I Ended My Mother's Stolen Legacy Onstage

The crowd erupted into an uproar.

The rapid clicking of camera shutters rained down like a storm.

My half-brother, Jason Gere, paled, his lips trembling as his eyes darted toward our mother, Emma Gere, who was present in the audience.

Emma's face darkened, but she didn't lash out right there and then. She simply stared daggers at me, a malicious look flashing in her eyes.

During the break, I left the judging panel and went to the backstage lounge.

Someone barged in immediately.

It was Jason. He stood in the doorway, his eyes red and his chest heaving violently.

"How could you?" His tone dripped with arrogance, nothing like the composed prodigy he portrayed on stage. "How could you interrupt me? Do you know how long I've prepared for this?"

I plopped down on the chair. "I don't care how much time you've put into this. That piece isn't yours. I won't give you a score."

"What do you mean it's not mine? Is it yours then?" Jason sneered, his temper flaring. "I composed it myself. My mom taught me how! Who are you to accuse me like this?"

I lifted my head and looked at him.

He would never know who the true composer was or how his mother had stolen someone's final work, much less the fact that I was Emma's firstborn son.

"If I said it isn't yours, then it isn't," I said calmly. "The composition date, structural logic, and harmonic progression are completely different from your usual style. Any professional judge would notice instantly."

"What a load of bullshit!" Jason yelled. "You're just jealous of me! You just want to be famous!"

Then he stormed out.

I closed my eyes. My hands were trembling, not out of fear, but hatred.

It had been 15 years since Dad died in that "accident".

No one ever suspected that the brakes had been tampered with.

But I did.

It had taken me ten years to piece the clues together bit by bit.

The mechanic at the shop was still alive. He remembered someone giving the car a "special service" that day, and the person he described looked exactly like Emma in her younger days.

Even until the day he died, Dad had no idea that his wife had another man in her life.

He didn't know that the man's family could help propel Emma to the top overnight.

Dad simply spent his days practicing, composing, and teaching me as he joyfully awaited the concert that would change his destiny.

Yet he never returned after leaving that day.

My phone screen lit up with a notification.

It read, "Jason's studio issues a statement strongly condemning a judge for maliciously interfering with the piano competition."

Thousands of comments flooded the post.

"Who's that judge? Is he trying to ride the hype?"

"Poor Jason. He's being blatantly targeted."

"Boycott this judge!"

I put my phone away.

This was just the beginning.