dress rehearsal. One second late and you’re out.”

Doris’s voice crackled over the speakers, cold and final. Maya blinked, shoved the phone back toward the monitor desk, face drained white. She pushed up from the bench, legs unsteady, and headed for the rehearsal hall.

2:00 PM, Rehearsal Hall.

Thump.

A flat, ugly note cut through the strings.

“Stop!” Doris’s baton cracked against the stand. “Maya, why is your left hand shaking like that? You trying to send that B-flat into orbit?”

Maya kept her eyes down. “Sorry, Professor. I’ll start over.”

The next ten minutes were the worst of her life. The bow slipped off the strings twice, her vibrato turned into a stutter, and she blanked on three whole bars during the chorus transition.

“Maya!” Doris shouted. “What are you doing? At this rate a street player sounds better. Get your head in the game!”

Every musician in the room stared.

Maya walked slowly toward Professor Doris’s office, each step heavy. The afternoon dress rehearsal had wrecked her—she’d been in a fog ever since, that feeling of walking on cracking ice finally giving way.

She pushed the door open. Doris stood by the window, back to her, holding a half-smoked slim cigarette.

“Maya, sit.” Doris didn’t turn. Her voice was flat, calm in a way that made it worse.

Maya sat on the very edge of the sofa, “Professor, about this afternoon… I can explain. Something came up at home, really serious, I—”

“Maya.” Doris turned, cutting her off. Her eyes were sharp, steady. “I don’t care about your personal stuff. The cello doesn’t either. This afternoon you didn’t just lose your technique—your head wasn’t there at all.”

Doris walked to the desk, stubbed the cigarette out, and looked straight at Maya. “You’re in no shape. The audition is too close. There’s no margin for mistakes anymore.

Maya’s chest squeezed hard. Tears pushed up fast. “Professor, please—one more chance. I’ll practice straight through the night. I can—”

“No.” Doris shook her head. The word landed heavy. “You’re wound too tight right now. One wrong move and everything snaps. I’ve already given your spot to the alternate. It’s done.”

Maya froze. It felt like the floor dropped out. All the hours, all the nights she’d pushed through—gone in one sentence.

“I’ve got a car waiting outside.” Doris pulled Maya’s phone from the drawer and set it on the desk. “Go back to the dorm, pack up. Go home. Sort your life out. When there’s another opening, I’ll reach out.”

“Another opening…” Maya stared at the phone. Dylan’s messages were still waiting inside—desperate, full of that 200,000 hole. She knew “another opening” was just polite. This audition was her shot. Losing it meant her career could stall for years.

She walked out numb. The night air hit her face, cold enough to make her shiver.

Back in the dorm, she closed the cello case without looking at anyone. Her roommates watched in silence while she stuffed clothes into her bag. When she stepped through the camp gate, the black sedan was already idling, red taillights glowing.

She slid into the back seat. Her hand shook as she turned the phone on. The screen lit up—missed calls, texts from Dylan piling up again like a net closing in. The girl who’d just lost her dream got dragged straight back into the mess of debt, threats, and money she couldn’t fix.

She didn’t look back at the lit-up rehearsal hall. That place used to feel like home.