Chapter 10 Storms Between Us

Maurice Blanchet – POV

The moment Sophie said my name, the world tilted. Her voice wasn't angry. It wasn't panicked. It was calm too calm, like someone who had already rehearsed what they were about to say. That scared me more than shouting ever could. I stepped through the doorway. And there they were.

Marc stood rigid near the old sound booth, arms crossed, jaw clenched like he was biting back years of pain. Sophie was by the piano, her fingers curled around the edge like it was the only thing keeping her from falling. My voice cracked through the silence. "What's going on?"

Marc glanced at me like I was trespassing. Like I didn't belong in my own damn story.

"We needed to talk," he said. "Alone."

I stared between them. "So you came here-for secrets?" Sophie opened her mouth, but Marc cut in. "Don't make this about you. Not everything's about your feelings, Maurice."

That stung more than I wanted it to.

"You're right," I said, walking deeper into the room. "It's not about just me. It's about all of us. You're my brother. And Sophie... she's not yours to drag into corners like a suspect."

Marc laughed, a low bitter sound. "You think this is about Sophie? About love? No. This is about what you did. What you keep doing-grinning at my face while stabbing at my back." Sophie stepped in between us. "Stop. Both of you. This is what Korex wants. He's pulling every string he can. He wants you to break."

I turned to her. "And you? What do you want, Sophie? Why are you even here?"

Her gaze didn't waver. "Because I have something to show you. Both of you."

She reached into her coat and pulled out a flash drive. My stomach dropped.

"Korex sent it yesterday," she said. "I opened it this morning. It's a recording. He said if M² doesn't fall apart by Reunion Festival, he'll leak it." Marc and I exchanged a look. For once, we weren't arguing. We were bracing.

Sophie slid the drive into the laptop and pressed play. The screen lit up with grainy footage. A backstage hallway. A timestamp from two years ago. An award show we barely remembered surviving.

But the memory came back fast when I saw us-me and Marc-screaming at each other in the shadows.

Marc shoved me against the wall. I shoved back. The camera shook, but the audio was clear. "You're a selfish, egotistical clown," I had snapped. "Rosalie deserves better." In the present, the room went dead silent. Marc's voice broke through, low and sharp. "You meant that?"

I stared at the screen. At myself. "I was angry." "No," he said. "You were honest."

I turned to Sophie. "Why now?"

"Because Korex's timing is calculated. He's planning to leak it the day before the Festival. The blogs are already prepping exclusives. It'll ruin everything."

Marc ran a hand down his face. "He's not just attacking our brand. He's attacking us-what made us real." I nodded slowly. My words, forgotten in a haze of stress and rage, were now loaded weapons.

Sophie looked between us. "But you can still fight back-if you do it together."

Marc stared at the laptop, jaw tight. "You sure there's anything left to fight for?"

Before I could answer, we heard the crash.

Outside. Sophie darted to the window. "Someone's out there!"

Marc and I were already moving. We burst through the door and into the alley. A shadow slipped around the corner.

"Hey!" Marc shouted. We chased it, shoes slapping against wet pavement, but the figure vanished into the darkness.

Sophie caught up, breathless, holding something in her hand. "He dropped this."

It was a phone. Cracked screen. Still recording. Marc tapped it. A live stream. We watched in horror-our entire argument, from inside the studio, broadcasted online.

We'd been watched. We'd been set up. I looked at Marc. He looked at me. We didn't say anything. Because what was there to say? The war had gone public.

Back in the studio, we sat in silence. I cradled my guitar in my lap like a shield, but my fingers didn't move.

Across from me, Marc leaned against the wall, arms crossed, eyes cold.

The air between us felt like a pressure cooker about to explode. "I want to talk about the tour," I said. Marc's reply was immediate-and sharp. "No."

I took a breath. "We can't ignore it."

He pushed off the wall and stepped closer. "You think I don't see it? You and Sophie. The late-night writing sessions. The private studio time. You think I'm blind?" "It's not like that." "Then what is it?"

I struggled to find words. How do you explain a connection that grew out of pain? That wasn't planned, but couldn't be undone? "I didn't plan to fall for her," I said quietly. "But you did." I nodded.

Marc scoffed, hurt flashing across his face. "We used to be brothers." "We still are."

He shook his head. "No. We became co-workers. Strangers. Rivals. Somewhere along the line, the music stopped being about us and started being about survival."

He wasn't wrong. "I miss it," I said. "The magic. The brotherhood."

"Then maybe," Marc said, "you should stop choosing love over loyalty."

That landed like a punch to the chest. Because maybe... just maybe... that's what I'd done. A knock shattered the tension. Rosalie walked in, pale and shaking, phone in hand.

"You two need to see this. Now." She handed it to me. A breaking news banner blinked at the top:

"M² On the Brink: Leaked Studio Fight Confirms Silent Split, Solo Careers Imminent" Marc read over my shoulder.

His eyes found mine. "This is it, then," I whispered. "It's already started."

Rosalie sat on the couch, hand over her mouth. "They've already got timelines. Claims. Insiders. It's everywhere."

Marc grabbed his phone. "I'm calling Raymond." But I stopped him. "Wait."

"Wait for what?" "For us to decide-together-what happens next."

He stared at me. "After everything, you still want to save this?" "Don't you?" He hesitated. And in that second of silence, I saw it. Not the rage. Not the betrayal,

The grief. Marc wasn't just angry at me. He was mourning us, So was I.That night, we sat together at the rooftop.

No talking. Just two brothers staring at the city we'd once dreamed of conquering.

Finally, Marc spoke. "He's going to keep coming. Korex. He won't stop." "I know."

"We need a plan. Something bigger than just surviving." I nodded. "We go live. Full transparency. Our side. Our voices."

Marc turned toward me slowly. "You sure?"

"We've been puppets long enough. Time to cut the strings." He took a deep breath. "Then let's burn it down. Together." The next morning, before the sun could rise, we went live. No edits. No makeup. No glamor. Just me, Marc, one mic, and a camera. We talked about the tension,the mistakes, the silence, the brotherhood. The pressure, the pain.

We told the world that M² wasn't perfect.

But we weren't broken, not yet.

Hours later, a private message hit our inbox. Unknown Sender:

"Nice speech. Shame it won't matter. Ask your mother about the real father. Of both of you."

Attached: a scanned birth certificate.

One name missing where a father's should be.