The audience started rumbling. In the row behind me, I saw people leaning forward, taking out their cell phones and turning them over in their hands as if they were brand-new tech.

“First of all—let’s keep the ringers off, that was a good plan.” Oscar raised his hands, laughing, the audience chuckling back. “This is not a ringtone symphony, sorry to get your hopes up.”

That joke got a full guffaw out of Reinhardt. I grinned at him, liking the man better by the minute.

“No, here’s what I’m going for.”

Oscar drew a breath, glanced back at me, then kept going without a hitch.

“Amberley wants tonight to be an exclusive event. I get that. You fine people—and have I mentioned how lovely you’re looking tonight?” They laughed louder this time. “Seriously, take a selfie while you’re at it. No shame at all.”

He took his own cell phone out of an inner pocket of his tuxedo jacket. Where was he going with this? I had no idea!

I pressed my knuckles to my perfectly made-up lips, mussing them, way too riveted to care.

“You’ve paid for the privilege of hearing this symphony played for the very first time.” He held his phone to his heart. “I am honored by that. Beyond words. I feel privileged to stand on this stage, alongside these truly incredible musicians . . .” He made a sweeping gesture to the orchestra and choir, met with a rapid wave of applause, my own claps the loudest. “And in front of a crowd like you. But I wrote this piece—this symphony—for everybody. For people who would love to be here but can’t afford the ticket price. For people who don’t get classical music but are willing to give it a try.”

His eyes darted to Jules. She gave a salute.

“For . . .”

He lifted his phone to show that it was dialing.

“My mom!” He pulled it to his ear. “Hey, Mom, I’m gonna put you . . . here.”

He positioned the phone on the podium, while the audience audibly melted.

“I wrote this for my buddies back at Farnwell Prep, my two brilliant sisters, my unbelievably loving and patient parents, my cousins in North Carolina, my new friends here in New York—um!—and for . . .” He turned, gesturing to me in the front row. “For my girlfriend.”

Joy shot through me, an electric shock.

“You get the gist.” He twirled his baton with a grin. “So everybody who’s up for it—let’s open this concert up to the rest of the world. If you know how to connect to a livestream, go for it, if not, take a video, post it for your friends when you get back home. Let’s share this with anybody who’s interested. Sound good?”

A few seconds of confusion, then someone started to clap and everybody followed suit, young and old, even Liz and Reinhardt lifting their phones excitedly.