Chapter 23: Confrontation

Back at the crew hall, Magali sat at the long table, her fingers tracing absentmindedly over the grain as a storm of thoughts raged in her mind. The warm glow of the overhead lights did little to ease the cold dread pooling in her chest. She needed help. That much was clear. But who could she turn to?

The council? She had no idea how deep their involvement ran. Were they simply looking the other way, or were they actively protecting Brandon? If she confided in the wrong person, she could be signing her own exile—or worse.

Her family? The thought made her stomach twist. If she told her father or sister, they wouldn't just come for Brandon—they'd come for the entire city. She could already picture the fire in her father's eyes, the way his hands would clench into fists as he declared war on the city and the council. The lawsuits would bankrupt everyone invluding her family. Magali shuddered at the thought of involving her sister. Zoila wouldn't stop at threats. She would leave bodies in her wake, a path of destruction that would make Sweet Dance City unrecognizable.

And despite everything, Magali didn't want that. She didn't want to see the city burn or her family hurt in the crossfire.

All she wanted was for this nightmare to end—for things to go back to normal, for Brandon to leave her alone, for the weight pressing down on her chest to finally lift. But as she sat there in the quiet, the hum of distant conversations blending into the background, she realized something unsettling. Normal was no longer an option.

The sound of approaching footsteps barely registered in her mind, but the moment a familiar voice broke the silence, her entire body went rigid.

"Mags?" Conrad's voice was light at first, questioning, but even in that single syllable, there was concern. She didn't answer.

He stepped closer, his eyes narrowing at the way she hunched over, avoiding his gaze. Then he saw it—the mark. The sharp, ugly bruise blooming across her cheek. His stomach twisted. His pulse spiked. Without thinking, he reached for her, his fingers gently grasping her wrist, pulling her hand away from her face. The moment he got a full look at the damage, something inside him snapped.

"What the hell is this?" he demanded, his voice low, dangerous.

Magali flinched, yanking her hand away. "It's nothing. I just had a little accident while I was practicing today."

"Nothing? Nothing?" Conrad clenched his teeth, forcing himself to stay calm. But the fire in his chest was already raging, searing through his veins like molten fury. He knew what this was. He knew what a strike to the face looked like, and this—this was no accident.

"Mags," he said again, his voice tighter, sharper. "Tell me who did this."

She shook her head, refusing to look at him. "It doesn't matter."

"The hell it doesn't!" Conrad snapped, his composure cracking. His voice was a whip in the empty hall, but Magali only shrank further into herself.

Her heart was pounding—too fast, too loud, too much. If she told him, if she even whispered Brandon's name, Conrad would— "No " She thought to herself. She couldn't let him get involved.

Her breath hitched, panic clawing at her ribs. "Just leave it alone!" she shouted, pushing up from the table so fast her chair nearly toppled over.

Conrad reached for her, but she spun away, practically bolting toward her room. "Mags, wait!"

She didn't. She slammed the door shut behind her, locking it with shaking hands. Her entire body was trembling.

A second later, a fist pounded against the door. "Mags." Conrad's voice was lower now, but there was no missing the tension underneath. "Please. Talk to me."

There was only silence. "Mags." Another knock, this time softer. "I swear, whatever this is, you don't have to deal with it alone. Just let me in."

Her breath hitched. She squeezed her eyes shut, pressing her back against the door as she slid to the floor. He couldn't be involved. He couldn't get hurt because of her.

Another knock. Another plea. But Magali curled in on herself, burying her face in her hands. Silent. Trembling. Terrified.

Conrad stopped knocking after a while. Magali heard his footsteps retreat, followed by the distant creak of his door closing. But the silence that followed wasn't comforting—it was suffocating.

That night, sleep refused to come. She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, her body rigid beneath the covers. No matter how much she tossed and turned, her mind kept dragging her back to him. Brandon.

His smile—so warm, so practiced—had melted away like wax under fire. And what lay beneath was something far more terrifying. Those eyes. Cold. Empty. Like a predator sizing up its prey.

She had seen glimpses of it before, in the lingering whispers of his reputation, in the unreadable glint in his gaze when he watched her. But now, the mask had fallen completely, and what stared back at her was the monster all the other girls had warned about.

She thought of the comments she had read, the ones drenched in bitterness, fear, pain.

"He's sweet on the outside, but rotten in the middle."

"I needed therapy after dealing with him."

"Why doesn't the council do something about him? He is pure evil!"

She hadn't believed it at first. Not entirely. But now… She clenched the blanket in her fists, her knuckles turning white. Brandon wasn't arrogant. He wasn't spoiled. He was dangerous. And worst of all—he knew it.

He knew the rules of the city, knew how to twist them to his advantage. Knew that he could do whatever he wanted to her, and no one would believe her.

A shiver ran down her spine. What was she supposed to do? If she told someone—if she went to the council—he had already made it clear what would happen.

Exile.

Her entire life in Sweet Dance City would be erased. She'd be forced out. No second chances. And if she stayed… She pressed a trembling hand to her cheek, feeling the dull throb of the bruise beneath her fingertips.

Brandon was waiting for her answer. One week. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes. She turned onto her side, curling into herself, her breath shaky. For the first time since arriving in this city, Magali wasn't just uncertain. She was trapped.

The following day, Magali left the crew hall, her steps slow and hesitant as she made her way toward the bus stop. The early morning streets of Sweet Dance City were as lively as ever, filled with idols-in-training rehearsing on sidewalks and groups of dancers discussing upcoming performances. The city was moving forward, as it always did, but Magali felt frozen in place. Each step toward the trainee class felt heavier than the last, like she was walking into something inevitable—something she wasn't ready to face. The weight of Brandon's threat still clung to her, a silent shadow trailing her every move. But she forced herself forward. She had to. Pretending everything was fine was the only option she had left.

There was a knot in her stomach—tight, suffocating—twisting with every breath she took. She wasn't just heading to trainee class. No, it felt like she was walking straight into the mouth of a beast, one that had already taken a bite out of her and was waiting for more.

Then, something caught her attention. A shadow moving behind her. She turned sharply, her pulse spiking—only to find Conrad trailing a few steps behind. She exhaled, shoulders stiff.

"Why are you following me?" she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.

Conrad didn't falter. His expression was unreadable, but there was something in his eyes—sharp, searching. "I want to know what happened," he said simply.

Magali's breath hitched. "What are you talking about?" she tried to deflect, but the words came out too fast, too forced.

Conrad crossed his arms, his gaze unwavering. "Mags… I know you. And you're not acting like yourself."

She turned away. "I don't know what you mean."

He placed a hand on her shoulder. Gentle, but firm. "I do know," Conrad said quietly. "You're in trouble."

Her chest tightened. For a second, just a second, she wanted to tell him everything. The fear. The threats. The monster behind the perfect smile. But she couldn't.

If she told him, he'd get involved. And if he got involved, Brandon would make sure he paid for it. So instead, she forced a smile—hollow, fragile.

"I'm fine, Conrad. Really."

"Magali," came Brandon's voice, smooth as silk yet laced with something that made her stomach twist.

She froze. Of all the people she wanted to see today, he was the last. Slowly, she turned, forcing herself to meet his gaze. The moment she did, a cold shiver crawled up her spine.

There he stood—smiling, composed, every inch the charming idol Sweet Dance City adored. But Magali knew better. That was just a mask, a carefully crafted illusion meant to deceive. Beneath it lurked something dangerous, something she had seen.

"I came by to give you a ride to training," he said, his voice warm, inviting—like a hunter coaxing prey into a snare. "Please, come with me."

Magali hesitated. Every fiber of her being screamed at her to run, to refuse, to fight. But she couldn't. Not here. Not when every eye in the street was watching, oblivious to the truth. Slowly, unwillingly, she nodded and stepped toward him.

Conrad's eyes narrowed as he watched the exchange unfold. Magali wasn't acting like herself. The hesitation in her step, the stiffness in her shoulders—every sign pointed to the same thing. She didn't want to go with Brandon. And yet, she was forcing herself to.

His jaw tightened. He had already suspected something was wrong, but now, it was undeniable. The moment Brandon spoke, Magali's entire demeanor shifted. Fear flickered in her eyes, just for a second, before she buried it beneath a mask of forced obedience.

And then there was Brandon himself. The way he smiled, the way he carried himself—it was all too perfect. Too polished. But when he turned and locked eyes with Conrad, something dark flickered beneath his carefully crafted facade. A silent warning. A challenge.

Conrad's hands curled into fists at his sides, his body tensed like a coiled spring. Every instinct screamed at him to step in, to rip Magali away from whatever hold Brandon had on her. But he knew he couldn't—not yet. Not without knowing exactly what he was dealing with.

Without another word, he placed a hand on Magali's back, guiding her toward the sleek black limo waiting nearby. Magali swallowed hard as the door shut behind her, trapping her inside. The car started moving, and with every second that passed, the distance between her and Conrad grew. She didn't dare look back.

Conrad took a deep breath, forcing himself to stay put. He wouldn't let this go. Whatever was happening, whatever Magali wasn't telling him—he would find out. And when he did, Brandon would regret ever laying a hand on her.

The next morning sun cast a golden glow through the towering windows of Brandon's lavish estate. He lounged in his ornate chair, draped in luxury, as servants bustled around, ensuring his every whim was met. With a lazy elegance, he lifted a delicate porcelain teacup to his lips, savoring the rich aroma before taking a sip.

A soft knock at the door interrupted the serene atmosphere. One of his maids stepped forward, bowing respectfully before extending a neatly folded envelope. "This was in the mailbox this morning, sir," she said, her voice laced with hesitation.

Brandon arched a brow, eyeing the letter with mild curiosity. He reached for it, fingers tracing over the smooth paper before carefully breaking the seal. His sharp eyes scanned the delicate script inside.

Dear Brandon,

I've admired you from afar for so long, but I've never had the courage to say it in person. My feelings for you run deep, and I long for just one chance to tell you how I feel. Please, meet me in the park today—in the quiet grove near the fountain. I will be waiting.

The letter was unsigned.

Brandon's lips curled slightly, though there was no amusement in his expression. Anonymous confessions weren't unusual for him, but something about this one felt…off. It was too convenient. Too well-timed.

The maid shifted uncomfortably. "Shall I prepare a rejection response, sir?"

Brandon set the letter down with an almost dismissive flick of his fingers. "No." His voice was smooth, yet there was an unmistakable edge beneath it. He leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping lightly against the armrest. "I'll handle this personally."

The late afternoon sun bled across the sky, streaking it with deep shades of crimson and gold. A warm breeze rustled the trees, but the air felt thick—heavy with something unsaid. Brandon stepped into the clearing near the fountain, his polished shoes crunching softly against the gravel path. He took a slow, measured glance around.

It was too quiet. Too empty. He smirked to himself, "So, this is how it feels."

The setup was all too familiar—the same game he had played with Magali. A secluded location, no prying eyes, no interruptions. It was a perfect stage for intimidation. But this time, he wasn't the one in control.

Brandon let out a dry chuckle and then, in a voice laced with amusement, called out, "Come on out, Conrad. I know it's you."

A beat of silence. Then, from the shadows, Conrad emerged. His hands were tucked into his pockets, his posture relaxed, but his eyes… those eyes were sharp, filled with something dangerous. "How did you know it was me?"

Brandon cocked his head slightly, a lazy smirk curling at his lips. "How did I know? Please. The timing was too perfect. I saw the way you looked at me and Magali yesterday, and it didn't take a genius to figure out that you'd pull something like this." He let out a low, mocking hum. "But a confession letter? Now that was a surprise. I have to say, I'm flattered." He placed a hand over his chest, feigning sincerity. "But I must decline. I'm not into men."

Conrad let out a sharp laugh, shaking his head. "Ha ha. Real funny. But you already know why I called you out here." His voice dropped, all traces of amusement gone.

Brandon's smirk remained, but something in his gaze darkened. The game was beginning.

The wind shifted, kicking up dust along the lonely park. The golden glow of the setting sun did little to warm the cold tension crackling in the air between them.

Conrad took a slow step forward, his hands still tucked in his pockets, his body language calm, but his eyes burning with intent. "Magali was hurt," he said, his voice low but firm. "And she looked afraid." His gaze locked onto Brandon's, searching for the smallest crack in that perfect, polished mask. "Would you happen to know anything about that?"

Brandon tilted his head slightly, lips curving in that infuriating smirk of his. "No idea what you're talking about." His voice was smooth, effortless—too effortless.

Conrad narrowed his eyes. "You sure about that?"

Brandon let out a short, amused breath. "Positive."

Conrad pressed again. And again. Each time, Brandon met his questions with the same calm indifference, as if the very idea of being involved was absurd. But Conrad wasn't a fool—he was watching, waiting for the moment Brandon's mask would slip, even just a little.

Then, he changed tactics. Conrad smirked, tilting his head slightly as he said, "Alright then. Hypothetically speaking, let's say you did strike her. What would be the reason?"

For the first time, Brandon hesitated. Just a flicker, a small hitch in the air between them. And then, something changed. Brandon's smirk widened—too wide. The mask cracked, and what lay beneath was something dark, something twisted. He let out a slow, wicked chuckle, as if Conrad had just told him the funniest joke in the world. "Hypothetically, huh?"

Conrad's expression remained unreadable, but his muscles tensed. Brandon took a step closer, his voice dropping into something cruel. "Then, hypothetically, let's say she was being difficult," he mused. "Let's say she didn't know her place. Let's say she thought she could just walk away from something she didn't have the right to refuse." He let out another chuckle, shaking his head. "And let's say a little lesson was in order."

The tension between them was razor-sharp, cutting through the stillness of the isolated park. A single step closer and Conrad was sure he'd feel the heat of Brandon's arrogance radiating off him like a sickness. But he kept his ground, his fists clenched at his sides.

"Okay then," Conrad said, his voice calm despite the fury boiling beneath it. "Hypothetically speaking, what do you want from her?"

Brandon's smirk widened, his eyes gleaming with something dark and twisted. "Her Savant," he said, the word rolling off his tongue with wicked delight.

Conrad's brow furrowed. "The hell is a Savant?"

Brandon chuckled, shaking his head. "Ah, of course. You wouldn't know, would you? That's just so fitting." He stepped closer, lowering his voice like he was about to share some grand secret. "A Savant is a special ability only Super Idols possess. It's what sets them apart—their natural-born gift, their power." He leaned in slightly, his grin never faltering. "Magali may not be a Super Idol, but her parents? Both of them are. That means she carries the Savant gene, the blood of the Star People."

Conrad's breath hitched. Brandon straightened, smoothing out an invisible wrinkle in his coat. "She may never awaken as a Super Idol herself," he continued casually, as if they were discussing the weather. "But her children? They might. Especially if she were to marry someone worthy—someone from another Super Idol bloodline. Someone like me."

Conrad felt a sickening chill creep up his spine. "You're insane," he muttered, shaking his head in disgust.

Brandon let out a low laugh, stepping back with mock sympathy. "Oh, I know you don't want to hear this, but…" He tilted his head, his grin sharpening. "Sucks to be you, huh? You don't have the gene. Your blood is worthless." His smile turned cruel. "But your mother? She did."

Conrad's heart slammed against his ribs. His nails dug into his palms.

Brandon just stood there, watching, waiting—feeding off his reaction like a vulture savoring a dying animal's last breath.

And for the first time in his life, Conrad felt something dangerous stir inside him.

Brandon tilted his head, eyes gleaming with amusement. "But of course, this is all just hypothetical."

Rage ignited in Conrad like a wildfire. His hands moved before his mind could catch up, seizing Brandon by the collar and yanking him forward. His grip was iron, his knuckles white, every muscle in his body screaming to strike.

Brandon only laughed. A slow, taunting chuckle that sent a sickening chill down Conrad's spine. His eyes gleamed with wicked amusement, utterly unfazed. "Go ahead," he purred. "Hit me. You'd just be following in your father's footsteps… right into exile." The words were like a dagger to the gut.

Conrad's breath hitched, his body stiffening. His grip trembled for a split second—just long enough for the weight of those words to sink in.

His father.

The exile.

The very thing he spent his whole life trying not to become.

His hands dropped away, fingers shaking as if they had been burned.

Brandon smirked, his victory dripping from every inch of his expression. He casually smoothed out his shirt, as if Conrad's touch had tainted him. Then, with a lazy turn, he took a step away, speaking over his shoulder like he was delivering a final, casual remark in a business deal.

"As a show of good faith," he drawled, "I'll let this little outburst slide. Consider it my gift to you." He paused, tilting his head just slightly, the wicked smirk never leaving his face. "In fact… I'll even send you an invitation to our wedding. It'd be a shame if you didn't show—Magali would be so upset."

Conrad's stomach twisted violently.

Then, without another glance, Brandon strolled away, his laughter hanging in the air like a ghost.