The Grand Pianist Excellence Awards were supposed to be the crowning moment of my career. But instead of celebrating, it turned into my worst nightmare.

The international prize I had poured my heart and soul into, which I had sacrificed countless hours for, wasn’t mine. No, it was handed over to my biggest rival, Steven Jackson, like some gift wrapped in a shiny bow.

Frustrated and furious, I confronted the organizers.

My attempt to demand answers ended badly—very badly. By the time I got home, my left hand was in a cast, fractured from the chaos. All I wanted was to vent to Margot, my girlfriend of two years. Margot, the shining star of the screen, is an award-winning actress everyone adores.

But as I approached the door, I froze in my tracks. Her voice—and his—filtered through the thin walls.

“Are you happy now?” Margot’s tone was light, almost teasing. “Whatever you want, Steven, it’s yours.”

“Of course, I’m happy,” Steven responded smugly. “This proves I matter more to you than that Frank Carmichael.”

I stood there, stunned. My pulse roared in my ears, anger and disbelief coursing through me. Before I knew it, I had my phone out, recording their intimate little exchange.

Later that night, I posted the video online with the caption:

[My first real experience with rigging. Lesson learned.]

And, for good measure, I tagged The Grand Pianist Excellence Awards.

Predictably, the video exploded, going viral almost instantly.

...

Months later, on the night of my engagement to the daughter of a prominent oil tycoon, Margot showed up uninvited.

Tears streaming down her face, she begged me to reconcile with her, to take her back.

I told her to get lost.

——

That same night, she stormed into my apartment, fury written across her face.

“Frank, are you out of your damn mind? Take down that fake video of Steven and me right now!”

I couldn’t help but let out a bitter laugh. “Margot, don’t you think you owe me an explanation first?”

For a moment, she froze, her mask slipping.

Then, as if I was the one inconveniencing her, she replied sharply, “Wait, you were home that day?”

Her annoyance was infuriating. “Yes, I was home. I heard everything.”

Margot sighed dramatically and rolled her eyes. “Steven’s been wanting this award for years. How was I supposed to know you were gunning for it, too? And for the record, take down that video. Say it was AI-generated or something.”

Her audacity was almost laughable.

'Steven’s been wanting this award for years?'

She didn’t even remember what I said but knew every word that man had uttered.

“Fine,” I said through gritted teeth, “but I have one condition. I want you to acknowledge our relationship publicly.”

Her answer was immediate and cold. “That’s not happening.”

“What’s so embarrassing about being with me?” I snapped. My frustration bubbled over.

Margot softened her tone, trying to sound reasonable. “Frank, you know I just won the Best New Actress Award this year. I can’t afford a scandal right now. Steven’s immature! Don’t stoop to his level, okay?”

Her response felt like a slap in the face. After two years of hiding our relationship, after all I’d done for her, she was asking me to protect his reputation.

I raised my cast-covered left hand, my voice trembling with anger. “You want me to stoop to his level? When this—” I gestured to my broken hand “—happened because he took what was mine?”

Margot’s demeanor shifted instantly. Her face hardened. “Frank, you’re a pianist. No one would dare mess with your hands. Don’t lie to me.”

With that, she turned and walked out the door, leaving me standing there, my chest heaving, my eyes stinging with unshed tears. The pain in my hand was nothing compared to the ache in my chest.

A few nights later, a group of thugs broke into my piano room. They didn’t just come to intimidate me—they came to destroy me.

Wielding bats and crowbars, they shattered my piano, the very heart of my career. I tried to shield it, but they pinned me down, holding me helpless. A bat came down hard on my already fractured left hand.

The pain was so overwhelming I nearly blacked out. Through the haze of agony, my phone buzzed.

Trembling, I picked it up with my right hand.

It was Margot.

Her voice, cold and indifferent, cut through the chaos. “I’m here with Steven. Apologize to him—right now—and this ends.”

“Apologize for what?” I rasped, barely able to form words through the pain.

“For violating his privacy, of course. That video you posted—delete it and apologize. There’s no room for negotiation.”

I clenched my teeth, fighting through the searing pain. “I’m not apologizing. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

Her voice was sharp, furious. “Fine. Have it your way.”

She hung up without another word.

...

The next day, while I was being treated at the hospital, she showed up again. But not for me and the cameras.

A crowd of fans surrounded her as she signed autographs, smiling for the paparazzi.

“Frank Carmichael and I are just close friends,” she cooed sweetly. “He’s currently composing a piano solo for my new drama. Please support him!”

I stared at her in disbelief. She glanced at me for the briefest moment, panic flashing across her face. But then she quickly looked away, refusing to meet my eyes.

When the crowd finally dispersed, Margot walked over to me, the faint smell of minty cigarettes trailing behind her. My stomach churned as she approached.

The scent hit me first—minty cigarettes.

It was unmistakable, the same brand Steven always smoked. My stomach churned, and I instinctively stumbled back a few steps, desperate to put some distance between us.

Margot noticed my reaction and frowned, a flicker of concern crossing her face. But then her gaze landed on my bandaged left hand. Her expression twisted into something sharp and mocking.

"You really went all out with this little act, didn’t you?" she sneered. "Coming here just to change the dressing? Let me see how bad it really is."

Without warning, she reached out to grab my injured hand. I yanked it away and shoved her aside.

Margot let out a soft cry, and in an instant, her bodyguards sprang into action, pinning me to the ground like I was some kind of threat.

“Ahhh!” I cried out as one of them wrenched my broken left hand behind my back. The pain was excruciating. I felt the bandages tighten as fresh blood seeped through them.

Margot didn’t even flinch. Instead, she coolly turned her phone screen toward me, forcing me to stare at it. My stomach dropped. The screen was filled with hateful comments and insults.

She had posted a statement on Instagram, casually admitting to her relationship with Steven. But that wasn’t the worst part. She’d accused me of being the third party—the homewrecker who tried to ruin their relationship.

I stared at the words on the screen, disbelief and anger mingling with despair.

The insults were endless:

[Frank Carmichael, a piano prodigy? More like a two-bit fraud.]

[Disgusting. Destroying other people’s relationships and playing the victim? Get lost.]

[You're an embarrassment to all the great pianists in the world! Why aren’t you dead yet?]

It felt like the entire world had turned against me. I looked at her, my voice trembling, barely audible over the lump in my throat.

“How could you…?” My voice cracked, and I felt tears welling up in my eyes.

She faltered for a moment, noticing my shallow breathing and my pale, clammy face.

"Can’t you control your strength?" she barked at one of her bodyguards, smacking him across the face.

Then, in an almost contradictory gesture, she crouched down, helped me up, and called for a doctor.

“If you had just apologized earlier,” she said softly, “none of this would’ve happened.”

I stared at her, my chest heaving. My phone buzzed incessantly in my pocket, vibrating with hateful calls and notifications.

One after another, they poured in:

[Why aren’t you dead yet?]

[Go kill yourself, loser.]

[You’re a disgusting fraud. Rot in hell.]

Margot plucked the phone from my pocket and turned it off with an exasperated sigh.

“Don’t listen to them,” she said, almost like she cared.

I let out a bitter laugh. “Isn’t this exactly what you wanted?”

Her eyes darted away, avoiding mine. She shifted uncomfortably. “I didn’t think it’d go this far,” she murmured. “I’ll fix it, okay? You don’t need to worry about it.”

I glanced down at my broken, unresponsive left hand, the hand that was supposed to be my entire future.

My voice was hollow when I said, “Margot, let’s just end this. Let’s break up.”

She froze. Then her head snapped toward me, her tone sharp and incredulous. “Are you out of your mind?” Her voice rose, almost shrill. “Frank, I said I’ll handle it! What more do you want?”

Her anger only solidified my decision. I forced a small, tired smile. “Isn’t this what you’ve always wanted?”

For the first time, she faltered. Her expression softened, and she took a step closer, trying to reel me back in. “Frank, without me, who else would support you? Be realistic. Think it over. Calm down.”

Her usual tactics—manipulation disguised as concern. But I wasn’t falling for it this time.

“I’ve already made up my mind,” I said flatly, refusing to engage any further.

Just then, the doctor called my name for an X-ray. Margot reached out to steady me, as though she planned to come along. But before we could take another step, her phone rang.

Steven’s name lit up the screen. She answered immediately, her voice soft and syrupy. “Baby, what’s wrong?”

“Babe, I think I’ve got a fever,” Steven whined on the other end. “Can you come see me?”

Margot glanced at me for half a second before pulling her hand away.

“Of course, honey,” she cooed into the phone. “Be good and wait for me. I’ll be right there.”

She didn’t even hesitate. She just turned on her heel and left, her heels clicking against the floor as she walked away.

This time, I didn’t call out to stop her. I just watched her figure grow smaller and smaller, disappearing down the hall.

Strangely, all I felt was an eerie calm.

...

Later, the doctor told me what I already suspected: my left hand’s fracture was severe. It would take months of therapy and rest before I’d even be able to play again. If ever.

By the time I returned to the villa, the house was pitch black. Margot hadn’t come home yet. I stood there in silence, staring at the emptiness of the place we once shared.

Our two-year relationship had never felt like we were together. At best, it was a hollow arrangement between two strangers who happened to share the same space.

I thought back to the first day we moved in together. I had been so full of excitement, eager to share my life with her, to be close to her. But that night, she brushed me off with a tired smile.

“I’m exhausted,” she’d said. “Let’s save this for another time, okay?”

I believed her. She worked hard, constantly on set, constantly under pressure. I told myself I’d wait, that I’d respect her boundaries.

But that 'other time' never came.

Until that day, I thought I missed her. I thought a part of me still wanted her. But when I checked the villa’s surveillance footage, any lingering feelings I had evaporated.

There he was—Steven Jackson. He had her in his arms, holding her tightly and kissing her like he owned her. She leaned into him without hesitation, her hands tangled in his hair.

At that moment, I finally understood: I had never truly been in her heart.

The next day, Margot came home like nothing had happened. She walked into the living room, a light gray scarf in her hands. Gently, she wrapped it around my neck and smiled, her eyes sparkling with anticipation.

“I knitted this myself,” she said softly. “Do you like it?”

I froze for a moment, then took a step back, shrugging off the scarf like it was suffocating me.

“Steven didn’t want it, so you thought I would?” My voice was cold, detached.

Her smile faltered, and for the first time, she looked unsure. “How did you—”

I cut her off by showing her my phone.

On the screen was a text Steven had sent me that morning:

[Margot gave me some stupid handmade scarf. Bragged about it like it was the best thing in the world. I told her to keep that crap away from me.]

Margot’s face paled for a split second, but she recovered quickly, trying to close the distance between us. Suddenly, she wrapped her arms around my neck, leaning in close. Her lips moved toward mine, slow and deliberate.

I turned my head at the last second, and her lips landed awkwardly on my cheek. The warmth lingered for a moment before I wiped it away with the back of my hand—deliberately, in full view of her.

Her expression hardened.

“Frank! What the hell is your problem? Am I some kind of plague or something?” she snapped. “Stop picking fights over nothing. You’re so—ugh—annoying.”

I stared at her, bitterness twisting my face. My voice was low, but it carried every ounce of my frustration and pain.

“Nothing? You ruined my career. You ruined my life.” My hands clenched into fists. “I can’t even look at my phone without seeing people tearing me apart. I can’t go outside without hearing strangers curse my name.”

I took a shaky breath, my voice breaking. “Margot, is this what you call nothing?”

For a moment, she just stared at me, her lips pressed into a thin line. I rarely spoke to her like this. In the two years we’d been together, I’d always been the one to apologize first after a fight. Every single time.

Afterward, she’d always hold me close, her eyes softening as she whispered,

“Frank, you’re mine. Do you understand? In this lifetime, you can only stay by my side. Only I will tolerate and care for you. Everyone else will just hurt and betray you.”

The irony of those words hit me now like a freight train. The person who promised to protect me had become the one who hurt me the most.

When my father cheated and my mother fell into a depression that eventually took her life, I became everyone’s favorite punching bag. The bullying was relentless. And then, like some kind of savior, Margot had appeared.

She had shown up at my house in the pouring rain, burning up with a 104-degree fever, just to tell everyone harassing me that I wasn’t alone. That I had someone.

She had taken me abroad for therapy, putting her fledgling acting career on hold to help me heal. Back then, I thought she was my salvation. I thought she truly cared.

But the woman standing in front of me now? She was nothing like the girl who once held my hand and swore to stay by my side.

I sighed, the fight draining out of me. “Margot, let’s just end this. Let’s break up. You never wanted to go public with our relationship, anyway.”

Her frown deepened, and her voice sharpened. “Frank, stop being ridiculous. You used to grovel and beg on your knees for me. Where’s all this sudden bravado coming from?”

Right then, a resounding noise came from the table as I slammed my fist, the sound echoing through the room. My patience snapped.

“Have you said enough?” I growled.

But Margot didn’t back down. Instead, she smirked, her tone turning venomous. “Am I wrong? Back when your father’s affair went public, how many times did you get down on your knees to beg people to stop spreading rumors?”

Her words cut like a knife. “When your mother committed suicide, you—”

“Enough!” I roared, grabbing a glass from the table and smashing it at her feet. The shards scattered like tiny stars.

“Get. Out,” I snarled.

Margot froze, her face pale as a sheet. She had never seen me like this before. But even now, she refused to back down completely. With a stubborn huff, she bent down, picked up the scarf from the broken glass, and glared at me.

“Frank, I’ll wait for you to come begging me to come back,” she said coldly before storming out.

...

Three days later, I got a notification from the villa’s security system. When I opened the feed, my stomach dropped.

Steven was there, standing in my living room with a group of men. His smug voice rang out through the speakers.

“Alright, tear down that door. Toss out all the useless junk. And seal off the innermost bedroom with cement.”

I froze. The 'useless junk' he was talking about?

That was my stuff.

My piano. My life.

And the bedroom he wanted to seal off?

It was my bedroom.

Suddenly, Margot’s voice came through the feed. “Yeah, do what he says. Get rid of all those eyesores.”

Panic surged through me. I bolted to the car and sped toward the villa. By the time I arrived, it was chaos. Steven’s men pinned me down the moment I walked in.

I struggled against their hold, but they were too strong. One of them grabbed my almost-healed left hand and twisted it.

The sharp, blinding pain shot through me, and my vision blurred. Everything went dark.