One Night Stand, Eight Surprises: Pampered by My CEO Husband --- - Chapter 163: Chapter 163

Julian had never known silence to feel so loud.
The room still held the scent of rosin and old sheet music, its air heavy with echoes. His violin case sat open on the bed—empty. Strings snapped and discarded lay beside it like the aftermath of a personal war.
He hadn’t meant to cry after the audition. But when the panel gave him that nod—the polite, perfunctory nod that meant thank you, next—his heart had caved in.
He hadn’t just played poorly. He’d choked.
It wasn’t a beginner’s mistake. He was seventeen. He had performed in front of senators, at charity galas, even at his parents' wedding anniversary. But when it came to the regional conservatory tryout—the one that really mattered—his bow shook. His fingers cramped. His tempo faltered. And the room had swallowed him whole.
He hadn’t touched the violin since.
Damien stood outside Julian’s door for nearly five minutes before finally knocking. Not once. Twice.
Julian didn’t answer.
So Damien entered.
Julian was seated on the floor, back against the bed, eyes red-rimmed but defiant.
“What happened?” Damien asked.
Julian shrugged. “Does it matter?”
“Of course it matters.”
“No. Not to you.”
Damien stepped further into the room. “Why would you say that?”
“Because all you care about is discipline. Success. What next step to conquer. I failed, Dad. Miserably. The thing I loved the most—humiliated me. And I can’t stand the sound of it anymore.”
Damien crossed his arms. “So you quit?”
Julian’s jaw tightened. “Yes.”
Damien didn’t flinch. “That’s not the son I raised.”
“Well, maybe I’m not who you think I am.”
The air snapped like a taut wire.
Damien exhaled slowly. “We don’t walk away from our pain. That’s how you build resilience. You get back up. You learn. You sharpen your craft and earn the right to play again.”
“I don’t want to earn anything. I just want to feel like I’m enough—without constantly performing.”
That silenced Damien.
Later that evening, Arielle found Julian on the swing in the backyard. His violin case was shut tight at his feet.
She didn’t speak right away. Just sat on the grass beside him, letting the twilight fall between them like a soft blanket.
“I failed,” he said eventually.
“I heard.”
“I wanted it so badly. I practiced every morning, every night. I missed birthdays. Sleepovers. And for what? One bad ten minutes, and it’s all gone.”
Arielle reached for a dandelion puff, letting it float from her palm. “Do you remember your first performance?”
He looked at her. “Yeah. That fundraiser in the garden. I was nine.”
“You dropped the bow. Twice.”
He smiled faintly. “And cried through half of it.”
“But you finished. And everyone stood. Not because it was perfect, Julian. But because it was honest. You didn’t play music that night. You told a story.”
Julian blinked hard. “What if my story’s over?”
“Then write a new one,” Arielle said softly. “But don’t let one cracked note convince you your voice has no place in the symphony.”
Days passed.
Julian stayed quiet. He avoided the music room. His siblings gave him space. But one evening, as the sun dipped low, he walked back into the studio and sat on the bench—not with a violin this time, but with a sketchpad.
He began drawing the bow. Then the strings. Then his own hands. And something shifted.
He picked up the violin again.
Not to perform.
But to mourn. To remember. To rediscover.
The first note scratched. The second hummed. By the fifth, tears rolled freely.
Aiden stood in the doorway, unnoticed, watching his brother reclaim the sound.
Damien passed by the hallway and paused. He didn’t enter. He didn’t interrupt.
He simply nodded to himself—then walked away.
Julian didn’t need praise.
He needed silence to become music again.
And that night—it did.