He Smashed My Violin And Lost Me

The glow of my laptop screen cut through the dark living room. I scrolled through the European Music Festival portal, my eyes scanning the digital paperwork.

Laney hadn't lied.

Ethan’s electronic signature sat proudly at the bottom of the official recommendation form. He had logged into my foundation account, bypassed my management, and swapped my name for hers.

The front door unlocked. Ethan walked in, loosening his tie as he kicked off his shoes.

"You changed the festival roster," I stated, turning the laptop so the screen faced him.

He stopped in the center of the rug. He didn't look guilty. He didn't even flinch.

"I was going to tell you tomorrow," Ethan replied. He tossed his keys onto the console table. "You already have enough exposure this year."

"You gave my solo spot to the woman you were kissing backstage."

"Don't make this ugly, Elowen. Laney needs a breakthrough." He unbuttoned his cuffs, avoiding my gaze. "You have fame. You have resources. Giving up one performance won't kill you."

I stared at the man standing across from me. The betrayal went far deeper than a smeared lip color or a ruined violin. He was actively dismantling my life to build hers.

"She doesn't have the repertoire for a European headliner," I pointed out. "She's not ready."

"She will be," Ethan insisted. "I'm putting the foundation's backing behind her. She just needs the stage time."

"My stage time."

"It's just one festival!" he shouted, throwing his hands up. "Why are you so greedy? You have a dozen other tour dates."

I didn't argue. I didn't scream. I picked up my phone from the coffee table.

"Who are you calling at two in the morning?" Ethan demanded.

I dialed the international number for the festival's director. The line rang twice before a groggy voice answered.

"Mr. Gable," I spoke clearly into the receiver. "This is Elowen. I apologize for the late hour, but we have a severe legal issue regarding the upcoming roster."

Ethan stepped forward, his brow furrowing. "Hang up the phone."

"What legal issue?" Gable asked, his voice suddenly sharp.

"Laney Foster's submitted setlist," I told him. "The core pieces she plans to play are modern adaptations of Maestro Valerius's work. I hold the exclusive copyright to those arrangements. I do not grant Laney Foster permission to perform them."

"What are you doing?" Ethan hissed, reaching for my device.

I stepped back, dodging his hand.

"If she plays those pieces, I will sue the festival for copyright infringement," I continued, keeping my tone perfectly even. "I am sending the registration documents and my performance data from the last three years to your email right now."

"I understand," Gable muttered. "We cannot risk a lawsuit. I will suspend Ms. Foster's qualification immediately until this is resolved."

"Thank you, Mr. Gable."

I ended the call and dropped the phone back onto the table.

Ethan’s jaw clenched tight. "Are you out of your mind? You just ruined her biggest opportunity!"

"No," I corrected. "I took back mine."

"You are incredibly petty." He ran a hand through his hair, pacing the length of the rug. "You couldn't just let her have this one thing. You had to destroy it."

"She didn't earn it. You stole it for her."

"I manage the foundation!" he roared. "I decide where the resources go!"

"Then manage it without me," I said. I grabbed my coat from the back of the sofa. "I'm going to a hotel."

"Fine! Leave!" Ethan pointed at the door. "But don't expect me to fix this when you realize you've made a mistake."

I walked out without looking back.

The notification chimes started at noon the next day.

Sitting on the edge of the hotel bed, I watched the footage play on my screen. Laney had worked fast.

The video was shaky, recorded from a cracked doorway. It showed me shoving Laney's legs. It showed me screaming about the violin. It conveniently cut out the part where Ethan smashed the antique instrument, and where Laney tried to push it off the table first.

The headline glared in bold letters across a major music blog: *Famous Violinist Loses Control: Backstage Meltdown Over Younger Player.*

I scrolled through the comments.

*Always knew she was a diva.*

*Mental instability ruins another career.*

*Poor Laney. Elowen is just jealous.*

My phone vibrated in my palm. Ethan’s name flashed on the caller ID. I answered.

"Have you seen the video?" he asked.

"Did you help her edit it?"

"I told you not to make a scene," Ethan snapped. "The entire industry thinks you're mentally unstable. Sponsors are calling me, Elowen. They're panicking."

"Then issue a statement. Tell them the truth about what you and Laney did."

"I'm not dragging my reputation through the mud because you couldn't control your temper."

A dry chuckle escaped my throat.

"You think this is funny?" he demanded.

"I think it's hilarious that I ever trusted you."

"Listen to me," Ethan ordered, slipping into his usual authoritative tone. "You need to lay low. Pause your performances. We'll cancel the upcoming dates until the heat dies down."

"I'm not canceling anything."

"You don't have a choice! The board won't back a soloist who throws tantrums."

I walked over to the window, looking down at the busy street below. "I want a divorce, Ethan."

Silence hung on the line.

"We are done," I told him. "I'll have my lawyer send the papers to your office by the end of the week."

Ethan let out a harsh scoff. "You're bluffing."

"I'm not."

"You can't survive in this industry without my foundation's backing, Elowen. Your entire tour relies on my investors."

"I'll find new ones."

"Call me when you calm down," he said, his voice dripping with condescension. "You'll realize how much you need me by tomorrow."

The line went dead.

I tossed the phone onto the mattress. It buzzed immediately.

An email notification popped up on the lock screen. Then another. And a third.

I swiped open the inbox.

The first was from the Symphony Hall in Boston. *Contract Terminated.*

The second was from the Chicago Arts Committee. *Performance Canceled.*

I opened the third email from my booking agent.

*Elowen, I'm sorry. Boston and Chicago just pulled out. They cited the backstage video as a breach of the morality clause. Worse, they've already filled the slots.*

I read the next sentence twice to make sure my eyes weren't playing tricks on me.

*They gave both of your dates to Laney Foster.*