Masked In Nobility Secrets Of Mrs.Chavez1-100

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Chapter_92

The atmosphere in the auditorium was thick with tension. Ruby, still standing defiantly with her arms crossed, glanced at Zion, expecting him to back her up. But Zion’s reaction to Yvette’s phone call completely threw her off. His earlier composure was gone, replaced by a look of shock and disbelief.

Zion’s voice trembled as he leaned forward. “Yvette, is that… is it him?” His eyes were fixed on the screen, a mix of excitement and disbelief sweeping across his face. For a brief moment, it felt as though time itself had slowed down, and the entire room held its breath.

Yvette didn’t immediately respond. She took her time, glancing at Zion with a quiet smile that seemed to hold a world of meaning. The elderly man on the other end of the video call, oblivious to the crowd in the auditorium, continued speaking in a cheerful, albeit scolding tone.

“You finally decided to call me, you heartless girl!” he said, his voice thick with a playful yet affectionate reproach. “You have no conscience at all!”

There was a murmur in the audience. Some people recognized the old man as a famous figure in the world of classical music, while others simply followed the intense reactions of those around them. The host, trying to regain control of the situation, cleared her throat.

“Ms. Zeller, can you… explain what’s happening here?” she asked, clearly bewildered by the unexpected turn of events.

Yvette, still holding the phone steady, answered with a slight nod. “Yes, I’ll explain.” Her tone was calm and assured, contrasting sharply with the chaos in the room. She turned her attention back to the elderly man, who was still laughing on the other side of the call.

“Apologies for the delay, Mr. Brooks. It’s been a while, but I thought now would be a good time to clear something up.”

The name Mr. Brooks immediately piqued everyone’s interest. Zion’s eyes widened even further as the recognition settled in. The connection between Yvette and Bryan Brooks, the composer of Dream, seemed to be more than just theoretical knowledge of the piece. The entire room, including Ruby, who had been so sure of her own stance, suddenly felt like they were on the verge of something far bigger than they had anticipated.

The elderly man—Bryan Brooks—smiled warmly, his eyes twinkling behind his glasses. “No need to explain, my dear. I’m just happy you’re finally showing up after all these years. But do tell them—do tell them, Yvette.”

The tension in the room thickened as Yvette finally answered the question that everyone was dying to hear.

“Ruby,” she began, her voice cool but resolute. “What you said about Dream—about its emotional intent—well, you’re mistaken. The piece is not about love, as you so confidently claimed. It’s about loss, longing, and the quiet ache of unspoken promises. It’s about someone, like me, who understands the fragility of love, but more importantly, the agony of letting go.”

Ruby froze. Her mouth opened and closed, but no words came out. She had been so sure of her understanding of the piece, of the composer’s intent, but now it seemed like everything she had based her performance on was crumbling before her.

Yvette continued, her gaze now fixed directly on Ruby, her voice steady and unwavering. “Bryan Brooks didn’t compose this piece for a wife or a lover. He composed it for someone else—someone who had to say goodbye long before they were ready. He knew the pain of watching someone slip away, piece by piece, until they were nothing but a memory. Dream is not about the joy of love—it’s about the absence of it.”

The entire auditorium went silent as Yvette’s words sank in. No one dared to speak, each person processing the weight of what she had just revealed. Zion’s face was a mixture of awe and disbelief. He knew the story behind Dream, but Yvette’s interpretation, backed by the very composer himself, had shattered everything the audience thought they knew about the piece.

Zion stepped forward, his voice barely above a whisper. “But how do you know all of this? How did you come by this understanding of Dream?”

Yvette glanced at him, her expression unreadable. “Because Mr. Brooks himself told me. He is my mentor.”

The shock in the room was palpable. Ruby’s face twisted in confusion and frustration, and her earlier smugness quickly morphed into disbelief. She turned toward Zion, her voice trembling as she tried to regain her footing. “Mr. Holmes, you can’t be serious! She’s just a student, how can she possibly know more than me about the music?”

Zion didn’t respond immediately. He was still trying to process everything that had just unfolded before him. But after a long pause, he finally spoke, his voice low but firm.

“Ruby, you’ve played the piece well, but there is more to music than technique. You have to understand its soul, its story. Yvette didn’t just play Dream—she lived it. And that, my dear, is why she deserves the perfect score.”

The room was dead silent as Zion’s words echoed through the auditorium. Ruby’s face flushed with humiliation, but she could do nothing to argue. She had been outmatched—not just in skill, but in understanding.

As the crowd began to stir, murmurs of admiration for Yvette filled the air. Some began to whisper about the connection between her and Bryan Brooks, others simply acknowledged the brilliance of her performance. But one thing was clear: Yvette had just turned the tables, proving that sometimes, the true power of music lies not in following the rules, but in breaking them.

Zachary, who had been silently observing the exchange, finally spoke up, his voice tinged with respect. “I think it’s safe to say that this competition is over. Yvette’s performance… it was beyond anything I expected.”

Andrew, who had been standing nearby, gave Yvette a small, approving smile. There was no more doubt in his mind—Yvette was not only talented, she was a force to be reckoned with.

As the audience began to applaud, Zion nodded to Yvette, his expression finally softening. “You’ve done well, Ms. Zeller. You’ve reminded us all that music is more than just notes on a page. It’s a story waiting to be told.”

Yvette simply nodded, her eyes calm and steady. She had said what she needed to say, and now, the stage was hers.

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