Clara pushed aside all thoughts about gift-giving and insider dealings. She lay back down, pulled the blanket over herself, and decided to get a good night's sleep. Tomorrow's finals mattered more than anything else. She wanted a clear mind—and a clear heart.
Lily, however, wasn't sleepy yet. She lay on her bed scrolling through her phone, absentmindedly flipping through messages and social media feeds, the screen's glow illuminating her face in the darkened room.
After a while, a new notification popped up.
It was from another piano contestant she had met during the competition. Since both of them had already been eliminated, they had bonded quickly over their shared disappointment and kept in touch afterward.
The message contained a short video with a simple question: "Isn't this Clara's dad—the one who's with you? Is he… okay like this?"
Lily frowned and tapped the video, unsure what to expect.
The footage showed the entrance of a KTV. Under the harsh neon lights that cast everything in garish pink and blue, Rick was squatting beside a drainage grate, retching violently. Alcohol and half-digested food splattered onto the pavement in sickening waves. His face was flushed a deep, alarming red, veins standing out starkly on his neck, eyes bulging as if he were about to vomit out his very insides.
Lily froze, her heart dropping.
Rick had accompanied Clara earlier that day and even treated them to a meal. In Lily's impression, he was gentle, polite—almost introverted. A quiet man who spoke softly and carried himself with understated dignity.
How could he be this drunk?
And at a KTV, of all places? It didn't make sense.
Panic surged in her chest. Lily jumped up from her bed and blurted out, "Clara, your dad—"
She stopped herself halfway through the sentence.
A thought struck her like a physical blow. If Clara found out now, she might not sleep at all tonight. Tomorrow's performance could be catastrophically affected. What if it wasn't that serious? Maybe Rick had just drunk too much accidentally at some business dinner. Maybe he was already fine and heading back to his hotel.
Lily forced what she hoped was a casual smile and changed her words. "It's nothing. Your dad just sent me a message saying he wanted to go out with me to talk about how to celebrate if you place well tomorrow. You should sleep—I'll be back soon."
Clara immediately sat up, her instincts sharp.
"Lily," she said calmly, but her eyes were penetrating, "you're terrible at lying."
She looked straight at her roommate, her voice quiet but firm. "What actually happened to my dad? He always knows his limits with alcohol. And even if you're my classmate, he would never ask you out alone this late at night—he's very careful about propriety and things like that."
Lily opened her mouth, then closed it again, completely at a loss for words.
Clara continued softly, her tone leaving no room for evasion, "If you don't tell me, I won't sleep at all tonight anyway."
As she spoke, she picked up her phone, ready to call her father directly.
Lily sighed in defeat, her shoulders slumping.
She handed over her phone and said quietly, "...Just watch this."
The moment Clara saw the video, her face transformed—all color draining away.
Without a word, she jumped out of bed, threw on a jacket over her pajamas, slipped into her shoes, and rushed for the door. Lily didn't dare hesitate and followed closely behind, grabbing her own coat on the way out.
They hailed a taxi downstairs, the night air cold against their skin.
The whole way there, Clara kept calling Rick's phone—but there was no answer. Each ring that went unanswered tightened the knot of dread in her stomach. She tried again and again, her hands trembling slightly.
When they finally reached the KTV entrance, the spot from the video was empty. Rick was nowhere to be seen. Only a damp stain on the pavement remained as evidence.
Clara stood under the flashing neon lights, staring at the chaotic, noisy building in front of her—all garish colors and pulsing music that she could feel in her chest.
She hated places like this. They represented everything superficial and hollow about the world.
Yet this time, she didn't hesitate at all.
She rushed inside, asking one waiter after another, her voice tight with urgency. "Have you seen a middle-aged man, about this tall, wearing a gray jacket?" After several attempts and confused looks, someone finally gave her a direction—pointing toward the VIP corridor on the second floor.
Clara walked down the dimly lit hallway, her heart pounding. She stopped in front of a private room where muffled voices and laughter spilled through the door, and pushed it open without knocking.
What she saw made her freeze on the spot, the scene burning itself into her memory.
Inside the room, Rick was standing with a glass raised, repeatedly toasting Professor Miller, Professor Jack, and several middle-aged men in expensive suits. He bent slightly at the waist, smiling ingratiatingly, his tone humble to the point of servility—laughing at every word, flattering endlessly, agreeing enthusiastically with everything they said.
Gone was the quiet, dignified father she knew.
In that moment, Clara felt as if something inside her chest physically shattered.
One of the bosses suddenly flicked a handful of peanuts onto the table, laughing cruelly as he tossed one into the air.
"Catch," he commanded, as if addressing a trained animal.
Rick actually bent forward and caught it with his mouth—awkward, clumsy, his movements uncoordinated from the alcohol. Like a dog snatching a thrown treat.
The room erupted in laughter.
Clara stood frozen in the doorway, unable to move.
In her memory, her father had always been gentle and restrained, a man with a scholarly air who spoke softly and carried himself with quiet dignity. He read poetry on Sunday mornings. He corrected her posture at the piano with patient hands. Beneath that gentleness, she had always sensed a deep, unspoken pride—a core of self-respect that defined who he was.
But now, that pride had been ground into the floor and trampled without mercy.
She understood instantly why he was doing this. For her. All for her.
Clara's eyes reddened at once, hot tears blurring her vision.
She rushed forward, wiping the alcohol and crumbs from Rick's mouth with her sleeve, tears spilling down uncontrollably. Grabbing his arm, she tried to pull him toward the door.
"Dad, forget the competition," she cried, her voice breaking. "Let's go. We're leaving right now."
Rick was clearly half-drunk, his thoughts muddled and slow. He stared at her for several seconds before recognition finally dawned in his glazed eyes. He frowned and tried to push her away, slurring his words.
"Why are you here? This isn't a place for you. Go back to the hotel. Get a good night's rest—you still have finals tomorrow. This is important."
Clara refused to let go, dragging him toward the door as her voice shook with emotion.
"Dad, how far my piano road goes depends on fate and my own ability. You don't need to humiliate yourself like this for me. It hurts too much to watch."
Rick tried again to push her away, forcing what he must have thought was a reassuring smile.
"It's just drinking and socializing. What's humiliating about that?" he muttered dismissively. "Go back. I'll head back to sleep soon, I promise."
Clara clung to him, shaking her head, crying silently. Beside her, Lily's eyes were red as well, witnessing this private devastation.
To outsiders, piano majors often looked wealthy—the expensive instruments, the private lessons, the polished performances. Compared to average families, that might be true. But for ordinary middle-class households, supporting such a dream was never easy. It meant sacrifices large and small, year after year.
Clara's family was exactly like that.
Her parents had sacrificed far more than she had ever fully understood.
She had tried to be sensible—choosing a piano major at a regular university instead of a prestigious conservatory, leaving herself an academic fallback if music failed. She had worked part-time jobs. She had practiced until her fingers ached rather than paying for extra coaching.
Yet now, reality was laid bare before her eyes.
Rick had thrown away his dignity—something he valued more deeply than almost anything—just to pave a smoother road for her dreams.
Worse still, he was clearly terrible at this kind of social maneuvering. His flattery was too obvious, too desperate. It only made him look more pitiful.
The atmosphere in the room soured rapidly.
One of the bosses frowned impatiently. "What's with all this crying? Is drinking with us that unbearable?"
Another sneered, his voice dripping with contempt. "She's a contestant, right? Drinking with us is beneath her? Then don't debase yourselves—just leave."
"Stop crying," someone else said coldly. "It's annoying. This was supposed to be fun."
Clara's chest burned with anger at their casual humiliation, but Rick reacted faster. He immediately plastered on an even wider smile and bowed slightly lower.
"I'm sorry, gentlemen. I've ruined the mood," he said hastily, his words tumbling out. "I'll drink three cups to make up for it. Please, let me apologize properly."
He grabbed a glass and raised it to his lips with shaking hands.
Clara's heart clenched. She snatched the glass away before he could drink.
"Dad," she cried desperately, "I won't let you do this anymore. We don't need this. I can rely on my own ability—I can compete fairly on my own merit."
The bosses burst out laughing at her naivety.
"No need to punish yourself," one said dismissively, waving his hand as if shooing away an insect. "We're tired of watching this drama. Leave already. Don't ruin our night any further."
They waved for security without another glance.
With no room to argue or resist, Rick was escorted out, Clara and Lily following close behind.
The moment they stepped outside, the cold night wind hit him, clearing his head slightly—but his stomach twisted violently in response, and he bent over, vomiting again onto the sidewalk.
Clara held him carefully, patting his back with gentle hands as Lily rushed off to buy water from a nearby convenience store.
Tears streamed down Clara's face unchecked.
"Dad, why do this?" she sobbed.
Maybe I really can win on my own ability. I never gave gifts before, never flattered anyone—and I still made it to the finals.
Rick wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, finally stopping. He looked at her with bloodshot eyes and gave a helpless, tired shake of his head.
"Clara," he said quietly, his voice hoarse, "if I hadn't given gifts and gone drinking before this week… you might not have even made it to the finals at all."
He paused, bitterness seeping into every word.
"And tonight? It was probably useless anyway. The top spots are already decided. They were just playing with me for their own amusement."
Clara went completely still, the words hitting her like physical blows.
So her place in the finals… had it really been bought with her father's humiliation?
Had this not been the first time he'd bent his back and swallowed his pride for her sake?
How many nights had he done this without her knowing?
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