The afternoon sun cast golden rays through the grand hall's windows, illuminating the lingering tension in the air.

"Even the most elite institutions abroad would bend over backward to accommodate you, Ms. Sinclair," Elizabeth Thornton said with a warm smile, her voice dripping with admiration. "The Solmaris Conservatory has flexible arrangements. We won’t impose on your performances or sponsorships, nor pry into your personal life. All we ask is that you grace us with your presence for a masterclass now and then."

Her words struck Margaret Blackwood like a whip. Just moments ago, she had scoffed at Amy’s lack of formal education—only for Elizabeth to approach Amy with reverence, praising her as if she were a prodigy.

Margaret’s cheeks burned with humiliation. "Has the Conservatory truly stooped so low?" she sneered, unable to hide her bitterness. "Accepting just anyone—especially a high school dropout?"

Elizabeth, well aware of the earlier confrontation, was too eager to recruit Amy to indulge Margaret’s pettiness. "Pride is meaningless in the face of true talent like Ms. Sinclair’s," she countered smoothly. "I’d gladly kneel if it meant having her join us. But you, Margaret..." She tilted her head, feigning realization. "Ah, you’re Ms. Sinclair’s mother-in-law, aren’t you? She’s a credit to your family, yet you seem... displeased." Her smile sharpened. "Could it be that you’re upset she didn’t compete under the Blackwood name?"

The murmurs around them grew louder. Elizabeth had pieced together the drama from the whispers in the crowd. How predictable, she thought. People despise seeing others shine when they can’t stand in the same light.

Margaret’s lips pressed into a thin line, her fury rendering her speechless. Amy spared her a brief glance before turning back to Elizabeth. "Thank you for the invitation, Ms. Thornton. I’ll certainly consider it."

Elizabeth beamed. "Wonderful! Just call ahead whenever you’re ready." She handed Amy an embossed business card with a flourish.

Samantha Reynolds nudged Amy playfully. "Since Celeste and Oliver won first place, Mr. Kingsley owes us a celebration feast!"

Sebastian Kingsley chuckled, his eyes gleaming with amusement. "Name the restaurant. My treat."

As the group walked away, laughter trailing behind them, Nathan Prescott’s gaze burned into Amy’s retreating figure. You’ll regret this, Amy Sinclair, he vowed silently. I’ll make sure you pay—with interest.

Meanwhile, neither Nathan nor Amy realized the storm brewing online. Nathan’s abruptly ended livestream had only deepened the mystery surrounding Amy, fueling the public’s obsession.

Within hours, footage of her performance skyrocketed to the top of trending lists. Who is this breathtaking violinist? The internet buzzed with speculation. The more elusive Amy remained, the more frenzied the discussions grew.

Even Victoria Langley was caught off guard when her phone rang—an international call from a world-renowned maestro. "Victoria," the voice said, laced with awe, "there’s a new violinist dominating the headlines. Her talent is eclipsing yours—and she’s making waves globally."