Emily glanced toward the source of the voice.
Andrew Lane's eyes were dark and unreadable, while Isabella Austin pressed her lips together, looking anxious and uneasy.
In a hushed tone, Isabella urged, "Emily, don't you recognize Mrs. Lane? She's Andrew's mother. I think you should show some respect to your elders."
"No need," Diana Harris cut in coldly. "If Emily ever listened to advice, she wouldn't be Emily Blair."
A wry, mocking smile flickered across Emily's lips.
Overhead, the loudspeaker blared again, reminding her to hurry to the stage.
Emily didn't bother to argue further. She turned on her heel and walked into the performance room.
It was the same room as the preliminary round, but it felt different now. Only the judges sat below the stage; the audience seats were empty, making it far quieter than before.
On the day of the preliminaries, the seats had been filled with other contestants, and the piano had been broken.
This time, the room was still, with no curious stares or whispered commentary. The piano had been repaired.
Emily stepped onto the stage, gave the judges a polite bow, then settled herself on the piano bench.
She'd thought long and hard, but in the end, only one plan seemed safe: she needed to place herself right in the middle of the pack.
She chose an easier piece—a timeless classic every piano student was expected to learn. It was simple to pick up, but playing it well, truly capturing its subtle brilliance, was notoriously difficult.
Over the years, only a handful of pianists had ever received a single word of praise from the composer.
Emily knew the piece inside and out-so well, in fact, that even Vivian Martin, her infamously critical teacher who rarely handed out compliments, had been unable to hide her approval.
"Emily, you're truly something else. Hardly anyone can play this piece with such skill. Every nuance, every subtlety, you bring it to life.”
The memory of Vivian Martin flickered through Emily's mind, leaving her momentarily dazed.
Arianna George's voice called her back: “Emily, you may begin.”
Emily snapped to attention, her gaze settling on the piano keys.
She'd already decided: she would play the piece just well enough—showing only half its magic. Not perfect, not dull. Just enough to keep her score safely average, not too high, not too low.
Her hands hovered over the keys. Then, softly, her fingers pressed down.
A smooth, winding melody began to flow from the piano, delicate and enchanting.
Arianna George listened, surprise flickering in her eyes.
She hadn't expected Emily to choose this piece.
Her brows drew together. The piece was easy to learn but fiendishly hard to master. Even she, after over a decade of piano, had needed years before she could truly play it well.
Emily was still in high school, so young. Unless she was a prodigy-which her preliminary performance had proven she was not there was no way she could make this piece shine.
She glanced at the other judges, catching the same look of puzzled surprise in their eyes.
Why would Emily choose this piece?
Arianna's disappointment was obvious.
With Emily's ability in the preliminaries, playing this piece in the semifinals would almost certainly earn her a low score-no chance of making the finals. Any other piece would have been a better choice.
Emily must be confused, Arianna decided.
But Emily herself was oblivious to the judges' thoughts. Lost in the music and the gentle patter of piano keys, she let herself drift with the melody.
All the while, she was calculating. Her real plan was to hold back until the final section of the piece, then reveal her true skill just before the judges made their notes, giving them a final, memorable surprise that might lift her score after all.
It was a good plan—at least, it would have been, if not for the unexpected.
Just as the ethereal melody wound its way through the silent room, a loud crash shattered the moment. The doors at the back of the auditorium burst open with a violent bang.
Someone had kicked them open from outside, the doors slamming hard against the wall.