The day of the party arrived, and true to her unpredictable nature, Margot called to say she couldn’t pick me up.
When I arrived, I barely had a chance to step out of the car before a mob swarmed me.
A barrage of insults hit me like a tidal wave.
“Who let this piece of trash in here? Frank Carmichael, the fraud! How dare you call yourself a pianist? Cheater! You’re a disgrace to the art!"
"Get lost! People like you—cheating, sneaky little rats—aren’t welcome here!”
“Frank, take a good look at yourself! Who do you think you are, trying to compete with Steven Jackson for Margot Kent, the Best Actress?"
"Whoa, look at that tie. Even the way you tie it screams Steven. How shameless can you get?”
The taunts hit me like a barrage of bullets. The jeering faces around me blurred together as I stood frozen, trying to process what was happening.
My stomach churned with a mix of humiliation and rage. I fumbled to dial Margot’s number, desperate for answers, but she hung up before I could even get a word out.
I scanned the room for her, my eyes darting from one corner to another, but there was no trace of her.
Then it hit me.