Truth Finally Surfaces
(Guys! Sorry for late update, I mostly publish before going to the university, but today was off so I was asleep. Apologies if I made you wait)
Melody sat across from Ryan in one of the smaller conference rooms on the executive floor, the long glass table between them scattered with printed reports, a tablet displaying a live dashboard of current partnerships, and two half-empty coffee cups.
The room overlooked the city skyline, late-afternoon sun slanting through the blinds in golden bars across the carpet.
Ryan leaned back in his chair, sleeves rolled to his elbows, tie loosened just enough to look effortlessly sharp.
He had been walking her through the latest acquisition analysis for the past hour, quietly impressed by how quickly she grasped the financials, the market positioning, the hidden risks, but he hadn't been subtle about his interest.
"You're picking this up faster than most people who've been here five years," he said, tapping the tablet screen to highlight a revenue projection curve. "Margaret wasn't exaggerating. You've got instincts."
Melody offered a small smile, eyes still on the numbers.
"I've had practice reading balance sheets under pressure. Holt Enterprises didn't exactly hand out easy assignments."
Ryan's gaze lingered on her a moment longer than necessary.
"I bet they didn't," he murmured. "Still... you wear it well."
She glanced up, brow arching slightly. "Is that a compliment or a line?"
"Both," he admitted without hesitation, lips curving into that easy, flirtatious smile. "I'm not subtle when I like what I see."
Melody shook her head once, amused despite herself. "You're impossible."
"Guilty." He leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice dropping to a low, intimate register that made the room feel suddenly smaller. "And just so we're clear... I know."
She stilled. "Know what?"
Ryan's eyes held hers... steady, playful, but with a glint of something deeper.
"That you were legally adopted by Margaret Marshall. Daughter. Heir. The whole thing."
Melody's pulse kicked up.
She set the pen down carefully.
"How do you know that?" she asked, voice quiet but firm.
He leaned back again, smile softening.
"She told me herself. Last week. Pulled me into her office after hours and said, 'Ryan, I need you to look after my daughter. She's brilliant, she's wounded, and she's going to change everything. Don't let her fall through the cracks.'"
Melody exhaled slowly, shoulders easing a fraction. "She trusts you."
"She trusts very few people," Ryan corrected gently. "And she trusts me with this. So yeah... I know who you really are. Melody Marshall." He let the name roll off his tongue like it tasted good. "Suits you, by the way. Rolls off the tongue better than you think."
She studied him for a moment, searching for mockery, calculation, anything hidden.
She found none.
Just warm, open interest.
And genuine respect.
"I don't need a babysitter," she said finally, though her tone lacked bite.
"Didn't say you did." Ryan shrugged one shoulder.
"I said guide. Ally. Friend, if you want one.
You're brilliant, you don't need hand-holding.
But you're also new here. New name. New enemies.
New everything. Having someone in your corner who knows the players, the politics, the shortcuts.
.. that's not weakness. That's strategy. "
Melody looked down at the tablet, then back at him.
"I'd... like some help getting started," she admitted. "Not because I can't do it alone. But because I want to do it right."
Ryan's smile turned softer... less flirtatious, more genuine.
"Then you've got me," he said simply. "Every meeting, every report, every whispered rumor in the break room. I'll be there. No strings. No games. Just... me."
She held his gaze for a long beat.
"Thank you," she said quietly.
He inclined his head. "My pleasure, Melody Marshall."
He stood, gathering the tablet and a few folders.
"Come on," he said, nodding toward the door. "Let's walk the floor. I'll introduce you to the team leads who actually run this place, not the ones who just have the titles. You ready?"
Melody rose, smoothing her blouse.
"Ready."
Ryan opened the door for her, falling into step beside her as they walked the hallway together.
×××××××
Marcus leaned down over the table beside Christian’s chair, elbows braced on the edge, eyes glued to the laptop screen as Christian plugged the black USB drive into the port. The glow from the monitor washed across both their faces in cold blue light.
“Will you stop hovering over me?” Christian muttered, voice tight.
Marcus didn’t move an inch. “Boss, I’m working.”
“You’re suffocating me. Your cologne is ridiculous.”
Marcus smirked without looking away from the screen. “Really? I stole it from your drawer.”
Christian rolled his eyes, jaw clenching. “Show me what you’ve got.”
Marcus clicked open the folder labeled Personal Backup – A.H.
Dozens of emails loaded instantly... subject lines jumping out like warning signs.
“These emails from Ashton…” Marcus scrolled slowly, letting Christian read over his shoulder. “All to Richard Kline. Telling him to delete specific CCTV footage. ‘Handle quietly.’ ‘No trace.’ ‘Bonus incoming.’”
Christian’s breathing grew shallower.
Marcus paused on one thread dated three weeks before Ashton’s death.
“Here’s the interesting thing,” he said quietly. “Melody wasn’t the only victim.”
Christian’s head snapped toward him. “What do you mean?”
Marcus opened the hidden partition folder labeled ME.
It expanded into subfolders... neatly named, meticulously organized.
“Ashton harassed four female employees before Melody,” Marcus said. He hovered the cursor over the list. “Jennifer. Tiffany. Cecilia. Maria. And… Melody.”
Christian stared at the screen, face draining of color.
Marcus clicked into the first subfolder, Jennifer.
Scanned complaint forms appeared. Audio files. Screenshots of deleted portal entries. CCTV stills, grainy but unmistakable: Ashton cornering a young woman in an empty stairwell, hand on the wall beside her head.
He opened another. Tiffany. Same pattern.
Cecilia.
Maria.
Then Melody.
Christian reached forward and clicked it himself.
The first video loaded: storage room, timestamp six months before Ashton’s death.
Ashton backing Melody against the shelves, her hands pushing at his chest, face turned away.
The second: elevator, doors closing just as his hand slid to her waist.
The third: stairwell, late night, her voice muffled but sharp, “Get away from me.”
Christian leaned back in his chair as though the screen had burned him.
“No…” The word came out hoarse, barely audible.
Marcus pressed his lips together, eyes fixed on the frozen frame. “I’m sorry, boss.”
Melody’s voice echoed in Christian’s mind... clear as if she were standing beside him.
“He harassed me. He never loved me.”
He closed his eyes, breath shuddering out of him.
“This can’t be happening.”
Marcus spoke quietly. “She was right, boss. Ashton paid Richard to cover his tracks. Every complaint buried. Every video deleted. Every woman reassigned or quietly pushed out.”
Silence fell, thick and suffocating.
Christian opened his eyes again. They were glassy, unfocused.
“But boss,” Marcus continued, “why did Ashton die then? And what about that note?”
Christian stared at the frozen image of Melody... She was trapped but defiant.
“It’s got nothing to do with Melody,” he said, voice cracking. “I know now.”
Tears blurred his vision.
He pushed his chair back abruptly, the wheels scraping against the carpet. He stood, grabbed his suit jacket from the back of the chair, and slung it over his shoulder.
Marcus straightened. “Boss?”
Christian walked toward the door without looking back.
“Keep this a secret, Marcus.”
He left.
The door closed softly behind him.
Marcus stood alone in the dark office, screen still glowing with the truth neither of them had wanted to face.
×××××××
Christian stepped into the Holt mansion at dusk, the grand foyer already shadowed and silent.
He moved with purpose, coat still on, shoes echoing sharply on the marble as he climbed the curved staircase to the second floor.
He bypassed his own suite and the nursery and went straight to the door at the end of the east wing.
Ashton’s study.
The brass handle was cold under his fingers. He pushed the door open.
The room smelled faintly of old leather and the ghost of Ashton’s cologne, still there after all this time, faint but unmistakable.
The large oil painting of the Holt patriarch hung above the fireplace.
Christian crossed to it, lifted the heavy frame from its hook, and set it carefully on the floor.
Behind it, the wall safe waited... biometric lock, digital keypad, a small red light blinking steadily.
He pressed his thumb to the scanner.
It beeped once, green.
He entered the override code: Ashton’s birthday followed by their father’s death date.
The safe clicked open.
Inside lay the metal box he had never wanted to open again.
Ashton’s phone... black, cracked screen, still charged somehow.
Ashton’s laptop... sleek, silver, unopened since the funeral.
Christian took both and sat on the worn leather couch near the window. The city lights were beginning to come on below.
He powered on the phone first.
The lock screen appeared... pattern grid.
He stared at it for a long moment.
First attempt: wrong pattern.
Second: wrong again.
Third: he traced a simple L shape followed by a diagonal up and right, the pattern he’d seen Ashton use on his own phone years ago, when they still shared late-night drinks and secrets.
The screen unlocked.
He opened the messenger app.
The chat history loaded instantly.
Melody
Christian’s thumb hovered.
He tapped the thread.
The messages began at the top, months before everything exploded.
The tone shifted after that.
Then the messages turned darker.
Cruder.
Unfiltered.
A photo attached, Melody in her bedroom, changing, back turned to the window, unaware.
Another photo, Melody asleep on her couch, shirt ridden up, underwear visible.
Christian’s vision blurred.
He scrolled faster, more photos, more threats, more filth.
Ashton’s messages devolved into explicit descriptions of what he wanted to do to her, how he’d make her beg, how she’d “give in eventually.”
The last message in the thread was from Ashton, two weeks before his death:
No reply from her.
Christian dropped the phone onto the couch like it burned him.
His chest heaved.
Tears spilled over before he could stop them.
He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, shoulders shaking.
“No…” he choked out. “No, no, no…”
His brother.
His idol.
His hero.
A monster.
The man he had defended.
The man he had avenged.
The man he had built his entire revenge around.
A predator.
A coward who watched women in their most private moments and used it to break them.
Christian’s sob broke free... raw, guttural, tearing from somewhere deep and buried.
He slid to the floor, back against the couch, knees drawn up, face in his hands.
He cried like he hadn’t since he was a child... deep, wrenching, unstoppable.
For the brother he had loved, who had never deserved it.
And for the woman he had destroyed, who had been telling the truth all along.
×××××××