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.
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.
On the third day, Molina herself arrived. She didn't knock; the hotel manager used a master key to open the door for her. She wore a sharply tailored business suit, her hair impeccably styled, her entire presence exuding "successful woman." She stood in the doorway, looking at me as if I were a naive insect. "Lewis, let's talk." I sat by the window, not moving. She walked in, closed the door, and sat opposite me. "You know who I am, right?" "I do," I said. "Molina, Dean of the Conservatory, renowned pianist." "And what else?" "Andrew's mother." She nodded, crossed her legs, her tone like she was lecturing a junior. "Lewis, you interrupted my son during the competition and claimed that piece wasn't his. Do you know what that kind of behavior is called?" "Upholding my principles," I said. She smiled, a cold smile. "It's called courting disaster." She leaned forward, lowering her voice. "I won't beat around the bush. I don't care if you have any evidence. But I've already looked into you." She pulled out her phone and swiped a few times: "Your agent's name is Collins, right? Your contract with him has three years left." "His wife's company happens to have a favor to ask of me. One word from me, and he'll drop you." "Your mentor, Professor Johnson, is seventy this year, not in the best health, and applying for a Lifetime Achievement Award." "My committee decides who gets that award." "And your next performance – your recital at the Vienna Concert Hall next month." "The organizers are old friends of mine. If I tell them to cancel it, they won't dare refuse." She listed them one by one, her tone flat, as if reading a menu. "Lewis, I just have to lift a finger, and I can make you completely disappear from this industry." "Do you believe me?" I looked into her eyes. This woman's ruthlessness wasn't an overt aggression, but a deep-seated contempt. She felt crushing me was like crushing an insect. "Dean Molina, are you finished?" I asked. Her brows furrowed slightly. "I'm telling you all this because Andrew is my son. If you touch him, you touch me." "I'm giving you one last chance. At tomorrow's press conference, you will publicly apologize." "You'll say you misheard the piece, that it was an impulsive act. Then, you'll voluntarily resign from your judging position." "What if I don't?" She stood up, looking down at me. "Then you won't have a place in this industry anymore." "You think winning a few international awards makes you secure?" She scoffed. "Lewis, in this industry, there are more ways to make someone disappear than you can imagine." "Molina," I addressed her directly. "Aren't you afraid I'll tell the truth?" "The truth?" She laughed, a dismissive laugh. "With what? A few flimsy papers? A recording?" "You think those things can make any real waves?" She turned and walked toward the door, not looking back. "Tomorrow at 3 PM, Seattle Grand Hotel. Come or not, it's your decision." "However – if you don't come, face the consequences." The door slammed shut. I sat alone in the room, my hand trembling for a long time. Not from fear, but from hatred. Fifteen years. She stole my dad's music, killed my dad, and propelled her other son to fame. Now, she was going to use my career, my mentor, my agent, to force me to bow down. She didn't know who I was. When she abandoned me, I was already ten years old. Yet she didn't even find me familiar. She didn't recognize that the young man before her was the son she had with her first husband. But tomorrow, she would know.
After packing my things, I opened my phone. It was flooded with hate comments and criticisms. #Lewis Get Out Of Music# topped the trending list, with over 300 million views. The top Ins post was from a music critic with a million followers: "A judge like Lewis, utterly unprofessional, is a disgrace to the entire industry." "Maliciously interrupting a performer to grab headlines, ruining a child prodigy's future." "I recommend all concert halls, agencies, and conservatories to collectively boycott him." The comments below were all in agreement. [This kind of person dares to be a judge? How well-connected is he?] [I heard he has no background, just slept his way to the top.] [I always thought his competitions were rigged.] [Support Andrew! Support Dean Molina!] My agency released a statement. Not supporting me, but "suspending all collaboration with Mr. Lewis, pending investigation results." Polite but unambiguous – they had dropped me. Collins didn't answer my call, only replied with a WhatsApp message: "I'm sorry, I can't do anything." My mentor, Professor Johnson, sent a message through someone: "Lewis, don't be impulsive. Just apologize and it will blow over. You're still young." I didn't reply. I found a video Andrew had posted last night. He sat at the piano, his eyes red and swollen, his voice choked: "I don't blame Judge Lewis. Maybe he was just tired, or misheard. My mom told me to learn to be forgiving." "That piece truly is my own, the fruit of two years of painstaking effort. It makes me sad that someone claims it's not mine, but I will prove myself with more compositions." The comments flooded in: [Don't cry, Andrew! We believe you!] [Kind boys have the most power!] [The Osmond family has such exemplary upbringing!] I almost laughed out loud. Two years of painstaking effort? That was my dad's fifteen years of tireless work. I turned off my phone. Tomorrow, it was time to settle the score. The next day, Seattle Grand Hotel, third-floor banquet hall. By 2:30 PM, the entrance was swarming with reporters. Wearing a hat and mask, I entered through the staff entrance and found a seat in a corner. Exactly 3 PM, the Osmond family walked onto the stage. Molina was in a business suit, a solemn expression on her face. Osmond wore a dark suit, his eyes slightly red. Andrew, in a white shirt, hung his head, looking like a fragile white flower battered by the storm. Molina spoke first. She stood at the microphone, silent for five seconds, then bowed deeply. "First, I want to apologize to everyone concerned about this matter." "It was my excessive trust in this industry that led to Andrew suffering undeserved hardship." Someone in the audience shouted, "Dean Molina, you did nothing wrong!" She raised her hand, gesturing for silence, her voice low: "Andrew has loved music since he was a child. He started learning piano at four, performed on stage at eight, and composed his first piece at twelve." "This piece, 'Autumn Night Variations,' he painstakingly refined for two whole years." "Every note, a piece of his soul. Every modulation, a spark of inspiration from his late-night practice sessions." "As a mother, I am proud of him." Her eyes welled up as she said this. Applause broke out in the audience. Osmond took the microphone, his voice carrying a hint of anger: "I am just a father. My son was humiliated in front of a national audience; it pains me deeply." "Lewis is also a man; he will have children someday. How would he feel if his children were treated this way?" "I ask for nothing else but justice." He turned to Andrew, and the father and son put their arms around each other, patting each other's backs in a show of mutual support. Andrew sighed, then managed a strained, bitter smile. "I don't hate Judge Lewis. I just hope everyone stops criticizing him. He might truly have his own difficulties." Someone in the audience shouted: "Andrew, you're too kind!" "The Osmond family truly has an exemplary upbringing!" I sat in the corner, watching the three perform on stage. Every expression, every line, every pause was precise, as if rehearsed countless times. They weren't holding a press conference; they were filming a movie. And I was the mere pawn, cast as the villain. The host stepped onto the stage: "Next, a representative from the Musicians' Association will announce the decision regarding Lewis." A middle-aged man with glasses stood up, unfolding a piece of paper: "After deliberation by the Musicians' Association Review Committee, it has been decided to revoke Lewis's qualification as an international piano competition judge." "His 'Annual Outstanding Young Musician' title is rescinded, and all music conservatories and performing arts organizations are advised to suspend cooperation with him." "Additionally, the Association calls on Mr. Lewis to acknowledge his errors, publicly apologize, and restore public trust." A wave of sustained applause. Everyone stood up, except for me. I slowly removed my hat and mask, then stood up. "Wait a moment." My voice wasn't loud, but the banquet hall's sound system carried my every word throughout the hall. The entire hall fell into a stunned silence. Hundreds of eyes turned to me. On stage, Molina's pupils constricted sharply. Osmond's tears instantly dried. Andrew's smile froze. I faced all the cameras, walking step by step toward the stage. "Didn't you say you wanted justice?" "I'll give it to you."
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