The burnt edges of the sheet music fluttered in the cool evening breeze. The title at the top, written in my mother’s elegant, looping handwriting, was clearly visible: Midnight Lullaby. Composed by Elena Vance.
The silence on the terrace was absolute. It pressed against my eardrums, heavier than the humid summer air. Five hundred of the city’s elite stared at the torn paper in my small, dirty hands.
Victoria’s face drained of all color. The arrogant smirk vanished, leaving her looking like a wax figure melting under the string lights. She stood up so fast her chair tipped over, crashing onto the marble with a loud, metallic clatter.
“That’s a fake!” she shrieked. Her voice cracked, losing all its polished, country-club charm. “She stole it! She’s a little thief! Security, arrest her!”
Two massive guards in dark suits stepped forward from the shadows near the kitchen. But they didn’t look at me. They looked at Arthur.
Arthur didn’t move. He just stared at the sheet music. His chest heaved beneath his crisp white shirt. He walked slowly down the steps of the terrace, his polished leather shoes clicking against the stone. He stopped right in front of me.
“Elena,” he whispered. His voice was a dry, ragged scrape. He looked at the paper, then at my face. He traced the line of my jaw, the shape of my nose. “You have her eyes.”
Victoria lunged forward. “Arthur, don’t listen to her! I wrote that song! I won the National Composer Award with it! This little brat is trying to extort me!”
Arthur finally looked at Victoria. The love and admiration that had been in his eyes just an hour ago was gone, replaced by a cold, hard fury that made her take a step back.
“You didn’t write it, Victoria,” Arthur said. His voice was low, but it carried across the entire terrace. “Elena wrote it. I was there when she wrote it. I was there when you broke into her apartment and stole her manuscripts while she was in the hospital.”
The crowd erupted. Gasps echoed off the stone walls of the estate. A woman in the front row clutched her pearls, her mouth slightly open. The flashbulbs from the press table in the back started popping, a rapid, blinding staccato.
“You’re lying!” Victoria screamed. She tried to grab the sheet music from my hands, but Sarah, the woman in the white blouse, stepped in and blocked her.
“I have the original audio recording on my phone,” Sarah said calmly, holding up her device. “Elena sent it to me the night she died. It has the timestamp. It has her voice introducing the piece. I just emailed it to the board of the Music Academy and the police.”
Victoria froze. She looked at the guards, then at Arthur, then at the crowd. The realization hit her like a physical blow. The award, the fame, the money—it was all built on a lie. And the lie had just been exposed to the entire city.
Arthur knelt down on the marble floor. He didn’t care about his expensive tuxedo. He opened his arms.
“I’m so sorry, Lily,” he choked out, tears spilling over his lashes. “I didn’t know she had a baby. I didn’t know Victoria took you. I’m your father. I’m so sorry I wasn’t there.”
I didn’t say anything. I just stepped forward and buried my face in his chest. He smelled like expensive cologne and old paper. He held me tight, his arms shaking, his tears soaking into my torn dress.
The police arrived ten minutes later. They didn’t use handcuffs. They just escorted Victoria out of the estate. She didn’t look at me. She just stared at the ground, her silk gown wrinkling, as the heavy iron gates closed behind her.
I didn’t watch them take her away. I sat back down at the piano. Arthur stood beside me, his hand resting gently on my shoulder. I placed my dirty fingers on the keys, and I played my mother’s song one more time, as the string lights cast a long, bright shadow across the marble floor.