Director Annabelle's eyes narrowed, her lips pressing into a thin line as she listened to Gerald's tirade and the critics' sycophantic agreement.
Her disapproval radiated from every pore, her posture becoming even more rigid than usual.
"Mr. Sinclair," she said, her voice cutting through the noise like a scalpel,
"Might I remind you that the acts you so brazenly commended barely had four lines their entire song? As for you lot," she turned her piercing gaze to the critics,
"I expected better from supposed experts in the field. Your critiques reek of bias."
Headmaster Alaric, still perched atop his chair, smiled broadly. His eyes twinkled with amusement as he watched the scene unfold.
He turned his gaze to Brandon, curious to see how the young man would handle this barrage of criticism.
Suddenly, a loud "BOO!" echoed through the ballroom.
All heads turned to see Pierre on his feet, thumbs down, jeering at Gerald and the critics.
Joyce and Bailey, their faces twisted with annoyance at Gerald's shameless display, quickly joined in.
"BOOOO!!!" Joyce shouted, her voice carrying across the room.
Bailey cupped her hands around her mouth, amplifying her voice. "You're full of shit!"
Their outcry seemed to break a dam. Like a wave, the booing spread through the crowd. Soon, the entire audience was on their feet, voices raised in a cacophony of disapproval aimed at Gerald and his supporters.
"BOOO!!!"
Brandon raised his hands, gesturing for calm.
The booing slowly subsided as the audience turned their attention back to him.
"Thank you all for your support," he said, his voice clear and steady.
"But I have something important to say."
The crowd fell silent, eager to hear what Brandon had to share.
"I chose this song today for a reason," Brandon began, his eyes scanning the room.
"It's not just about me or my journey. It's about all the real artists out there who dream of becoming superstars, not just for fame or fortune, but to express their own voices and leave a mark on this world."
He paused, letting his words sink in.
The audience hung on every word, their faces a mix of curiosity and anticipation.
"For too long, these voices have been purposefully buried by the industry's tyranny," Brandon continued as he cheekily pointed to Gerald, his voice growing stronger.
"Talented individuals with unique stories to tell, pushed aside in favor of manufactured acts and recycled lyrics."
A murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd. Brandon could see nods of understanding, even from some of the critics who had moments ago been criticizing him.
"This song is for them," he said, his passion evident in every word.
"It's a call to break free from the chains of conformity and let true artistry shine."
Gerald Sinclair's face had been growing redder with each passing moment. Finally, he erupted, unable to contain himself any longer.
"Nonsense!" he shouted, his voice booming across the ballroom.
"These are nothing but baseless conspiracies! The industry supports talent, plain and simple. It's not our fault if some so-called 'artists' can't cut it!"
Gerald's outburst drew gasps from the crowd. He stood there, chest heaving, glaring at Brandon with unbridled fury.
"The brat's accusations are preposterous," Gerald continued, his voice dripping with disdain.
"We at Sinclair Records have always championed real talent. These wild claims of tyranny and buried artists are nothing but the ravings of an childish delusional boy!"
Brandon smirked, his silent condescension palpable as he signaled to Jessie offstage.
She emerged from the wings, her stride purposeful as she approached Brandon. He handed her the microphone, stepping back with a nod.
Jessie's voice rang out clear and confident.
"Good evening, everyone. I'm Jessie Kim, Chief Operating Officer of Blackstone Music Group."
Gerald's face contorted with rage.
"What is the meaning of this? She has no right to be up there!"
Jessie turned to Gerald, her expression cool.
"Mr. Blackstone,13, our BMG's new CEO refuses to stoop to the levels of the Sinclairs. So, I'll take over from here."
Gerald's anger boiled over, his face turning an alarming shade of red.
"HOW DARE YOU—"
Jessie cut him off, her voice sharp.
"It's clear that Gerald and the Sinclair group cronies have the music critics in their pocket. This entire competition is rigged."
She gestured to the giant screen behind her as gasps echoed from the audience.
"In normal circumstances, we or any other aspiring artist would have no shot at victory. But BMG fears no one."
The screen flickered to life, displaying conversation records and financial transaction proof of the Sinclairs bribing the music critics.
Jessie methodically explained each piece of evidence.
Gerald's fury was evident in every line of his body.
The music critics began to panic, shouting for the screens to be shut off and threatening lawsuits.
Jessie scoffed, unfazed by their outbursts.
"My dear supposed professional music critics, I suggest you check your phones."
A collective rustle filled the ballroom as the critics reached for their devices.
Eyes widened, and faces paled as they scrolled through their emails.
Each had received a message containing a list of damning evidence of all of their misdeeds, accompanied by a chilling ultimatum:
"Expose the truth, vote fairly or bear the consequence."
The critics exchanged panicked glances, their earlier bravado evaporating like mist in the morning sun.
Sweat beaded on foreheads, and hands trembled as they clutched their phones.
One by one, they locked eyes with each other, a silent conversation passing between them.
The weight of their actions and the potential consequences hung heavy in the air, they knew that if the dirt BMG had on them got out… their lives would be over.
Finally, the selected representative of the music critics with wire-rimmed glasses stood up.
He cleared his throat, his voice quavering slightly as he addressed the crowd.
"I... We have a confession to make,"
He began, his eyes darting nervously to Gerald Sinclair before returning to the expectant faces of the audience.
"On behalf of my colleagues, I must admit that we... we received some financial… aid from Mr. Sinclair to sway our votes in favor of Sinclair, Morgan and Vanderbilt Records."
A collective gasp rippled through the ballroom.
All eyes turned to Gerald, who stood frozen, his face a mask of shock and fury.
The critic continued, his voice growing stronger with each word.
"We recognize the grave error of our ways and the disservice we've done to the music industry. From this moment forward, we pledge to vote fairly and objectively, based solely on the merits of each performance."
With a deep sigh, he sat down, the weight of his confession visibly lifting from his shoulders. The other critics nodded in agreement, their expressions a mix of shame and relief.
Brandon stepped forward, his eyes blazing with determination.
He took the microphone from Jessie, his fingers wrapping around it like a sword hilt. The audience held its breath, waiting for his next move.
"I sang of swords and weapons of war,"
Brandon's voice rang out, clear and powerful.
"That's precisely the role BMG will take."
His words hung in the air, electric with promise and defiance.
The crowd leaned in, hungry for more.
"If you have true talent," he continued, his gaze sweeping across the room to settle straight toward the camera, "let us be your protectors against the scourges of this industry."
Brandon's voice rose, filled with passion and conviction.
"Join us in our revolution!"
The last word echoed through the ballroom, a battle cry that sent shivers down spines and set hearts racing.
For a moment, time seemed to stand still.
Then, with a smirk that could cut glass, Brandon dropped the mic.
THUD!
It hit the stage with a resounding thud that seemed to shake the very foundations of the music industry.
Without another word, Brandon turned on his heel. Jessie fell into step beside him, her head held high. Together, they strode off the stage, their footsteps in perfect sync.
The audience erupted. Cheers, whistles, and applause thundered through the ballroom.
"13! 13! 13!"
"BMG!! BMG!!! BMG!!!!"
People leapt to their feet, fists pumping in the air.
The energy was electric, a palpable force that crackled and sparked.
As Brandon and Jessie disappeared into the wings, the roar of the crowd followed them.
It was more than applause – it was the sound of a revolution igniting.