28
Chelsea looked up from her show-rundown notes. ‘Did Morgan say anything this morning?’
Blake shook her head. ‘She was awake but she closed her door before I’d even made coffee.’
Chelsea left it there.
Blake stared through the glass wall towards the producer bay. ‘Yesterday was the last day of her suspension. She packed her bag last night. She’ll make her own way in. She doesn’t want to miss another day of school.’
Chelsea nodded. ‘She doesn’t want to fall behind?’
‘Yeah, bullies or not, she loves to learn.’
The studio settled into its pre-show quiet. Not tense. Just early.
‘I shouldn’t have read that damn letter,’ Blake said.
The words hung there, heavier than she’d meant them to be. She’d been turning it over in her mind since yesterday, how Morgan’s face had changed when she’d read the letter on air. The way she’d gone rigid, then blank. Like Blake had betrayed her. Maybe she had.
Chelsea reached for her iPad, tapped a few times, and turned it around.
‘They clipped it for socials,’ she said. ‘It went up last night. Comments are full.’
Blake reached for the iPad, zooming in to read the comments.
He’s thirteen now. I’ve never told anyone I didn’t feel connected at the start. Blake made me feel less ashamed.
I’m four weeks in and some days I hate it. I love my baby, but I hate this. Thank you for putting it into words.
My twins are sixteen. I still carry the guilt. I wish I’d heard this back then.
Breastfeeding at 4 am. Crying in the dark. Just wanted to say thanks. That’s all.
Blake sat back and rubbed her eye with the heel of her hand. The comments should have made her feel better, validated somehow. Instead, they just reminded her of the look on Morgan’s face, the quiet accusation in her silence.
‘I’m not a mum, but what you said yesterday, I knew was important for you, but I didn’t realise how important it was for other mums to hear,’ Chelsea said.
‘I know Morgs got hurt, but you connected with a lot of women who really needed to hear what you had to say. Blake, this is the power of radio, of connecting people. You should feel proud.’
Blake nodded once. Tired. ‘I’m still not sure I should have done it.’
The studio door swung open with its familiar creak. Sam entered through the airlock. He gave them both a small nod and started checking the touch screen. After a beat, he glanced at Chelsea. ‘You got the lines up yet?’
She shook her head.
‘Looks like they’ve been ringing since five.’
Chelsea raised an eyebrow at Blake. ‘We’re getting close. Some of the messages coming through feel different. Like people actually know something.’
Blake pressed her thumb into the seam of her cup. ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘Feels like something’s coming.’
The morning ritual kicked in around them—Sam adjusting levels, Chelsea scrolling through call logs—the familiar pre-show choreography that Blake could do in her sleep. But today it felt different.
Twenty minutes into the show, they were hitting their stride. The ON AIR light glowed above the door, and Blake was deep in radio mode.
‘That was P!NK with “Try”,’ Blake said into the mic, her tone steady. ‘Still holding strong in the sad-girl-anthem charts. And in my playlist from 2013.’
Mack grinned. ‘You’re with Mack and Blake in the Morning. Mystery Dad Tuesday is back. We’re still tracking our international man of mystery, so if you’ve got any leads on Leo, we want to hear them.’
On the panel screen, line three pulsed. Chelsea had tagged it Michelle has been calling for days. I think it’s something.
Blake flicked the fader up. ‘Line three. Michelle in Geelong. Morning.’
‘Hi guys,’ came the reply, clear, warm and confident. ‘So, my sister and I did a Christmas-market trip a few years back: Colmar, Rothenburg, Eguisheim. All the fairytale towns. We were obsessed.’
Blake smiled faintly. ‘Very Instagram-worthy.’
‘We were in this one village, can’t remember which country, and there was this buzz. Nothing major. Just local press, whispers. Someone said a prince was visiting. Apparently, he never makes public appearances.’
Blake’s eyebrows pulled together. She stayed silent.
Mack leaned in.
Michelle continued. ‘We only saw him from behind, getting into a car. But later that day, we saw a portrait of him in a shop window, like a full gilded royal painting.’ She laughed.
‘We started calling him Hot Prince, just between us. We joked we’d bump into him again and one of us would end up the next Princess Mary. ’
Blake arched an eyebrow. ‘And now you think your Hot Prince is my Leo?’
‘I didn’t at first. But when this segment started, when you described his voice, the music, how private he was, I just… couldn’t stop thinking about it.’
‘So Blakey, hear that, you could have been our very own version of Princess Mary,’ Mack jabbed.
Sam snorted.
Blake smirked. ‘If you’re getting emails from someone claiming to be Hot Prince, please don’t send him crypto or iTunes gift cards…But royalty feels a bit far-fetched for our Leo hunt.’
Michelle said, ‘Still. Thought I’d share.’
‘I appreciate it,’ Blake said. ‘Thanks for the call.’
The line dropped.
Blake exhaled.
A prince? Haha, sure.
And tomorrow they’d find out he was a former Bachelor contestant with a PhD in astrophysics.
Still, there was something about the way Michelle said it…
Sam raised two fingers and gestured to the phone logs. Next caller.
Blake nodded. ‘Let’s go to line four. Who’ve we got?’
‘Hello, Mack. Hi, Blake.’
Her heart jolted.
Leo?
The voice was calm. European. Familiar enough to catch in her throat.
Then, ‘Filip here. I live in Melbourne now. But I grew up in a place called Montverre.’
Blake’s stomach dropped. She knew that name.
Her fingers curled against the desk.
‘I’ve been listening to your show for a few weeks,’ Filip said. ‘Usually on my way to work. But after that last caller, I thought…maybe I should call.’ He paused. ‘You’ve probably never heard of Montverre.’
Blake blinked. ‘Actually…I think I had an uncle from there.’ She said it without thinking. The name tasted strange. Familiar, but out of place.
‘It’s small. Near the Carpathian Mountains. Still sovereign. We have a royal family, always have. And a prince.’
Mack stayed silent.
‘Prince Leontius,’ Filip continued. ‘He’s always been private. He never liked press. Music was his thing. For a while, no one really knew where he’d gone.’
Leontius.
Montverre.
Blake’s eyes flicked to the glass.
Chelsea was frozen behind it, staring straight back at her.
And then the psychic’s words crashed back into her head, clear as if she was hearing them now: ‘What he inherited though…it’s heavier than music. Older than melody. It’s responsibility. The name you knew? Leo was…borrowed. His real name has more weight. More consequences.’
Blake’s stomach turned cold.
She swallowed. ‘Thanks for the call, Filip.’
The line dropped.
Sam hit the play button, filling the studio with the opening bars of Lola Young’s ‘Messy’.
Blake took off her headphones. Then she stood up and walked straight into the producer bay, the studio door sealing shut behind her. For a few moments, the only sound was Britt tapping at her keyboard.
Chelsea was already halfway to Blake, her headset dangling from one hand. Her gaze locked on Blake, sharp and concerned. ‘Talk to me.’
Blake kept her voice steady, even with her heart hammering. ‘Montverre,’ she said, testing the word again. ‘Montverre.’
Chelsea gave her a careful look, about to respond, when Britt glanced up from her desk, cautious. ‘Montverre. That’s…I think that’s where the letters are from?’
Chelsea turned, eyebrows pulling tight. ‘What letters?’
Britt went pale. Her eyes widened. ‘I…I thought…Sorry, I mean, Steve’s letters. The ones he’s been getting.’
Chelsea’s voice hardened. ‘What letters, Britt?’
Britt’s eyes darted between her screen and Chelsea. ‘Steve’s been getting these letters, official-looking envelopes. I asked him about it once, and he said…’ She trailed off, uncomfortable.
‘Said what?’ Chelsea pressed.
Britt swallowed, cheeks turning deep pink. Her voice shrank. ‘Steve said not to mention it. Something about impacting ratings. He was pretty clear that my reputation could be… compromised.’
Chelsea’s expression changed. Her eyes softened in sympathy. ‘Your reputation? Oh, Britt. I’m so sorry.’
Britt glanced down, avoiding their eyes, embarrassed and exposed. Blake didn’t fully understand what had passed between Britt and Chelsea, but she felt its weight. Still, her mind was too full to puzzle it out now. She refocused.
‘Britt, where are the letters?’ Blake’s voice demanded attention.
Britt hesitated, shame flickering across her face. ‘They’re in Steve’s office. Bottom drawer. Some of them…some of them are addressed to you, too, Blake.’
Blake went still.
Chelsea moved to the studio door, opened it a crack, and leaned through. ‘Sam, play a two-song audio sweep and pad please.’
She closed the door again and turned back to Britt. ‘All right. Show us.’
The hallway stretched before them, f luorescent lights humming their usual tune.
Blake’s sneakers squeaked against the polished floor as she walked to Steve’s office, each step both urgent and reluctant.
The door was ajar, the room quiet and untouched, waiting for him to arrive. Britt hovered in the doorway.
Chelsea moved past her, pulling open the blinds to let in the weak early morning sunlight. Blake stood frozen in the doorway, something heavy tightening in her chest.
Chelsea knelt at Steve’s desk, tugging at the bottom drawer. It held firm, locked. She shot a glance at Britt.
Britt spoke, shame staining her voice. ‘The key is in his pen holder.’
Chelsea snatched the key, inserted it, and twisted. There was a click, and the drawer slid open.
Blake stepped forward. The drawer was filled with letters. Exactly as Britt had described, official-looking envelopes in neat stacks.
Blake felt the air leave her lungs. The first envelope on one stack was addressed to her: Emily Blake C/O Radio Australia Network Melbourne, Australia
Her pulse quickened. She reached down, snatched the envelope from the drawer, ripped it open. She scanned the date. It was two weeks ago.
Her eyes flicked over the formal letterhead, the neat print:
Van Lierde & Associates Attorneys at Law Montverre CONFIDENTIAL
To: Ms, Emily Blake
We formally request your immediate cessation of all public inquiries, broadcasts, or representations relating directly or indirectly to His Royal Highness, Prince Leontius of Montverre.
Continued dissemination of such information constitutes defamation under Montverre statute and may result in further legal proceedings.
This is our final request before formal legal action.
Blake stopped reading.
The page blurred in front of her eyes.
‘Van Lierde,’ she whispered.
She knew that name. She’d googled it. Twelve years ago. Sitting alone in her tiny rental, while Morgan was asleep in her cot in their shared room of her one-bedroom apartment.
The legal firm behind that strange inheritance email.
The uncle she’d never met, conveniently dead, conveniently generous.
Money she’d desperately needed, desperately accepted without asking questions.
But she remembered the feeling now.
How strange it had seemed, even then.
The careful wording from the law firm.
No explicit mention of who’d sent it, just a vague implication.
Now it crashed down on her, merciless and clear: The PI. Her uncle. The same law firm. Not a coincidence. Her uncle probably wasn’t even dead. There’d never been an inheritance. The careful language had been deliberately vague.
She felt sick. Humiliation rose sharp and hot.
That money. These letters.
They were from Leo.
He’d paid her off. He’d known the whole time. He’d chosen to disappear, chosen to leave her alone, struggling with their daughter.
And she’d been so naive.
So desperate.
She’d never properly questioned it.
Beside her, Chelsea spoke, measured and furious. ‘Steve’s been sitting on these for weeks. Letters addressed to you. He knew everything and chose to put ratings first.’
Blake couldn’t respond.
Her fingers tightened around the letter, crumpling it. Her whole body felt numb. Dread and fury spun through her mind.
From down the corridor, voices approached, casual, familiar. Steve, arriving for the morning.
Chelsea’s head snapped up. ‘We can’t stay here.’
Blake shoved the letter into her pocket.
She followed Chelsea into the hallway.