Chapter 682:
She had only come to observe, yet someone slipped her a scorecard and a pen. Just like that, she was seated as a judge.
One of the senior musicians chuckled. “Had we known you’d be here, we would have handed the decision to you from the start.”
Through the glass wall, Beal couldn’t hear the words, but the look of admiration and deference on their faces chilled him to the bone. A bad feeling crept in. He knew those men well—respected judges from top competitions like the Wesdown International Piano Contest. And here they were, treating Rylie with near-reverence. What in the world was happening?
At last, Rylie took her place in the central chair, the very seat usually reserved for the final authority. The same judges who once presided at Wesdown surrounded her, their eyes filled with recognition and respect, remembering her performances there.
Beal felt a knot in his chest. Something was clearly off.
He stepped up to the glass, rapping against it to signal for the room’s audio link. Even before the contest began, he raised objections, his voice sharp. “Wait! I want to know—what exactly are the criteria for choosing the new lead singer this time?”
The control room fell silent. All eyes swung to him, puzzled.
A senior producer adjusted his glasses and replied in a calm, formal tone, “Naturally, the criteria are vocal strength, tone, stage presence, and how well they suit NovaRush’s style. Is there a problem?”
“If that’s the case…” Beal drew a deep breath, gesturing toward Rylie. “Then why is she sitting there? She isn’t a producer or a vocal coach. In fact, there’s even talk she damaged the voice of the original lead singer, Zander himself. Shouldn’t her presence raise doubts about the fairness of this selection? How can she take the lead seat as if she holds final authority?”
He raised his voice, hoping to stir the other contestants and pressure the judges.
“Rylie never harmed me!” Zander suddenly stepped forward, his eyes burning. “She saved me! You know very well who actually destroyed my voice.”
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Beal kept his composure, spitting back, “Stop spreading lies!”
But the outcry he expected never came.
Instead, silence swept the control room. The judges exchanged looks, their expressions not angry but pitying, as if staring at a fool.
What kind of man dared to question the qualifications of X. Aria’s personal apprentice?
The senior producer, the oldest of them, adjusted his glasses again. His tone was steady, but the authority in it left no room for debate. “Beal, are you challenging our judgment, or doubting Miss Owen’s qualifications?”
“Miss Owen?” Beal froze. The respectful address rattled him. Was she an Owen? Wasn’t she the secret lover Ainsley had accused? Since when did she earn this kind of recognition—enough for even these figures to call her Miss Owen?
“What else did you expect?” a female vocal coach chimed in, her tone laced with scorn. “Do you think we would let some amateur play judge here?”
The senior producer ended it with finality. “If you question our panel and can’t accept our judgment, then you are free to leave.”
Beal stood rooted to the spot, stunned.
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