The Truth Of Ashtons Death
The door to Christian’s office flew open with a sharp crack, Marcus bursting in so fast he nearly tripped over the thick Persian rug that spanned the floor. His tie was askew, cheeks flushed, a manila folder clutched in one hand like a lifeline.
“Marcus, slow down!” Christian looked up from his laptop, brow furrowing. “You’re going to break your neck.”
Marcus caught himself on the edge of the desk, straightening with a quick, breathless laugh. “I have news!”
Christian leaned back in his chair, one eyebrow arching. “Has Doomsday arrived? Is the world about to end?”
Marcus rolled his eyes, already moving around the desk. “Christian, please. You’re terrible at making jokes. Keep your mouth shut.”
He slapped the file down in front of Christian... thick, neatly labeled, edges still crisp from the printer.
Christian opened it without another word.
Marcus leaned in, voice dropping to a hurried whisper.
“This is the information on the women Ashton harassed. Excluding Tiffany. I couldn’t find her anywhere; she’s a ghost. Maria went back to Venezuela, her home country, when Ashton fired her.
Cecilia lives in Akron, Ohio now. And Jennifer…
” He tapped the top page. “She recently moved back here. Downtown. Small apartment, low profile, but she’s listed in the city directory. ”
Christian’s eyes scanned the first page... names, addresses, old complaint summaries, dates. His jaw tightened with every line.
“Let’s start with Jennifer,” he said, voice flat but decisive.
Marcus nodded once.
Christian pushed his chair back and stood, shrugging into his suit jacket in one smooth motion. The fabric settled over his shoulders like armor.
“Let’s go.”
Marcus fell into step beside him as they strode out of the office, the door swinging shut behind them with a soft, final thud.
The hallway lights gleamed overhead.
And for the first time in months, Christian Holt moved with something sharper than guilt.
Purpose.
Determination.
And the quiet, burning need to uncover every lie he had ever believed.
×××××××
Christian and Marcus stood outside the modest downtown apartment building, the late-afternoon sun casting long shadows across the cracked sidewalk.
The address Marcus had pulled was unremarkable: third floor, unit 3B, no doorman, no security camera over the entrance.
Christian stared at the buzzer panel for a long moment before pressing the button labeled J. Carter.
A crackle of static.
“Yes?”
“Jennifer Carter? This is Christian Holt. I need to speak with you. It’s important.”
Silence stretched, long enough that Christian thought she might not answer.
Then the door buzzed open.
They climbed the narrow stairs in silence. The hallway smelled of cooking spices and old carpet. At 3B, the door was already cracked an inch, chain still on.
Jennifer peered out... mid-twenties, dark hair pulled into a messy bun, eyes wide with recognition and fear the moment she saw Christian’s face.
She started to shut the door.
Christian’s hand caught the edge gently but firmly.
“Please,” he said, voice low. “I mean no harm. I only want to talk.”
Jennifer froze, breathing fast.
After a long, trembling second, the chain rattled and the door opened wider.
She stepped aside without a word.
The apartment was small, tidy, sparsely furnished. A worn couch, a coffee table with a half-read paperback, a single framed photo of a little girl on the shelf. Jennifer gestured to the couch.
Christian sat. Marcus remained standing near the door, hands clasped in front of him.
Jennifer perched on the armchair opposite, knees pressed together, arms wrapped around herself. She looked anywhere but at Christian... floor, window, wall.
He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees.
“Jennifer,” he began, voice quieter than she expected, “I… I know what my brother did to you.”
Her head snapped up. “What?”
Christian held her gaze... steady, unflinching, raw.
“He harassed you. And three other women before you. He paid Richard Kline to bury the complaints. He deleted footage. He kept records. I’ve seen them.”
Jennifer’s breath hitched.
Her eyes filled instantly.
Christian continued, softer. “I’m here to apologize. For not seeing it. And I want to compensate you for the trauma, the lost opportunities, the years you carried this alone. Whatever you need. Money, therapy, legal help, relocation, name it.”
Jennifer’s laugh was short, bitter, trembling.
“Compensate?” She wiped her eyes roughly.
“You think your money can make up for what your brother did to me? He blackmailed me. He took pictures. He filmed me and my boyfriend when we were intimate in our own room. He threatened to send them everywhere if I didn’t give in.
I lived in terror for months. I couldn’t sleep.
I couldn’t trust anyone. You think money fixes that? ”
Christian shut his eyes for a second, head bowing slightly.
“I know it doesn’t,” he said quietly. “I know nothing makes it right. I’m not here to buy silence. I’m here because I was wrong. And because I have a daughter now. A little girl. And I never want her to grow up in a world where men like Ashton exist, and men like me let them.”
Jennifer stared at him, tears streaming freely now.
“I hope you’re not like your brother,” she said, echoing words he had once feared hearing.
“I’m not,” he answered, soft and low. “I swear to you, I’m not.”
Silence fell, thick and heavy.
Jennifer wiped her face again.
“I heard you married that woman Ashton was in love with.”
“Melody,” Christian said.
Jennifer repeated the name slowly.
“Melody. I heard Ashton was crazy for her.”
“He wasn’t,” Christian replied. “He harassed her the same way he harassed you. I thought he loved her. I thought he took his own life because she turned him down. I blamed her. I destroyed her life because of it.”
Jennifer’s eyes widened. “What?”
“Yeah.” Christian’s voice cracked. “I forced her into a revenge marriage to punish her for his death.”
“You’re telling me she was a victim too?”
“Yes.”
Jennifer leaned back, hand covering her mouth, tears spilling over.
“I know who killed Ashton,” she whispered.
Christian sat up straight. “You do?”
Jennifer nodded, sobbing now.
“Cecilia. She… Ashton forced her to strip while he filmed her. He laughed. He said she’d never work in this city again if she told.
Cecilia… she wanted revenge. Someone told us he loved Melody.
We thought we’d make it look like suicide.
We made him write that note about her. We thought…
why should he love someone? Why should someone love him?
We didn’t know she was also a victim. I’m so sorry.
We’ve already lost too much. Please don’t send us to the police. ”
Christian stared at her for a long, frozen moment.
Then he stood.
“I never came here,” he said quietly.
He turned and walked out.
Marcus followed without a word.
The door closed behind them.
Jennifer remained on the couch, sobbing into her hands.
And Christian Holt, once certain of his brother’s innocence, once certain of Melody’s guilt, walked out into the hallway with the truth burning in his chest.
He had ruined an innocent woman’s life.
And now he knew who had actually killed his brother.
But the only thing that mattered now was finding Melody.
Before it was too late.
×××××××
Christian sat alone in the darkened bedroom, the only light coming from the half-empty bottle of single malt on the nightstand and the faint city glow seeping through the curtains.
The glass in his hand trembled slightly as he brought it to his lips again... third pour, or fourth, he’d lost count. The burn down his throat barely registered anymore; the alcohol had already dulled the edges, but it couldn’t touch the core of what was eating him alive.
He leaned his head back against the headboard, eyes fixed on the ceiling. The truth he’d learned today sat heavy in his chest like wet concrete.
Ashton hadn’t been murdered by Melody.
He had been killed by the women he tormented.
Jennifer, Cecilia, Maria… the ones whose lives he’d ruined, whose privacy he’d stolen, whose dignity he’d crushed under the weight of his entitlement and power.
They had made him write that note.
They had staged the suicide.
They had ended him.
And every single one of them had been right to do it.
Ashton deserved what happened to him.
The thought hit like a fist to the gut. Christian’s breath came out in a ragged burst. He lifted the glass again, but this time he didn’t drink... he stared into the amber liquid, seeing his own reflection distorted in it.
He had spent months hating Melody for something she never did.
He had forced her into a marriage built on revenge.
He had stood by while his mother and Ashley tore her apart.
He had taken her child.
He had called her murderer, poison, liar.
And she had been the victim all along.
The same as Jennifer.
The same as Cecilia.
The same as every woman his brother had broken.
A low, broken sound escaped him... half sob, half laugh.
He set the glass down hard enough that whiskey sloshed over the rim and onto the polished wood.
He had ruined an innocent woman’s life.
Tears burned behind his eyes. He didn’t fight them this time.
They came hard and fast... silent at first, then shuddering, choking.
He pressed the heels of his hands into his sockets, shoulders shaking, breath coming in harsh gasps.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered into the dark. “God, Melody… I’m so fucking sorry.”
The words felt useless.
Too late.
Too small.
He had believed the wrong man.
He had destroyed the right woman.
And now she was gone... vanished, hidden, erased, and he didn’t even know if she was alive.
The bottle called to him again.
He reached for it, poured another measure with shaking hands, and downed it in one go.
The burn was sharper this time, almost punishing.
He deserved it.
He deserved every second of this.
Because the truth was worse than any lie he’d ever told himself.
Ashton hadn’t been a victim.
He had been the villain.
And Christian had spent months protecting his memory at the cost of an innocent woman’s life.
He dropped the glass onto the carpet, didn’t care that it rolled away, and buried his face in his hands.
The sobs came harder now... raw, ugly, unstoppable.
He cried for Melody. For Symphony.
For the brother he had loved who had never deserved it.
And for the man he had become... blind, cruel, complicit.
The room stayed dark.
The bottle stayed within reach.
But tonight, for the first time, Christian didn’t reach for it again.
He simply sat in the wreckage of his own certainty.
And let the truth drown him.
Because he had finally run out of lies to tell himself.
And the silence that followed was louder than any scream.
×××××××