I take my seat. On my stand is a printed photo. The Earls walking into my house.
Beneath it, a headline.
Is violinist a sugar baby? You decide.
The copy is worse.
Christianna Daye, second chair at the New Orleans Opera House, recently moved into a multi-million dollar residence and regularly receives male visitors.
Famed conductor James Earl and his twin, in-demand director David Earl, are frequent guests, along with renowned composer Erik Leroux and his business partner Remy Robichaux.
When approached for comment, Ms. Daye sicced her pit bulls on this reporter. See the full video on YouTube.
My fingers curl against the edge of the stand.
The paper shakes slightly as I lift it.
All around me, chairs scrape. Bows are adjusted. No one looks at me directly.
That’s worse.
Low whispers still reach me.
A titter and “if she blows that hard she should be in the horn section.”
I bite my lip until I taste copper, and place my music over the article blocking it from view.
I swallow back the bile and breathe through my nose.
I am stronger now.
These people mean nothing to me.
Their opinion is nothing.
I am no longer a young girl, fooled into thinking the judgement of others was my weight to carry.
Chapter eighty-seven
Remy
“This is bullshit. We need to fix this,” I snap at my publicist.
He starts in on distancing us from Christianna. Protecting the opera house. Protecting the key players. Damage control.
What he’s really saying is that Christianna is expendable.
That is fucking unacceptable.
Erik wanders in, Meg right behind him.
“No. Dammit. I pay you to solve problems, not create them,” I say. “Leaving our violinist tarred as a whore while you protect everyone else is not an option.”
Erik’s eyes narrow. Meg’s go wide.
She moves to my desk and drops a black envelope onto the surface. Silver script. My stomach drops.
I drag a hand through my hair.
