22
Blake flashed her security pass at the fire-exit scanner, and the door buzzed open.
Morgan looked unimpressed. ‘Mum, you don’t get applause for remembering your pass.’
‘Progress, Morgan. It’s called progress.’
Inside, the stairwell echoed with their footsteps, familiar and almost comforting, if Blake could ignore the anxiety gnawing at her chest.
She nudged Morgan with her elbow.
‘How’s your enthusiasm for another thrilling day at work with Mum?’
Morgan shrugged. ‘I’m here under protest.’
‘I’ll forward your complaint to HR,’ Blake said, pushing open the heavy stairwell door into the upstairs corridor. She stopped. The easy banter died on her tongue.
At the far end, the producer bay glowed under fluorescent lights.
Steve sat at the main producer desk, one arm slung over the back of Britt’s empty chair, head angled towards the screens.
Blake froze, pulse thudding. Steve was never here this early.
All week he’d been jumpy, scanning emails during meetings, taking calls in hushed tones.
Now here he was at 5.30, watching the phone lines like they might attack.
‘What the hell is he doing here?’ Blake murmured, half to herself.
Morgan followed Blake’s gaze, noticing Steve, then looked away without comment.
Blake walked forward, studying Steve’s ironed shirt, the tightness in his shoulders, his tense posture as he watched the phone screens.
Whatever brought Steve into work before six wasn’t good news.
He’d been weird all week, one minute tearing into them, then praising everything they did.
She didn’t know what she was walking into.
Beyond the glass studio wall behind him, Chelsea looked up from the studio panel, coffee in hand, headset around her neck. Their eyes locked. Blake nodded towards Steve’s back. Chelsea rolled her eyes with theatrical despair.
Good to know Blake wasn’t the only one surprised by their overlord’s presence.
At the producer desk, Morgan peeled off, sinking into her usual spot, dropping her backpack beside her chair. She opened her iPad, ignoring Steve’s presence. Blake watched her for a beat, her heart pinching.
Before she could move towards the airlock doors, Steve glanced up. His brows lifted in mock-surprise. ‘Blake, you’re actually on time.’
‘Yeah, morning Steve,’ she responded.
He eyed Morgan. ‘Any reason we’re daycare for your offspring again?’
‘She’s twelve, it’s hardly daycare. She was suspended,’ Blake replied, turning away. ‘Anyone with a problem with her should know she has a mean right hook.’
Steve opened his mouth, but Blake ignored whatever response was forming. She pushed through the airlock door, stepped inside, and entered the quiet cocoon of the studio.
‘What is he doing here?’ Blake’s voice came out low and sharp.
‘God knows,’ Chelsea replied. ‘Said he’s here to “help control the narrative”.’
Blake snorted. ‘The narrative or the talent?’
‘Both, probably,’ Chelsea conceded. She tapped at her screen. ‘Anyway, reminder: Rafael Varga’s dialling in from Europe just after seven. His interpreter’s coming early. Britt’s downstairs grabbing the coffees.’
Mack swivelled in his chair, throwing Blake a grin too bright for the early hour. ‘Can’t wait for the translator delay, nothing better than awkward silence on the radio. The pressure will be on me to fill with my ever-charming wit.’
Blake raised an eyebrow. ‘Ever-charming feels like a stretch. Just don’t be a dick and we should get through it.’
Mack made a mock-wounded expression, dropping all charm, swivelling back towards his screen.
Chelsea cleared her throat. ‘And remember, we’re prerecording the last couple of the Morning Show breaks today. Blake, you’re debuting live on Channel 9 at 8.30.’
‘Fabulous, remind me to check the lid on my long black,’ Blake muttered, sinking into her seat. ‘First TV appearance and I really don’t want to be covered in coffee again.’
Mack flashed a broad grin. ‘Great for the brand, Blakey. Spilling the beans, weekdays from six!’
Before Blake could respond, the airlock door opened again, and Britt came in, balancing three keep cups. She distributed them: Blake first, Sam second, Mack last.
Mack took a grateful sip. ‘Thanks, Britt.’
‘No worries,’ Britt said. ‘Anything else before I go back downstairs to grab Rafael’s interpreter?’
Blake shook her head. ‘Just hurry back before Steve takes over your socials pages.’
Britt grimaced, slipping back through the airlock.
Blake turned in her seat, glancing out through the studio window. Steve had returned to watching the screens, either oblivious to Morgan’s presence or ignoring her.
Her chest tightened. Something was off. There was something Steve knew and she didn’t. She hated that feeling.
Twenty minutes later, Blake leaned into the mic, forcing a brightness she didn’t feel.
‘Good morning, Melbourne! You’re on Mack and Blake in the Morning.
Coming up after eight, I’m making my national TV debut.
Tune in to Channel 9 at 8.30, but stay with us on the air until then, Mack has already started an office poll on whether I will spill coffee down my front or manage to insult the entire city live across the country. ’
Mack chimed in. ‘My money’s on both.’
Sam punctuated Mack’s joke with a quick ba-dum-tss drum sting.
Blake shook her head, falling into the familiar rhythm.
‘Right now, though, joining us live via video all the way from Germany, Eurofest royalty and frontman of Koniglicht, Rafael Varga!’ Mack began smoothly.
Sam flicked a switch, and the large screen opposite Blake lit up with Rafael’s grin. He lounged in a hotel suite, adjusting his mic with the ease of someone used to controlling every stage. A flirtatious smile played at his lips as he shifted the camera.
Blake smiled back, feeling a flutter in her chest despite herself. Beside her, the interpreter, Elena, leaned forward into the microphone, ready to translate.
‘Guten abend, Rafael,’ Blake began.
Rafael responded in rapid German.
Elena translated. ‘He says, “Good evening, Blake and Mack. A pleasure to join your show, especially yours, Blake.”’
Blake blinked, heat rising in her cheeks. Mack raised an eyebrow, amused.
‘Danke,’ Blake managed, flashing a grin. ‘We’re so glad you could make it.’
Rafael spoke again, his tone playful. Elena translated, her professional composure fighting an amused smile. ‘He says he’s been following your mystery. He enjoys your show clips online, especially the funny ones.’
‘Glad my humiliation has gone global,’ Blake quipped, getting a chuckle from Mack.
Rafael laughed, warm and genuine. Then he leaned closer to the screen, lowering his voice, gaze fixed on Blake as he spoke again.
Elena paused before translating. ‘He says if you don’t find your man, perhaps you’d join him on Koniglicht’s next world tour.’
Mack whistled off mic. Blake’s eyes widened. She covered with a laugh into the mic. ‘I might have to take you up on that.’
‘Careful,’ Mack warned, mock-serious. ‘This show’s already missing one European rockstar. We can’t afford to lose another one.’
Blake ignored him, refocusing. ‘Rafael, we’re hoping you can help us solve our mystery. You were at Eurofest in 2013. Do you remember a performer named Leo? Even backstage, maybe with another band?’
Rafael shook his head. He spoke again, measured and careful.
Elena’s voice took on a different tone, her eyes meeting Blake’s across the studio desk.
‘He says he’s sorry, Blake, but he knows everyone who played that weekend.
Eurofest was a global tour. It lasted nine months.
He says the “Leo” you’re looking for was not part of any official lineup.
No band, no roadie, no crew member was named Leo. ’
Blake’s stomach dropped like she’d missed a step in the dark. ‘You’re…sure?’
Through the glass, Blake caught Morgan’s head snap up from her iPad, fingers freezing mid-tap. Their eyes met for a fraction of a second before Morgan looked away, but Blake saw it: the flicker of confusion, maybe disappointment.
Rafael nodded, then spoke again. Blake watched Elena, her heart racing.
Elena paused, ensuring each word landed.
‘He says…actually, he does remember who you might mean. There was a man he recalls seeing backstage, in the green room and VIP areas. But he wasn’t a musician.
He didn’t perform. Rafael noticed him only because there were always security guards around him, quiet but official.
He thought he was from one of the record labels, or maybe even a very wealthy groupie of some kind.
Whoever he was, he was clearly someone…important. ’
The red ON AIR light seemed to pulse brighter. Blake’s fingers pressed flat against the desk.
The words hit in waves. First, the shock: everything she’d believed for thirteen years tilting sideways.
Then the embarrassment. God, she’d been so naive, so ready to believe he was exactly who she’d wanted him to be.
And underneath that, the betrayal. He’d let her believe it.
All those conversations about music, about touring, and he’d never corrected her assumption.
Never said, ‘Actually, I’m not part of a band. ’
Mack’s eyes shot to her, widening in surprise. Beside him, Sam’s fingers hovered over the panel, ready to intervene. Professional even in crisis.
‘Important,’ Blake echoed. The word tasted foreign. Record labels? Security?
Morgan was staring at Blake now, not even pretending to look at her iPad.
Rafael spoke again, sounding apologetic.
Elena added quietly, ‘He says he’s sorry he can’t give you better information. But whoever your Leo is, he definitely wasn’t performing.’
Blake’s mind raced. All those nights she’d watched Eurovision, searching for his face.
All those times she’d told Morgan her father was a musician, painted him as this romantic figure who’d swept through her life with a guitar and an accent.
The foundation of the story she’d built for her daughter, for herself, crumbled live on air.
The microphone waited. Melbourne waited. Morgan waited.
‘Not a rockstar,’ Blake managed, her voice smaller than she intended. ‘Not a musician.’
Then who had she fallen in love with?
Mack stepped in, sensing her unravelling. ‘Well, this mystery just took a classy European turn. Thanks for your time, Rafael. Melbourne loves Koniglicht. And hey, speaking of, we’ll spin your new single next. “Berlin Sunrise” featuring David Guetta, out now everywhere music lives.’
Rafael brightened, speaking rapidly.
Elena smiled. ‘He thanks you both and says good luck, Blake, with your search and your television appearance.’
‘Yeah, thanks,’ Blake managed, her voice barely there. ‘I’ll…I’ll need it.’
Sam transitioned to the Koniglicht track as the video link disconnected. The electric piano remix intro filled the studio. The ON AIR light blinked off.
Blake stared at her screen, her mind spinning. Security. Green room. Not a musician. Her hands trembled. She tried to hold on to herself, but the world felt tilted on its axis.
Mack leaned back, watching her. ‘Well. Didn’t see that coming.’
Blake barely heard him. She felt Chelsea’s eyes on her as her friend made her way into the studio, holding the door for Elena to exit. Blake felt Sam glance sideways. The silence stretched until Blake spoke, her voice tight with confusion and disbelief.
‘Who the hell was Leo?’
The Koniglicht song played through the studio monitors, but nobody moved.
Mack broke the tension. ‘This complicates things.’
Blake blinked, resurfacing. Yes. Her heart hammered.
She glanced through the glass at Morgan, whose eyes were locked on her now, no longer pretending disinterest. Blake saw her daughter’s throat work as she swallowed, saw the way Morgan’s fingers had found that three-tap rhythm against her leg. Faster now, urgent.
‘Complicates things?’ Blake repeated. ‘It blows the entire bloody thing up.’
The revelation wasn’t just hers to process. Morgan had heard every word, watched her mother’s certainty crumble in real-time. Blake’s chest constricted. Not from shock now, but from the weight of what this meant for her daughter.
Chelsea was already scribbling on a notepad. ‘Right, we’ll get Britt to screen calls tighter. There’ll be a thousand conspiracy theories after that.’
Blake dropped her head into her hands, elbows on the studio desk. ‘How the hell did I get this so wrong?’
‘Easy mistake,’ Mack offered, leaning back. ‘Every bloke who owns a guitar thinks he’s a rockstar.’
‘Not helping,’ Blake muttered.
Chelsea held up a finger. ‘Just keep it steady. We have to land this before the TV crew gets here. You okay, Blake?’
Blake lifted her head, her eyes hollow. ‘Fine. Totally fine. I’m only questioning my entire past and identity on live radio.’
Chelsea winced. ‘Yeah, rough day at the office.’
Behind them, the airlock door opened. Britt slipped in, eyes wide, holding her phone. ‘Um, guys?’
Chelsea glanced over. ‘What is it?’
‘Just had a media request come through. It’s…’ She paused, glancing through the glass towards Steve. ‘It’s international.’
Before anyone could respond, the airlock door swung open again. Steve was in the studio, authoritative and severe. ‘All media requests, especially international, go directly through me. Clear?’
Blake stared, startled at his sudden presence, his sharp tone.
Chelsea’s eyes narrowed. ‘Steve, how did you even hear…’
He ignored her, pointing at Britt’s phone. ‘Who exactly reached out?’
Britt fumbled. ‘Some European outlet, Mont-something. I didn’t get a chance to read it properly, came through mid-break.’
Steve’s jaw tightened. ‘Forward it to me. Now.’
Britt nodded, retreating towards the producer desk.
Steve lingered, gaze sweeping the room once, then slipped back through the airlock.
Blake exhaled. Mack shook his head.
Sam brought them back. ‘We’ve got two minutes.’
Blake nodded, feeling disconnected. She looked back at Morgan, whose quiet, intense gaze unsettled her further. Sensing her mother’s eyes, Morgan dropped her attention back to her screen, but Blake had seen it. The questions, the doubt, maybe even the hurt that Blake had got this so wrong.
Mack spun in his chair, arms behind his head, unbothered. ‘So, Blake. What exactly are you gonna do if we actually find this poor bastard?’
Blake blinked, caught off guard. ‘I…’ She paused, her voice trailing. She realised with uncomfortable clarity that she didn’t have an answer. Not anymore. Not when she didn’t even know who she was looking for.
Mack raised an eyebrow, waiting.
Blake shook her head, admitting to herself as much as to everyone else. ‘Honestly? I have no bloody idea.’