Chapter 24: Monster

Later that afternoon, Brandon returned to his sprawling estate, the gates closing behind him with an air of triumph. He walked with his usual swagger, utterly confident that he had put Conrad firmly in his place—just another loose thread cut clean from his perfectly tailored life. As he strolled through the marble corridors, the sunlight poured in through the towering windows, casting his shadow like a king across the polished floor.

But his victorious haze shattered the moment one of the maids rushed up to him, her face pale and tight with worry. She wrung her hands, voice trembling as she spoke.

"Master Brandon… your father is in the living room. He… wishes to speak with you."

Brandon froze. The smirk vanished from his lips. His heart thudded once, twice—heavy and foreboding.

"My father?" he echoed, his voice suddenly low.

The maid gave a stiff nod, avoiding his eyes. "Yes, sir. He arrived not long ago. Said it was urgent."

Brandon's jaw tightened, his fingers curling slightly at his sides. The air around him shifted. Gone was the cocky predator from earlier that day—replaced by a wary son who knew that when he came calling, it was never good.

He straightened his posture and started down the hall, each step slower than the last as the weight of the moment settled on his shoulders. Whatever confidence he'd worn like armor was already beginning to crack.

Once Brandon stepped into the grand living room, the air shifted from tense anticipation to suffocating gravity. The space was quiet, save for the soft clink of glass. There, seated on the velvet-lined couch beneath the massive stained-glass window, was his father, Trevor McCatt.

Gone was the imposing figure known to the city as Virgo, the elegant council member who orchestrated policy with a single word. In his place sat the man behind the mask—dangerous, calculating, but dressed now in a charcoal gray blazer over a crisp white shirt, no tie, sleeves neatly rolled to the elbows. His once dark brown hair had surrendered to streaks of silver, though the color only made him look more refined, more dangerous in the way aging lions are. He swirled a glass of red wine in his hand like it was liquid power, not alcohol.

Brandon stopped just inside the threshold, suddenly fifteen years old again. Trevor looked up, his eyes sharp and unreadable behind the glint of the wine glass. He offered a thin, knowing smile.

"Hello, Brandon," he said coolly. "How goes the courtship between yourself and Magali Anna Artisan?"

Brandon tensed, throat dry. The way his father spoke her full name wasn't casual—it was precise, deliberate, as if tasting each syllable, weighing them like currency. This wasn't small talk. This was a warning wrapped in wine and pleasantries.

Brandon shifted uneasily on his feet, his confidence from earlier dissolving like sugar in acid. The opulence of the estate suddenly felt like a gilded cage, the walls closing in around him beneath the weight of his father's expectations. He kept his gaze fixed somewhere just beyond Trevor's shoulder, as if looking him directly in the eye might turn him to stone.

"She's more stubborn than I expected," Brandon muttered, trying to keep his tone casual.

The moment the words left his mouth, Trevor's expression darkened.

The subtle frown that creased his face was far more terrifying than a shout. Brandon had seen that look before—it was the prelude to disaster. Slowly, deliberately, Trevor set his wine glass down on the side table with a faint clink, the tension in the room tightening like a piano wire ready to snap. Without a word, he reached for the cane resting beside the couch and rose to his full height.

They were the same height, father and son, but the moment Trevor stood, it didn't matter. Brandon might as well have been a child again. The aura that radiated from his father wasn't just commanding—it was dominating. The man loomed like a shadow stretching over a battlefield, cold and ancient and impossibly heavy.

Trevor's voice was calm, but each word carried the weight of a guillotine blade. "What is taking you so long?" he asked, his knuckles whitening around the cane's handle. "The girl has been in this city for roughly two years."

Brandon opened his mouth to speak, but Trevor pressed forward, tone sharpening.

"Do you understand what kind of risks I took to bring you two together? Do you comprehend the strings I had to pull? I convinced Gemini to put you in the same trainee class without raising suspicion." His voice lowered, more dangerous now. "Julian's daughter, right here under your nose. And what have you been doing?"

Brandon swallowed hard, but Trevor didn't let him answer.

"You've been running around with whatever flavor of the month that throws herself at you—squandering your time, your energy, your purpose. This wasn't a game, Brandon. This wasn't about your ego. This was a mission—one I carved from the very bones of the council's structure to set you up for success."

Trevor took a single, echoing step forward, and Brandon instinctively stepped back. "What do you have to say?" Trevor growled, his voice trembling with restrained fury. "Explain yourself. Now."

Brandon lowered his gaze, the weight of his father's presence pressing down on him like a storm cloud ready to burst. His fingers twitched at his sides as he struggled to breathe through the tension in his chest. After a pause that felt like an eternity, he drew in a shaky breath and summoned the last fragments of his courage.

"Father…" he began, voice trembling yet resolute, "you know I don't have feelings for the Artisan girl. I never have. I've told you before… I love someone else."

The words had barely left his mouth when Trevor moved.

In a flash of brutal precision, the old man swung his cane like a blade, the hardwood striking Brandon across the chest with a sickening thud. The force sent him staggering back, the breath ripped from his lungs. He dropped to his knees, clutching his chest, his jaw clenched in agony. Pain radiated through him like fire beneath his skin. But worse than the ache was the cold look in his father's eyes—the unmistakable sting of disgust.

Trevor stood over him, tall and unyielding, his figure casting a long, oppressive shadow across the marble floor. He was no longer a man—he was an executioner of legacy, of bloodlines, a monster.

"You worthless fool," Trevor spat, each word sharp as glass. "You're just like your mother… letting emotions dictate your actions. That woman was weak, sentimental. That's why I got rid of her—to cleanse you of her failure. I separated you from that filth so I could raise you into something greater… into a leader. Into the next Virgo."

Brandon winced but refused to look away. A mistake.

Trevor's hand lashed out, gripping Brandon's hair and wrenching his head up to meet his furious eyes.

"I want the Artisan family Savant," he growled, his voice a low snarl. "And you will get it for me. You will forget that pathetic girl you claim to love—her bloodline is worthless. A dead branch on the tree. But Magali?" His eyes gleamed with manic purpose. "If we combine our blood with hers, we won't just influence this city—we'll rule it."

His grip tightened as Brandon grimaced under the pressure.

"I will not allow your feelings for some nameless idol to destroy everything I've built. You will bring me the Savant, boy. Or I'll finish what I started when I erased your mother from the picture."

Trevor released his grip, and Brandon collapsed to the floor like a marionette whose strings had been severed. He hunched over, wheezing for air, his ribs aching, his pride shattered. But the pain in his chest was nothing compared to the splintered remains of something far more fragile—his soul. His father's words had sliced deeper than any cane could. Still, even with the weight of humiliation crushing him, Brandon lifted his head, eyes glistening with desperation.

"Father, please!" he gasped, voice hoarse. "Don't forget—she has your granddaughter!"

The room stilled. Trevor halted mid-step, his shoulders tensing. Slowly, he turned, his expression not one of surprise or concern—but of pure, unfiltered contempt.

"You forget," Trevor said coldly, his voice like ice scraping against stone, "I've allowed you to support the Tailor girl and her bastard child. But don't mistake allowance for acceptance. I will never recognize either of them as part of the McCatt bloodline."

Brandon's breath caught in his throat. He tried to speak, but Trevor raised a hand to silence him, an eerie smile curling on his lips—a serpent's grin.

"Fine," Trevor said with mock generosity, "I will give you one final chance to secure the Artisan girl. One. Fail me again…" He leaned forward slightly, his voice lowering to a deadly whisper, "and I'll erase your little make-believe family from existence."

Brandon's eyes widened in horror. "What do you mean?"

Trevor turned his back and clasped his hands behind him as he began to walk slowly toward the door, every step deliberate, every word like poison dripping into Brandon's ears.

"I will expel her from SweetDance City. I'll blacklist her across every entertainment district in the country. She won't find work at a diner, let alone a stage. And your daughter?" He chuckled darkly. "She'll grow up in poverty, with the world spitting on her for a legacy she never chose. I will make sure they both suffer, long and slow."

With that, Trevor disappeared down the hallway, the sound of his footsteps echoing like the ticking of a doomsday clock.

Brandon remained on the floor, his body trembling. His breath came in shallow gasps, his hands shaking as fear clamped down on his spine like a vice. His eyes twitched, staring into nothing.

He had always known his father was ruthless. But now, he finally understood. Trevor McCatt wasn't building a legacy. He was preparing a kingdom—founded on blood.

Brandon staggered to his feet, his hand clutching his side as pain flared with every breath. He limped through the ornate halls of the estate, opulence blurring around him like a cruel joke. Gilded chandeliers and polished marble floors—everything gleamed, everything perfect—except for him.

Not one of the servants dared to move. The maids kept their eyes to the ground, the butlers stood frozen in place. They knew better than to intervene. To show sympathy was to invite punishment. In this house, silence was survival.

He reached his bedroom and shut the door behind him with a shaky hand. The moment the latch clicked, Brandon collapsed against it, breathing hard. Stripping off his shirt, he stood up and turned toward the mirror above his dresser, and what stared back was a map of pain carved into his flesh.

Bruises bloomed like ink blots across his chest and ribs, some fresh, others old and yellowing. Faint scars traced down his sides—memories of lessons "taught" through the bite of a cane, a belt, or sometimes just a fist. Every mark was a reminder that he wasn't a son—he was an investment, a tool, and when that tool failed, it was punished.

He touched the particularly fresh bruise across his sternum and winced, his reflection blurring behind unshed tears. His thoughts went to her—Kelsi, the only light in his shadowed life. And their daughter. His little girl, the only pure thing he had ever helped bring into this world. His father had threatened them now. Not just with exile—but with obliteration.

Brandon clenched his fists, anger flaring beneath the pain. He had been many things—weak, obedient, even cruel. But he couldn't let them be destroyed. Not for a bloodline. Not for power.

He swallowed hard and stared into his own hollow eyes. He didn't have a choice. If he wanted to protect them, he would need to do what his father asked. Convince Magali. Win her over. Trick her if he had to. Marry her. Seal the deal. Bind the bloodlines. Even if it cost him the last shred of humanity he still had.

Several days slipped by like shadows in the fog, and the date of Magali's promised answer to Brandon loomed ever closer, heavy and suffocating. A quiet dread settled over the crew hall, infecting even the most mundane routines with an undercurrent of unease.

Magali tried to go about her days as if nothing had changed, as if her world hadn't tilted the moment Brandon showed his true face. But the weight of the impending decision pressed on her shoulders like an anchor, and every smile she forced felt like a betrayal of her instincts. The city around her continued to pulse with color and music, but none of it reached her. Not anymore.

Conrad felt it too. He watched her from a distance—watched the way her eyes no longer sparkled when she danced, the way she flinched when someone called her name too suddenly. And yet, he said nothing. He hadn't told her what Brandon had confessed in the shadows of the park, hadn't revealed the truth about the Savant or Brandon's twisted intentions. Not because he didn't want to—because he didn't know how.

He had tried to find a way to protect her on his own, to outmaneuver Brandon without dragging Magali into the mess. But time was slipping through his fingers like sand, and every idea he had crumbled under the weight of the city's laws that were meant to protect its idols now used as a weapon against them.

Now, with each passing hour, the silence between them grew louder. And Conrad knew… if he didn't act soon, he might lose her forever—to Brandon, to the lies he had spun like a web around her.

And in the quiet war building just beneath the surface, the clock was running out.

On the day Magali was expected to give Brandon her answer, the sky above Sweetdance City was cloudless—mockingly beautiful. She headed out the hall without a word, her steps slow but resolute. Conrad watched her from the doorway of his bedroom, his heart hammering in his chest. There was something about her expression, the hollow look in her eyes, the way she didn't glance back—not once—that made it feel like she wasn't expecting to return.

"You don't have to do this alone," he called softly after her.

Magali paused for the briefest moment, as if considering his words. But she didn't turn around. She simply continued down the path, the distance between them growing with every step. Conrad stood frozen, fists clenched at his sides. He admired her bravery—how she was willing to walk straight into the jaws of the beast. But admiration wasn't enough.

Not when she was up against someone like Brandon. Not when she was being hunted by the very council that was supposed to protect her. Not even her father, for all his power, could save her from this twisted web if she made a wrong choice.

An hour passed as Conrad paced the floor once she was gone, his mind spiraling with thoughts that clashed like crashing waves. "Is she okay? Does she need me? What if she doesn't come back? What if this is the last time I ever see her?"

Panic clawed at his chest. Then, like a spark in the dark, a sudden thought struck him. "If she's already in a relationship… she can't accept Brandon's confession."

His eyes widened. It was desperate, reckless, and maybe even foolish—but it was something. And sometimes, he thought, love is the only thing that can fight monsters.

Without wasting a second, he grabbed a pen and a blank sheet of paper, his fingers trembling as he began to write.

"Mags, I know this may come too suddenly, but I have to tell you—I've loved you for a long time…"

He continued to write. He poured his feelings into the letter, every unspoken word, every moment they'd shared, every quiet look he thought she'd never noticed. When he was done, he checked her profile. Still single, he wasn't too late.

With his phone in hand, he activated the tracker app they all shared for safety. A glowing dot pulsed on the map—her location pointed at the park. She was meeting Brandon now, very likely in a secluded place.

He bolted from the hall, the letter clutched safely in his hand, the pavement blurring beneath his feet. There was no more time to think, only time to save her.

In a quiet and secluded corner of the park, veiled by tall hedges and the rustling whisper of trees, Brandon waited. The air was thick—not with the heat in the air, but with tension so palpable it felt like the earth itself held its breath.

Magali stood a few feet away from him, her hands clenched tightly at her sides, her gaze fixed on the ground. She could feel the pressure in the air, like a storm about to break, and the weight of the moment pressed against her chest. Every instinct screamed at her to run—but she didn't. She couldn't. Not anymore.

Brandon took a step closer, his smile tight, his eyes cold despite the warm charm he wore like a tailored suit. "Well?" he said, his voice as smooth and sharp as a blade. "What is your answer?" It wasn't a question. It was a command.

Magali looked up, her breath caught in her throat—but she exhaled slowly, steadying herself. Her eyes, once full of doubt, now gleamed with iron resolve. This wasn't just about her anymore. It was about every girl who came before her. Every victim too afraid to speak. Every cry that went unanswered.

"I refuse," she said—loud and clear.

Brandon blinked, caught off guard. Magali's voice rose, ringing out like a war cry. "I will never be your lover. Not now, not ever!"

Her words hit him like a slap, sharp and final. The trees around them swayed with the wind, as if echoing her defiance. And in that single moment, the game changed.

Brandon's jaw tightened, teeth grinding behind his forced smile. The mask was slipping—fast. This wasn't how it was supposed to go according to his plan. Not after everything he'd done, not after all the pressure, the manipulation, the planning. He lunged forward, seizing Magali's arm with a bruising grip.

"You will accept my confession," he growled, the pleasant tone of his voice now stripped raw with menace. "If you don't, I swear, I'll make sure your life in this city becomes a living hell."

Magali flinched, struggling against him, her eyes burning with defiance even as fear tried to claw its way in.

Then suddenly, "Hey!"

The voice cracked through the tension like a lightning strike. Brandon's head snapped toward the sound, his grip loosening instinctively. From between the trees, Conrad emerged, his fists clenched, his expression ablaze with fury. Every step he took toward them was charged with purpose, his presence cutting through the scene like a sword.

Brandon's scowl deepened. "You again? This has nothing to do with—"

"Shut up!" Conrad barked, his voice thunderous. "I have nothing to say to you!"

Then, turning his gaze to Magali, his voice softened—but only slightly. He pointed directly at her, as if drawing a line in the dirt. "I'm here for her."

Magali's cheeks flushed a delicate shade of pink, her breath catching as Conrad stepped forward. In that moment, he seemed to shine—not just as her friend or crewmate, but as something more. A light in the suffocating dark. A hero.

Conrad's eyes never left hers as he closed the distance between them. With a slight tremble in his fingers, he reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and pulled out a neatly folded piece of paper. His confession letter.

The same kind of letter the city prized, the same kind Brandon had used with twisted intent. But Conrad's voice was steady, filled with sincerity as he began to speak.

"I know this might seem sudden," he said, his voice low but sure, "but I've wanted to say this for a long time. You're more than just an idol to me, Mags. You're brave, passionate, and real. I know things are chaotic right now, and maybe this isn't the perfect moment, but… I can't let you face this alone. I care about you—deeply. So please…" He extended the letter to her with both hands. "I love you. Will you accept my feelings?"

A tense silence followed. Brandon stared, dumbfounded, before scoffing in disbelief. He crossed his arms, letting out a sharp, mocking laugh. "Really? Him? You've got to be joking. You think that's love? He's beneath you, Magali. You'll see."

Magali turned toward him slowly, her eyes burning with something fierce and unshakable.

Then she looked at the letter in Conrad's hands, heart thudding. She took it gently, fingers brushing his, and turned her gaze up to meet his.

"I accept," she said, voice clear and proud. "I accept your feelings, Conrad."

Brandon's smile vanished, the laughter dying in his throat. Magali was no longer his pawn—she had chosen. And it wasn't him.

Brandon's breath quickened, coming in shallow gasps as the weight of Magali's rejection slammed into him like a tidal wave. His vision blurred—not from tears, but from the sheer force of panic crashing through his mind. The world tilted. Everything he had gambled, everything his father demanded, was unraveling before his eyes. Magali had chosen someone else.

And in that instant, all the power he clung to—the control, the fear he wielded like a weapon—slipped through his fingers like sand. He could already hear his father's voice, venomous and cruel. He could see the cold contempt in Trevor McCatt's eyes, feel the punishment that awaited him. Not just for failing to secure Magali into the family, but for the consequences that would fall upon Kelsi and their daughter because of his weakness.

"No," he thought to himself. "I won't go down alone."

A twisted smile curled across his face as he reached into his coat and drew a gleaming blade, his eyes wild with madness. "Fine," he hissed, his voice a cracked snarl. "If I can't have her… then neither of us will."

He lunged, rushing towards Magali. She barely had time to react—her body froze, heart leaping into her throat as the flash of silver tore through the air. She braced for the pain, but it never came.

Conrad threw himself in front of her, shielding her with his body. The knife plunged into his chest. Magali screamed, a sound raw with horror as Conrad staggered back, blood blooming across his shirt. But he didn't fall. Not yet.

With the last surge of strength, Conrad seized Brandon by the collar, his eyes blazing with fury and pain. "Go to hell," he growled, and with a vicious headbutt, slammed Brandon's skull to the ground.

Brandon hit the dirt hard, his face bloodied from the impact of Conrad's head. Dazed and broken, he lay trembling, whispering to no one, "Kelsi… I've failed you…"

Then the light left his eyes, and darkness claimed him. He passed out cold, the twisted game finally brought to its end.

Conrad lay sprawled on the ground, the knife still embedded in his chest, his breaths shallow and ragged. Blood seeped through his shirt in dark, terrible blooms. Magali dropped to her knees beside him, her hands trembling as she reached for the knife.

"Don't," Conrad gasped, catching her wrist with surprising strength. "Don't touch it… you'll make it worse. Just… call an ambulance."

His voice was weak, fading, but his eyes locked onto hers with a fierce determination that pierced through the pain. Magali, choking back her tears, fumbled for her phone and dialed 911 with trembling fingers, her voice breaking as she gave their location.

The emergency responders arrived swiftly—red and blue lights tearing through the tension of the park. Brandon, still unconscious from the impact of Conrad's blow, was handcuffed and loaded into the back of a patrol car, his reign of terror finally ended.

Magali remained by Conrad's side as they lifted him into the ambulance, her hands stained with his blood, her heart pounding with terror.

At the hospital, time did not pass—it dragged, cruel and unrelenting. The sterile white walls of the waiting room felt like they were closing in, the soft hum of fluorescent lights above only amplifying the ache in Magali's chest. She sat stiffly on the edge of a plastic chair, her fingers wringing the hem of her skirt as if clinging to it would keep her grounded. Her eyes never left the double doors of the emergency wing.

Conrad was in there.

They had said his heart was pierced. That he had only moments left. That if the blade had gone any deeper… She couldn't bear to finish that thought.

Every tick of the wall clock echoed like a war drum in her mind, each second another dagger to her nerves. Around her, the hospital staff moved with the detached urgency of routine, but to Magali, everything blurred—voices muffled, colors dulled. She was caught in a storm of fear, replaying the moment over and over: the flash of the blade, the spray of blood, the way Conrad collapsed in her arms.

And all she could do now was wait. Wait and pray that the next person to walk through those doors wouldn't be there to deliver a final goodbye.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the doors opened and Dr. Sohma emerged. His coat was splattered with the marks of a long surgery, but there was a calm, tired smile on his face.

"He's going to be okay," the doctor said gently.

Magali let out a sob of relief, covering her mouth as tears spilled freely down her cheeks. For the first time in days, the weight crushing her chest lifted—if only a little. Conrad was alive. And that meant hope was, too.

Dr. Sohma gently held the door open, his expression soft as he guided Magali down the quiet hallway. The hospital lights buzzed faintly above, casting sterile white light over everything—but to Magali, the air felt warmer now, less suffocating. Her heart pounded with every step until they reached Room 217.

"He's awake," the doctor said with a reassuring smile. "Take your time."

Magali stepped inside, and for a moment, time seemed to pause. Conrad sat propped up in the hospital bed, pale but breathing, the sun spilling in through the window and casting golden light over his bandaged chest. His gaze was distant, fixed on the sky beyond the glass—until he turned and saw her.

A slow, crooked smile tugged at his lips. "Hi," he rasped, his voice raw but laced with warmth.

Magali moved to his bedside, her footsteps tentative, but her eyes locked onto his. She sat down beside him, fingers curling into the edge of the chair as if to steady herself.

"Did you…" she hesitated, her voice trembling. "Did you mean everything you said? About… about loving me?"

Conrad's smile deepened, tired but sincere. "Every word," he said, his voice a little stronger. "I love you, Mags."

The dam inside her broke. Tears welled in her eyes, not from fear or pain this time—but from overwhelming relief. She leaned in, cupping his face gently in her hands as she kissed him, a kiss full of everything she couldn't say—gratitude, hope, love.

Conrad, despite his pain and weakness, kissed her back with quiet intensity, his hand reaching to rest over hers. In that moment, the weight of the world disappeared. The darkness they had both walked through faded behind them, and all that remained was the promise of something new—something real—between them.