Chapter 2

The next day, someone knocked on my hotel room door.

When I opened the door, I saw a man in his early 50s. He was impeccably groomed, dressed in a tailored suit, with a high-end watch on his wrist.

He was Mason Shaw, Emma's husband and Jason's father—the very man who had been involved with Emma long before Dad died.

"Mr. Litt, aren't you going to invite me in?"

Even though his smile was polite, it never reached his eyes.

I moved aside, allowing him to step past me into the room.

He sat on the couch, crossing his legs, and glanced around the room with quiet contempt.

Then, Mason spoke. "Mr. Litt, I'll be frank."

He produced a check from his pocket, placed it on the coffee table, and slid it toward me.

I glanced down.

The amount on the check was a staggering eight figures.

Mason added, "This is ten years' worth of your salary as a judge. Just issue a statement tomorrow saying you made a mistake and that you acted impulsively, and this money is yours.

"Besides this, the music academy will appoint you as a visiting professor. You won't have to teach any classes each year. It'll be an honorary title."

I looked at him, staying silent.

Mason thought I was hesitating, so he went on. "Mr. Litt, you're a smart man. You should know that nothing good ever comes out of offending the Gere family."

"Mr. Shaw, I'm not sure I understand. The Gere family?"

"That's my wife and son's last name. Is there any problem with that?"

"What about that piece? Are you sure it belongs to the Gere family too?" I asked.

Mason's expression shifted, but he quickly regained his composure.

"It's Jason's original work. He owns the copyright. Mr. Litt, unless you have proof, you'd best not speak recklessly. We can sue you for defamation."

"Oh, really?" I grabbed the check, gave it a brief look, and tore it in half.

Mason's face hardened. "Samuel Litt, it seems I've been too polite with you, huh?"

He stood up and looked down at me. "You think winning a few international awards gives you the right to throw your weight around in this circle? I'll show you who calls the shots."

"Is it you?"

"I'm glad you know."

I looked up at him. "Well, let me tell you something too. I didn't reach this level in my life through anyone's charity. You can't do anything to me."

Mason sneered. "You're too naive."

He walked to the door before turning back. "You'll come begging me within three days." Then he slammed the door shut.

I stared at the door, the smile disappearing from my face.

Beg him?

Dad never begged anyone.

He didn't even know Mason existed.

All he knew was that his wife had suddenly gotten really busy and was often away during the toughest time in his life. He thought she was striving to advance her career.

So, Dad raised me on his own—practicing the piano, composing, teaching—all while living frugally.

He never complained once.

When Dad passed away, he was still carrying a photo of the three of us in his bag.

On the back, it read, "When Sam grows up, we'll go to Vobley."

I retrieved a file folder from the drawer that contained all the evidence I had gathered over the years.

There was a recording of the mechanic's statement, as well as records of the transfer Emma made to purchase the brake fluid. Although she had gone through an intermediary, the trail ultimately led to one of her private accounts.

There was also the original manuscript of that composition.

Dad had written it in an old notebook, clearly dated three months before the fatal car accident.

Unbeknownst to Emma, Dad had kept the original manuscript at Grandpa's house.

She thought it had been destroyed and had no idea that Dad had kept a backup.

I flipped to the last page of the manuscript.

There was a single line of text on it.

It read, "My dearest Samuel, even if I can't be there as you grow up, I've left the very best of my music for you."

I gently traced the words, thinking, "Dad, rest assured. I'd never let anyone steal your music."