Chapter 2 Shadows Between Us

Maurice Blanchet : POV

I knew he'd come. Marc always ran to the studio when the world got too loud. It was our temple. Our war zone. Our sanctuary. We carved our dreams into that space, one broken speaker and busted mic at a time. But now, it felt haunted.

I sat on the hood of my car outside, coffee gone cold in my hand, waiting-not for an apology, not even a fight-but for a sign that somewhere beneath the noise, the brother I once knew was still alive. And then he appeared.

Same dreadlocks. Same fire in his walk. But his eyes... they didn't shine like they used to. They carried shadows now. The kind you only get when trust is bleeding out slow. We stared at each other. I expected him to start. He didn't. So I did.

"You listened to it, didn't you?" He didn't answer. But his jaw tightened, and that was enough. "Why'd you write that?" he asked finally. "Because I couldn't say it out loud." He looked down, hands in his pockets like he wanted to bury them deep enough to hide from the truth. Then he whispered, "You made me the villain... in front of the world. And now in your music too?"

"No," I said. "I made you real. That's all I had left." He let out this bitter laugh that cut more than any insult could. "Real? You painted me jealous. Weak. You made me the reason we're falling apart." "Because you are." I didn't mean for it to come out so sharp, but it had been building. Weeks of pretending. Smiling for fans while we quietly unraveled behind closed doors.

He stepped closer. "You think I wanted this? You think I like watching everything we built burn to the ground?" "No. But you struck the match." The silence between us wasn't empty. It was loud. Screaming.

We had an interview that morning-Radio Métro Paris. Our manager booked it before the world started to rot. We drove together like two strangers in a borrowed car, pretending to still be brothers. "You gonna speak today?" I asked, watching his knuckles go white on the steering wheel.

"Depends," he said. "You planning to drop another track behind my back?" I sighed. "Marc..." He glanced at me, eyes tired. "I'm tired of apologizing for who I love."

"I'm not asking you to apologize. I'm asking you to stop pushing everyone away who's trying to help."

But it was pointless. His pride wouldn't let him hear me. Not yet. The studio was sterile. A fake plant sat in the corner, collecting dust like secrets. We smiled on cue, shook hands, took our seats like professionals.

The host beamed. "Belleville's finest! Marc and Maurice Blanchet-M² in the building! How are you feeling this morning?"

Marc leaned in, all charm. "Alive. Grateful. Focused." I gave my best rehearsed smile. "Honored to be here." We went through the motions. Album talk. Childhood stories. Stage memories. Everything smooth-until it wasn't. Then she dropped it.

"So... rumor is there was drama at last week's party. A fight? Something about an ex? What's going on with M²?" Marc stiffened. I jumped in fast. "People love drama. We're focused on the music."

But the host wouldn't let go. "No truth to it? Fans are saying something happened between Marc's girl and Korex..."

That's when Marc leaned forward. His smile gone. Voice flat. "You want the truth?" "Marc, don't," I warned. But he was done listening. "The truth is, the people closest to you can stab you the deepest. Doesn't matter if they're wearing heels or holding a mic."

Dead silence. The host blinked. "Right... okay. Well, that's one way to clear things up." Marc stood. "Thanks for having us."

And just like that, he left. Back in the car, I let it out. "What was that?!" He shrugged. "Truth." "You don't just explode on live radio!" "She lied."

"Maybe. But you broke her first-with your doubts, your control, your paranoia. You act like you're the only one bleeding!"

He slammed the brakes. We both jerked forward. He turned to me, fire in his eyes.

"You wrote that damn song instead of talking to me." "Because you only listen when it's too late." We sat there, breathing heavy. Horns honked behind us, but we didn't move.

That night, Sophie called. Her voice shook. "You need to come. Now." Her apartment in Montreuil was a mess. She was pacing, holding her phone like it might detonate.

"Korex sent this," she said. She handed me the phone. It was a video. Rosalie. In a dim room. Laughing. Leaning close to Korex. His hand on her hip. Her whisper in his ear.

Timestamp: two weeks before she met Marc. I felt sick. Sophie touched my arm. "It could be fake. He's capable of anything." "But Marc won't care," I said.

"No," she said. "He won't." I stepped into the hallway, called Marc.

Voicemail. I couldn't tell him. Not yet. Not like this. But just as I put my phone down, a new message lit up the screen:

Korex Obasa:

Next time you lie for your brother, make sure your girl ain't hiding bigger secrets.

I stared at it, heart pounding. Because this time... I wasn't sure he was bluffing. I went back inside, Sophie watching me like she already knew I wouldn't sleep tonight.

"How long have you known him?" I asked.

"Too long," she whispered.I nodded slowly. The walls were closing in.

Marc was spiraling. Rosalie might've been lying. And Korex was pulling every string he could reach. I texted our manager: Pull the show tomorrow. We're not ready.

His reply came fast: Too late. They already announced it. Sold out. You cancel now, you ruin your brand. I dropped my phone.

This wasn't just about brothers anymore.

It was a war. A public one. And the world had front-row seats.

But before I could figure out my next move, my phone rang again. Unknown number. I answered. A deep voice, unfamiliar. "If you want her back alive, tell your brother to meet me. Alone."

I froze "Who?" Sophie asked, I didn't answer Because I wasn't sure. Rosalie?

Juliette? Or someone else entirely?

All I knew was-Marc was already driving toward the fire, and I might be the only one who could pull him back before it was too late.