Chapter 50
Chapter Fifty
Two minutes later, Alistair returned to the sitting room. ‘He will see you.’
Immediately, they both stood up.
‘Just Fern,’ he said firmly. ‘You can wait there.’
Fern and Daniel exchanged a glance before Daniel said it was fine and motioned for her to go ahead.
Fern reluctantly left Daniel in the sitting room and followed Alistair down a hallway that led to an outside door.
They crossed a small stone courtyard then entered another building.
Alistair paused outside a large oak door.
‘He’s very weak,’ Alistair muttered, avoiding her eyes.
‘Do not stress him out or expect too much.’
Fern didn’t reply. The man on the other side of that door had taken everything from her great-aunt, but he might also hold the key to making it right.
Alistair opened the door and stepped inside. Fern followed him in.
The room was dim, the blinds drawn, with a narrow strip of daylight slicing through a small gap.
Everything was clean and clinical, almost austere in its minimalism.
A double bed stood in the centre, flanked by simple bedside tables, one of which held a glass and a jug of water.
In the corner, a small basin was mounted to the wall, and a single chair – currently occupied by a nurse – sat beside the bed.
The space resembled a private hospital room more than a bedroom.
There were no signs of grandeur now – no awards, no shelves of records or framed photos – just a frail-looking man propped up on too many pillows.
Nathaniel Loring looked nothing like the glossy PR photos that still floated around the internet. His skin was pale and drawn, his eyes dull with exhaustion. He looked … small. Like the last few days had drained the life out of him.
As soon as Fern entered, he turned his head slowly and gave the nurse a faint wave of his hand.
‘You can go,’ his voice rasped. ‘It’s all right.’
Alistair stayed where he was.
‘You, too. Go,’ Nathaniel ordered, firmer this time.
Alistair looked like he was going to argue, but thought better of it. He followed the nurse out, the door clicking shut behind them. Fern stepped closer to the bed, pulled out the chair and sat.
Nathaniel studied her. Really looked at her. It was unnerving. A long silence stretched between them.
Then he said, ‘What do you think you know?’
‘That “Echoes of the Past” was written by Matilda,’ Fern replied. ‘She didn’t get any credit. You stole her song and her fortune.’
His gaze drifted to the ceiling.
‘You covered your tracks well,’ she continued. ‘But we have the original manuscript. And footage of her composing it. Did you ever love her, or did you only love what she could give you?’
He didn’t answer right away. His head rolled slightly to the side, his eyelids heavy – with fatigue or lack of interest? Fern couldn’t tell.
‘I loved what she gave me,’ he finally said. ‘The music. The passion. The promise of something bigger than myself. That was enough for a while.’
Fern felt her stomach twist. ‘You left her at the altar. Spread a lie about an affair. You even told her your baby had died at birth.’
Nathaniel’s lips twitched into something like a smirk. ‘The baby was inconvenient. A burden I didn’t ask for. Fame doesn’t wait around for people with baggage.’
Fern stared at him, disgusted. ‘So you lied. Let her grieve her own child while you – what? Counted your money and collected awards?’
He exhaled a dry, shallow laugh. ‘You think I got where I did by playing nice?’
‘No,’ she said coldly, ‘I think you got where you did by stepping on the heart of the only person who ever truly believed in you.’
Nathaniel didn’t argue. He looked almost bored now. But then, with a small twitch of his fingers, he reached to adjust the blanket across his chest. His hand trembled.
‘She found out,’ he murmured, eyes fixed on a spot just beyond her. ‘About the baby. A few years ago. Did one of those DNA kits and registered herself. I don’t know why. Curiosity, maybe. Guilt. But somehow, it brought up her son.’
‘How do you know?’
‘She showed up. Knocked on my door, said she wanted to know everything. I told her. Gave her the details. Not that it mattered by then.’
‘Why not?’
‘He was already dead,’ Nathaniel said flatly. ‘Died from an illness. I don’t remember. I didn’t dig too deep.’
Fern closed her eyes. The tragedy of it all was suffocating. ‘Is that the only time you saw her after breaking her heart on what was meant to be your wedding day?’
‘Yes.’ A harsh, rattling cough wracked through him then. His chest heaved. He fumbled weakly at the bedside, and hit the call button.
Moments later, the nurse appeared. ‘Time to let him rest,’ she said gently to Fern.
Fern stood, but paused at the door, hand on the frame. She looked back at the dying man, the one who’d ruined so many lives without an ounce of remorse. ‘At least give me his name,’ she said. ‘The boy. What was his name?’
Nathaniel didn’t lift his head, but his lips moved.
‘William Brooks.’
Fern nodded once, swallowing the tight knot in her throat. She left without another word. The door shut behind her.
As she walked back to the sitting room, her stomach twisted with a sharp, nauseating churn at the thought of what both men had done to her great-aunt.
‘We’re ready to go,’ she said, looking at Daniel, who stood and crossed the room towards her without a word, reaching for her hand.
She took it without hesitation, then she turned and fixed Alistair with a hard, unflinching stare.
‘What you did…’ she said, her voice low but shaking with fury. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself.’
Alistair didn’t speak, just silently followed them into the front hall and closed the door behind them.
Fern and Daniel didn’t speak again until they were through the iron gate, past the waiting journalists, and into the quiet of the side street beyond.
‘What the hell happened in there?’ he asked.
Fern shook her head slowly. ‘He’s a man without a soul, no remorse, obsessed with money, with being adored.
He used Matilda for her talent, her love, and when she became inconvenient, he tossed her aside like she was nothing.
’ She exhaled. ‘I can’t begin to imagine what she went through.
Losing the man she thought loved her. Her songs stolen.
Believing her baby died at birth … only to find out years later he’d lived.
She ran a DNA match and found him but then learned he’d already passed away. It’s all just … heartbreaking.’
Daniel glanced over at her, the concern in his face growing. ‘Did he give you anything? A name?’
Fern nodded. ‘I asked for it. I just thought … maybe I could visit the grave. Let her know, somehow, that someone cared enough to remember him.’
Daniel’s grip on her hand tightened.
‘What was his name?’ he asked.
‘William Brooks.’
Daniel stopped walking.
‘Say that again,’ he urged.
She turned to face him, confused. ‘William Brooks.’
Daniel’s face went white. His mouth opened, but no sound came at first. Then, barely louder than a breath: ‘That’s my father’s name.’