The audience eagerly awaited, hanging on every moment as Charles raised his hand and pressed down on the first note.
"No!" I shouted, desperate to stop him.
But the venue was enormous, and my voice didn’t carry far enough.
By the time I reached the VIP seats, the crowd had already broken out.
“What are you playing?” someone shouted.
"Don’t you know the composer of that piece insulted Mr. McDermott?"
Someone in the crowd even added, "Patrick McDermott was a groundbreaking musician! How could you play the enemy’s music at his memorial concert?"
"Yeah! This is supposed to be a tribute to Mr. McDermott, and as his son, you choose not to play his classics but instead play the enemy’s tune? What the hell are you thinking?"
Anger swelled within the audience, transforming their murmurs into loud shouts.
Had security not intervened, they would likely have stormed the stage by now.
Charles leapt up from the piano bench, visibly trembling. I could almost see the fear in his eyes, even behind his mask.