Chapter 3: What The Hell Are You?

Sophia's POV

I'm sitting on this beat-up couch in my Brooklyn apartment, staring at the half-unpacked boxes scattered around me like the remnants of my old life. Sunlight filters through yellowed curtains, casting everything in this sickly amber glow that makes my skin look even paler than it feels.

My phone buzzes against the coffee table. Margaret's name lights up the screen.

"Honey, I've got some bad news." Her voice sounds strained, like she's been dreading this call.

I grip the phone tighter. "What now?"

"Boston Symphony just called. They're pulling the plug on next month's concerto."

The coffee mug in my other hand nearly slips. "What? We have a contract."

"They're claiming 'scheduling conflicts,' but that's total bullshit and we both know it. I pushed for details, and all they kept saying was sorry, we'll pay the cancellation fee."

A cancellation fee? They'd rather throw money away than have me perform? This isn't about scheduling.

"Margaret, what's really going on here?"

"I don't know yet, but I'm damn well gonna find out."

The line goes dead. I'm left staring at my reflection in the black phone screen. Dark circles under my green eyes, hair that hasn't seen a proper brush in days. I look like complete shit.

My phone rings again two hours later.

"Chicago canceled too," Margaret says without any small talk. "They're 'restructuring their performance schedule.'"

Something cold settles in my stomach. "That's two major orchestras in one day."

"Sophia, I've been doing this for twenty years. This doesn't just happen."

By the end of the week, it's four cancellations. Philadelphia. Los Angeles. Each call from Margaret sounds more defeated than the last.

"I've never seen anything like this," she says during what feels like our hundredth conversation. "Every major orchestra we had lined up, gone. Like someone just flipped a switch."

I'm pacing around my tiny apartment now, wearing a groove in the already threadbare carpet. "Someone's definitely behind this."

"That's exactly what I'm thinking."

Then the students start dropping like flies.

Mrs. Patterson calls first. Emily's mom, whose daughter was preparing for a competition I'd been coaching her toward for months.

"We're gonna have to stop Emily's lessons," she says, her voice cold and formal.

"Why? Emily's been making incredible progress. The competition is next month."

"We've heard some concerning rumors, and we just don't feel comfortable continuing."

"What rumors?"

"I think you know better than we do. I'm sorry, but this is final."

Click. I stare at the phone, confusion turning to dread.

The next call comes an hour later. Then another. By evening, six families have canceled their children's lessons. All with the same vague excuse about "rumors" and "not feeling comfortable."

What rumors could possibly make parents pull their kids from piano lessons?

That night, I make the mistake of googling my own name.

The results make my blood run cold.

"Sophia Blake: Classical Music's Gold Digger"

"From Bar Girl to Lincoln Center: The Real Story Behind One Woman's Rise"

"How Far Will Some People Go for Fame?"

I click on the first article, my hands shaking. The comments section is a complete nightmare.

"My friend at Juilliard said she slept with professors to get her scholarship."

"Heard she was shacking up with some conductor. Wonder what she had to do to earn that."

"Just watched videos of her playing in that dive bar. This is the talent that gets Lincoln Center? Must be nice to have connections."

Each comment feels like a physical blow. I keep scrolling, even though every word makes me feel sicker.

My phone starts buzzing. The Juilliard alumni group chat, usually full of gossip and networking opportunities, is eerily quiet. I type a message.

"Can someone tell me what's going on?"

The dots appear and disappear several times. Finally, one response.

"Sophia, you should probably stay out of the group for a while."

That's it. Years of friendship, gone.

By day five, I'm desperate enough to swallow my pride and go back to where it all started. The Blue Moon feels smaller than I remember, with the same sticky floors and the faint smell of cigarettes that never quite goes away despite the smoking ban.

Tony looks up from behind the bar when I walk in. I can see the conflict in his weathered face immediately.

"Sophia, sweetheart, you know I've always loved having you here..."

"But?"

He won't meet my eyes. "Some people came by. Important people. Said if I kept you on, there might be problems with my liquor license."

"What people?"

"You know I can't say. But these are folks who could shut me down tomorrow if they wanted to. I got employees depending on this place, rent to pay..."

I dig my nails into my palms. "So you're throwing me out too?"

"It's not throwing you out. It's survival. I'm really sorry, kid."

The walk back to my apartment feels endless. Every step is heavier than the last.

Back in my cave of an apartment, I sit on the floor surrounded by the wreckage of my life. The single lamp casts long shadows across the walls, making everything look distorted and wrong.

Maybe Isabella was right. Maybe I really am just a substitute. Without Alexander's protection, I'm nothing. Three years of thinking I was growing as an artist, and it turns out I was just living in a beautiful lie.

My phone screen lights up. Alexander's name. Call number thirty-seven.

I stare at his contact photo. The two of us after our Carnegie Hall debut, both of us glowing with post-performance adrenaline. We looked so happy. So real.

Was any of it real?

The phone stops ringing, then starts again immediately.

I close my eyes, trying to push down the desperate urge to answer. To hear his voice. To let him fix this mess like he's fixed everything else in my life for the past three years.

"Sophia Blake," I whisper to the empty room, "what the hell are you?"

The phone rings again.

"A girl from Ohio who thought she could conquer New York?"

Another ring.

"Did he ever love you? Or were you just a convenient replacement?"

Ring.

"If you really have talent, why can't you do anything without him?"

I watch his name flash on the screen one more time. My finger hovers over the answer button.

The phone keeps buzzing in my hand, and I can feel my resolve cracking with each vibration.

I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and press the power button.

The screen goes black, and the apartment falls completely silent.