Chapter 1

My dad died in a car accident when I was ten.

Only later did I learn that the crash wasn't an accident. The brakes had been tampered with.

And the person who did it was my mom.

My dad died never knowing his wife had already found another man.

Less than three months after his death, she married that man, grooming their son to become his successor.

She even stole my dad's last composition, claiming it was her other son's original work.

Fifteen years later, I sat on the judging panel of an international piano competition.

On stage, that "child prodigy" was playing my dad's final piece.

I pressed the stop bell. "That piece isn't yours."

The microphone carried my voice to everyone in the hall.

"I refuse to score you."

The hall erupted, camera flashes going off like a storm.

Andrew's face instantly went pale, his lips trembling as he looked at Molina in the audience.

I saw Molina's face twitch, but she didn't react publicly.

She just stared at me, a sinister glint in her eyes.

The competition was halted.

I left the judging panel and walked toward the backstage lounge. Before the door could close, someone pushed it open.

Andrew stood in the doorway, his eyes red, his chest heaving.

"How dare you?"

His tone was arrogant, nothing like the "child prodigy" on stage.

"How dare you interrupt me? Do you have any idea how long I prepared?"

I stayed seated.

"I don't care how long you prepared. That piece isn't yours, so I won't score you."

"If it's not mine, is it yours?"

He sneered, growing more agitated.

"I composed it myself! My mom personally guided me! Who do you think you are, saying it's not mine?"

I looked up at him.

He didn't know the true owner of the piece.

He didn't know his mother had stolen someone else's posthumous work.

And he certainly didn't know that I was Molina's first son.

"I said it's not, so it's not."

My voice was calm.

"The composition date, the structural logic, the harmonic progression of this piece are completely different from your usual style. Any professional judge would hear it."

"Bullshit!" he practically screamed. "You're just jealous of me! You just want attention!"

He slammed the door shut and left.

I closed my eyes, my hand trembling.

Not from fear, but from hatred.

Fifteen years.

My dad died in that "accident." No one suspected anything, no one knew the brakes had been tampered with.

But I found out. It took ten years, piecing it together, bit by bit.

The old mechanic from that repair shop was still alive. He remembered someone giving that car "special maintenance" that day.

The person he described looked exactly like Molina in her youth.

My dad died never knowing.

He didn't know his wife had been with another man when she was pregnant.

He didn't know that man's family wealth could elevate Molina to the top overnight.

He just practiced the piano every day, composed, taught me, and eagerly awaited the concert that could change our lives.

He got into that car and never came back.

My phone screen lit up.

A notification: Andrew's studio released a statement, strongly condemning the judge for "maliciously disrupting the competition."

The comment section already had tens of thousands of posts.

[Who's this judge? Chasing clout, probably?]

[Poor Andrew, he's being bullied.]

[Boycott this judge!]

I turned off my phone. I knew this was just the beginning.