With that, I swallowed my pride and humiliation, stepping toward the circle of foreign executives.
Before I could reach them, Steven’s sharp voice cut through the air behind me. “Carmichael's left hand is perfectly fine, isn’t it?”
Margot added her own soft, venomous laugh. “Oh, he’s lying. Don’t listen to him.”
The mocking laughter around me grew louder, sharper, cutting deeper than any insult could.
I froze in place, the jeers piercing through me like needles, sending a chill down my spine. I barely had time to process it before a few of the foreigners waved me away in clear disgust, dismissing me without a word.
What stung the most wasn’t their rejection—it was the fact that some of them were fans who had once praised my skills and admired me as one of the best pianists in the world.
Once, my techniques earned me international acclaim. I had hoped that maybe, just maybe, I could fight for a chance here—to prove myself, to salvage even a shred of what I had lost.
But I never expected they wouldn’t even let me speak. Instead, they turned their attention to Steven, laughing along with him, openly mocking me without restraint.