The Janitor Girl Sang One Song, and the Billionaire’s Son Stopped Laughing

a clipboard.

“Eliza Mayhew, you’re next.”

Brooke’s performance was perfect.

There was no denying it.

Her voice was bright, trained, and sharp as cut glass.

She hit every run.

Every high note.

Every difficult phrase Mrs. Cross had chosen to show her off.

The audience clapped loudly.

Politely.

Proudly.

Brooke curtsied like she had already won.

Then Mrs. Cross stepped continue reading …