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“Yeah, I used to know them,” I admit casually, hoping she doesn’t ask for the autograph of each band member or worse, the entire Ehrenberg family.
“Zane Weathersfield, the original keyboardist, was your brother?” She frowns. “Your last name is St. Clairmont . . . was he like a stepbrother or something?”
The momentary relief I’d felt, thinking she might just be asking out of pure fandom or curiosity, is short-lived. As she mentions Zane’s name, my throat tightens, and I swallow hard, trying to dispel the sudden lump there.
“Zane . . . was my brother. He used Mom’s maiden name because Dad didn’t like the lifestyle,” I confirm, my voice straining with the effort to keep it steady.
“But the biggest question is, what’s the deal between you and Brahms Ehrenberg?” she asks pointedly.
I stare at Blythe for several long seconds, assimilating her question. My eyes snap up to meet hers, trying to figure out how to satiate her curiosity while not giving away anything. The air in the room grows thick, charged with tension.
“Brahms and I . . . we, of course, knew each other. He was Zane’s best friend.” My words are measured and deliberate. Is there more?
There’s a lot more, a murky past and a painful history. But what’s between us now? Nothing. We were never an us. Only some mistakes I made led by loss, grief, and confusion. Now, I just feel resentment and bitterness toward him.
But I know she won’t accept that vague answer, I have to come up with something substantial that will make her understand that now is not the time to feed her inquisitive personality.
Before I can ask for some time to gather myself, she continues probing. “Why did you say Brahms killed your siblings? I thought the plane crash was just a tragic accident?”
I flinch. Why did I say that in front of her?
She’s right about it. Technically, it was an accident. But . . . there’s a lot more to it. I close my eyes for a moment, hating that I still can’t share anything about it with her or the world.
This is a sacred secret. The Ehrenbergs would do anything to protect their own, even when they destroy other people. Ellington claims they did it for my sake, but I’m not convinced. It was a cover-up, ensuring Brahms faced no consequences for his crimes. To this day, they coddle and shelter him. Hence why he’s in this center seeking help and probably shelter to avoid the bad press.
So, I have to be mindful of how I discuss this with Blythe. “You know that NDA you signed?” I ask.
She nods cautiously.
“You need to stop asking questions. They have their claws deep, Blythe. They control narratives, spin stories,” I whisper, letting the reality of my situation sink in. The power of the Ehrenberg empire is not to be underestimated.
“But I’m asking questions to you, not them,” Blythe points out.
I give her a sad smile. “And I’ve signed a lot of NDAs with the Ehrenbergs over the years. Almost since I first met them.”
Okay, the last part is a lie. Though, it’d be kind of funny if an almost four-year-old kid had to sign one, wouldn’t it? Blythe just doesn’t need to know that part yet. I’ll come clean soon. I just have to . . . What do I have to do?
Blythe squeezes my hand again. “Whenever you can open up, I’m here. No judgments.”
No judgments? Brahms is the one who should be prosecuted and sentenced, not me, I think bitterly.
I force a tight smile. “Thank you,” I manage to say.
Will I be able to tell her the truth? No, because the implications of that might affect more than just Brahms and me. But what if I can make him confess for his crimes and send him to jail.
Suddenly, a sense of purpose grips me. This could be my chance to expose what truly happened to my siblings and get justice. A spark of something dark and vengeful ignites within me. I’ll find a way to make him pay, at last, to admit his guilt publicly. The thought of watching arrogant Brahms finally face consequences fills me with grim satisfaction.
For the first time, having him close feels like an advantage. I can use his presence to probe for weaknesses, inconsistencies in his story, anything to tear down the façade and reveal the ugly truth.
He killed his bandmate and his girlfriend—Iris Weathersfield. Brahms is not a misunderstood, heartbroken man who lost his best friend and the love of his life in a cruel accident. Things were worse and different, and . . . he’ll pay. I’ll make sure the world sees the monster he truly is.
With determination, I grab my phone. My fingers fly across the screen as I type a response.
Seraphina: I need to make some arrangements, but I’ll agree to your terms. We’ll start soon, maybe on Monday.
Brahms: Tonight.
Annoyance prickles at his impatience, but I push it aside, reminding myself of the bigger picture.
