Chapter 2

The next morning, three distinct knocks, neither too loud nor too soft, sounded at my hotel room door.

I opened it, and a man stood there.

In his early fifties, remarkably well-preserved, in a custom-tailored suit, a Patek Philippe on his wrist.

Osmond. Molina's husband, Andrew's father, and the man she'd been with before she even divorced.

"Judge Lewis, aren't you going to invite me in?"

He smiled politely, but there was no warmth in his eyes.

I stepped aside, letting him enter.

He sat on the sofa, crossed his legs, and surveyed the hotel room as if sizing up something of no value.

"Judge Lewis, I'll get straight to the point."

He took an envelope from his bag, placed it on the coffee table, and slid it toward me.

I glanced down, an eight-figure sum.

"That's ten years' worth of your judging income," he said. "All you have to do is release a statement tomorrow, saying you misheard the piece that day and acted impulsively, and this money is yours."

"Additionally, the Conservatory will give you a visiting professor position. You won't have to teach annually, just lend your name to the position."

I looked at him, saying nothing. He thought I was hesitating, so he added:

"Judge Lewis, you're a smart man. You should know that going against the Osmond family never ends well."

"Mr. Osmond," I finally spoke. "The Osmond family, you say?"

"My wife is an Osmond, my son is an Osmond. Is there a problem?"

"And that piece?" I asked. "Are you sure it belongs to the Osmond family?"

Osmond's expression subtly changed, but he quickly regained his composure.

"That piece is Andrew's original work, and it's copyrighted."

"Judge Lewis, if you can't provide evidence, you'd best be careful what you say. Defamation carries legal consequences."

"Is that so?"

I picked up the check, looked at it, then slowly tore it in half.

Osmond's face finally darkened. "Lewis, you're testing my patience, aren't you?"

He stood up, looking down at me.

"You think winning a few international awards means you can just waltz in here and call the shots? Let me tell you who truly runs things in this industry."

"The Osmond family?" I finished his sentence.

"Glad you know."

"Then let me tell you something too," I looked up at him. "I, Lewis, didn't get to where I am today through anyone's charity. You can't touch me."

Osmond sneered. "Lewis, you're too naive."

He picked up his bag, walked to the door, and glanced back at me.

"Within three days, you'll be crawling back to me."

The door slammed shut.

I watched the door, my lips slowly flattening.

Beg him?

My dad never begged anyone.

He didn't even know Osmond existed.

He only knew his wife suddenly became very busy during his struggling period, often not coming home.

He thought she was focused on her career.

He raised me alone, practicing piano, composing, teaching lessons, scrimping and saving.

He never complained once.

When he died, his bag still held a family photo.

On the back, it read: "When Lewis grows up, we'll go to Vienna together."

I took an archive folder from the drawer.

Inside were the pieces of evidence I'd collected over the years.

The mechanic's recorded statement.

Molina's transfer records for purchasing brake fluid that year, through an intermediary, but the money trail eventually led back to her private account.

And the original manuscript of the piece.

My dad wrote it in an old notebook, the date clearly marked: three months before the accident.

What he took with him that day was a clean copy.

The original was safe at Grandpa Arthur's.

Molina didn't know; she thought it was all destroyed.

She didn't know my dad had a backup.

I turned to the last page of the manuscript. A line of small lettering read:

"To my son, Lewis. I couldn't be there to watch you grow, but I've left you my best music."

My fingers gently traced the words.

Dad, rest assured. I won't let anyone steal your music.