My fingers fumbled with the satin bow in my hair—too big, too pink—but the piano waited. The auditorium buzzed with whispers: 'She’s only five.' 'Probably a gimmick.' 'Who let a toddler on stage at the Global Young Genius Gala?'

I sat. The keys gleamed. I took a breath, closed my eyes, and played Chopin’s Ballade No. 1 from memory—perfectly. Gasps erupted. Cameras flashed. From the front row, three stone-faced billionaires exchanged stunned glances.

Then I saw her: Victoria Lang, seven years old, last year’s darling, clutching her doll with narrowed eyes. She mouthed one word: 'Impossible.'

As the final note faded, the host rushed onstage with a microphone. 'Bella, sweetie, how did you—?'

Before he finished, sirens wailed outside. A black van screeched to a halt at the entrance. Men in lab coats stormed toward security, waving documents. They were here for me. They knew.

I had two seconds to decide: run to Alexander Kane, the quiet man in the back who’d been watching all night—or pretend I was just a lucky little girl and go with the so-called doctors.