Chapter 145:
While the piece continued, Rylie tapped her fingers lightly against the armrest. When the third measure came, she froze. This was it.
Paola’s hands stalled briefly on the keys. She had drilled this transition over and over, but the tonal shift still gave her trouble. Luckily, her long familiarity with the piano helped her smooth over the slip. To the crowd, nothing seemed off.
Backstage, Marcus narrowed his eyes. In a low voice, he turned to Marlon Swain and asked, “Is this what she wrote for Spencer?” His tone was quiet, but his doubt came through clearly. “It doesn’t sound like her.”
Marlon, a skilled musician himself, shared more than just a work relationship with Marcus. Most days, when Paola had questions, she reached out through email. It was Marlon who usually replied.
“I’ve heard most of her work,” said Marlon. “This one’s better than her usual, sure. But after the third section, it loses structure. Spencer’s a director, not a composer. He might not notice the flaws, but they’re there.”
“You, too, think it needs fixing?” asked Marcus.
“Definitely. The second half feels incomplete,” Marlon replied. “It still reads like a rough draft.”
Great minds often share the same view.
Paola brought the piece to a close with practiced ease, then rose with poise and gave a polished bow.
The crowd responded with loud applause.
She gave a playful wink and said, “Thanks to Marcus for the chance to play, and to Mr. Aguilar for letting me compose. And of course, thank you all for your support.”
She flashed another smile. “If you liked it, feel free to follow me online. I’ll be reading your feedback and making changes.”
The purpose couldn’t be more obvious — she wanted fame and popularity.
Rylie, who had sat silently the entire time, slowly raised her hand. “Paola,” she said, “I think there’s still room for improvement.”
The air turned heavy. Nobody expected her to speak. What nerve — to say that now?
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Paola blinked, clearly thrown off. “Wh-what did you say?”
Still wearing an innocent expression, Rylie said, “The piece wasn’t quite right.”
“Rylie!” snapped Isabella. “Do you have any idea where you are? Why would you say something like that during Mr. Owen’s recital? There’s no way Paola played it wrong.”
Rylie tilted her head slightly. “But didn’t she say she welcomes feedback? I’m only pointing out what I heard. Why get so defensive?”
Something in Paola’s chest clenched. She couldn’t let Rylie take the stage — not now. That would be disastrous.
Trying to brush it off, Paola stepped to the edge of the platform and forced a light tone. “Rylie, you’re joking, right? This piece has already passed through Mr. Aguilar and others—”
“Oh, really?” Rylie turned to Spencer with an innocent look. “Mr. Aguilar, do you think this piece is perfect too?”
Spencer didn’t speak right away. As a director, not a musician, he thought the piece suited his film well enough and might even earn awards. Still, not wanting to say the wrong thing, he muttered, “Well — music is subjective.”
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