But as soon as the first note rang out, I knew something was wrong. This wasn’t the music I had prepared.
I glanced up at the judges’ table and locked eyes with Ginger. She gave me a faint, mocking smile, casually flipping through her scoring sheet like none of this had something to do with her.
Before I could react, the big screen on stage suddenly lit up.
It was a video—footage of me practicing the stolen choreography.
Then, the lights in the venue came on, abrupt and blinding.
Ginger stood up, wearing a long, flowing white dress, and walked gracefully onto the stage. The music started again—it was the piece for my dance.
“Judges, audience, before we begin, I have something to reveal.” Her voice carried through the entire hall, amplified by the mic. “This contestant’s performance? It’s actually plagiarized from my original work.”
The crowd erupted. I stood there, frozen, watching the scene in disbelief.
“This dance,” she continued, “is something I created last year during my study trip in Paris. And to prove it, I’ll perform the original version right now.”
The music began again, and she started to move. Every step and every expression… matched mine perfectly. Because it was mine—my dance, my hard work, my creation.
I looked toward the other judges, desperate for someone to see through this. But all I saw on their faces was doubt and disgust.
The worst part? Ulysses was sitting in the front row, head down, not even glancing in my direction.
“This isn’t true…” My voice shook. “This is my work. I can prove it…”
“Oh?” Ginger stopped mid-dance, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “And how will you prove it? With your rehearsal videos? Those videos were all recorded after I publicly released my piece.”
She wasn’t wrong. Every shred of evidence I had was useless, thanks to the trap she’d set. Whoever threatened me to drop out of the competition? It had to be her accomplice!
My vision blurred, and I staggered back a few steps. The whispers in the audience became louder and louder, and I heard what some of them said.
“So it’s true—she really plagiarized.”
“No wonder she’s been freeloading off the d'Amboises! What kind of person does that?”
“Poor Mr. d'Amboise, taking in someone so ungrateful!”
Each word cut deeper than the last. I looked at Ulysses, silently begging him to step in and say something. But he just sat there, unmoving.
Then, out of nowhere, a voice rang out. “Hold on!”