Chapter 36: Roberta

The rain had stopped hours ago, yet the heaviness it left behind clung to the house like a shadow that refused to lift. The sky outside remained a dull, unbroken gray, as if Sweetdance City itself had dimmed its lights out of respect for her grief. Magali sat curled near the window, wrapped in a blanket she didn't truly need, her gaze unfocused as the city's distant music drifted faintly through the glass. Sweetdance continued its rhythm—its neon glow, its laughter, its endless pulse of life—but from where she sat, it all felt impossibly far away, like a world she no longer belonged to.

Since returning from Brooklyn, she had barely spoken. Words felt too heavy, too fragile, too easily shattered. Even Roberta, steadfast and patient through every sleepless night and every silent morning, understood that forcing conversation would only deepen the cracks already spreading through her. So she stayed close, offering presence instead of questions, warmth instead of pressure.

But the meeting with Jeremiah had unsettled something deep inside her—something she hadn't realized was still breakable.

She hadn't known what she expected from him. Maybe she had imagined that meeting Conrad's father would somehow bring her closer to the parts of Conrad she never had the chance to know. Perhaps she had hoped for stories—childhood memories, embarrassing moments, small details she could one day pass on to their child. She wanted someone who could help keep Conrad alive in ways she could no longer manage alone.

But Jeremiah? Jeremiah was broken.

Not cruel. Not distant by choice. Just hollowed out by years of regret and isolation, worn down until only the outline of a man remained. He and Conrad had become strangers long before death separated them. Different lives, different wounds, different ways of surviving a world that had never been gentle with either of them.

And now Magali understood why Conrad had spoken of him so rarely. There had been too much pain there. Too much disappointment. Too much silence stretched across too many years.

Her hand drifted to the small swell of her stomach, her fingers brushing the gentle curve as if to reassure herself that something in her life was still growing, still moving forward. The baby felt more real with each passing day, and with that reality came a fear she could no longer push aside. Conrad was gone. Jeremiah could barely care for himself. And despite the promises from Ryu, from Roberta, from everyone who loved her…

She still felt alone. Truly, achingly alone.

Across the room, Roberta folded laundry with deliberate gentleness, as though even the sound of fabric brushing against itself might disturb the fragile quiet holding the house together. Every few moments her eyes drifted toward Magali—soft, worried, but never intrusive. She understood grief in a way only someone who had lived through it could: some wounds needed silence more than comfort, and some hearts could only be reached when they were ready.

Magali lowered her gaze to the cup of tea resting in her hands. The steam had long since faded, leaving the surface still and untouched. For the first time since Conrad's death, the future frightened her more than the past. The past hurt, yes—but it was known. The future was a cliff she could not see the bottom of.

A sudden knock echoed through the quiet house. Magali flinched, her head lifting sharply from the couch. Visitors had become rare in the weeks since Conrad's passing. Sweetdance City moved at its usual relentless pace—rehearsals, performances, schedules that left little room for grief. Even those who cared often kept their distance, unsure how to approach a sorrow this heavy without making it worse.

Roberta began to rise from the kitchen, but Magali shook her head gently. "I'll get it," she murmured, her voice soft but steady enough to stand on.

She crossed the house slowly, each step feeling heavier than the last, and opened the front door. An older man stood on the porch, an umbrella folded neatly at his side. He looked to be around her father's age, though the exhaustion etched into his features made him seem older. His thinning hair was streaked with silver, and deep lines framed his eyes and mouth. Despite the weariness clinging to him, he was dressed with careful intention—dark slacks, polished shoes, a pressed coat. He looked less like someone visiting a grieving widow and more like someone returning from church, carrying the weight of something unspoken.

"Hello, Magali," he greeted warmly.

She blinked, confused. "Do I know you?"

The man chuckled softly, almost apologetically. "Please forgive me. I often forget that most idols have never seen me without the costume." He straightened, as though preparing to reintroduce himself to the world. "My name is Robert Highland. But you probably know me better as Scorpio," he added gently.

"Scorpio?" she echoed, disbelief softening her voice. "The Council Scorpio?"

He smiled faintly at her reaction. Without the elaborate costume, the dramatic makeup, the carefully maintained aura he wore within the Council chamber, he looked entirely different. Older. Human. The illusion of timelessness had fallen away, revealing the truth beneath it. It reminded her of something Conrad once told her—that idols spent so much time preserving beauty for the stage that people forgot they were aging underneath it all.

And now, standing on her doorstep, Scorpio no longer looked like an untouchable leader of the Council. He just looked tired.

"May I come in?" Robert asked gently, his voice carrying the kind of softness that came from long years of speaking carefully. "I need to speak with you."

Magali hesitated only a moment before nodding and stepping aside. "Of course."

He entered with slow, deliberate steps, removing his shoes near the door with a quiet politeness that felt almost out of place in her grief‑stricken home. When he followed her into the living room, the atmosphere seemed to thicken around him. The curtains were half‑drawn, letting in only a muted wash of afternoon light, and the silence felt like something alive—something that had settled into the walls and refused to leave.

Magali lowered herself onto the couch, her gaze fixed on her hands as Robert took a seat across from her. Even now, seeing him here felt surreal. This was Scorpio—the head of the Council, a man whose presence could shift the direction of Sweetdance City with a single decision. Yet without the ornate robes, the dramatic makeup, the carefully curated aura of authority, he looked startlingly ordinary. Older. Softer. Human in a way she had never imagined.

Still, anxiety tightened in her chest. A Council member did not visit a grieving widow without reason. And after everything she had already endured, she wasn't sure how much more bad news she could survive.

Before either of them could speak, footsteps approached from the kitchen. Roberta entered carrying a tray of tea and small snacks, her expression calm and composed—until she saw who was sitting in her living room. She froze for a heartbeat, surprise flickering across her face.

"Oh," she said quietly. "Hello, Father. I wasn't expecting you."

Magali's head snapped upward. "Father!?" The word escaped her before she could stop it.

Robert let out a warm laugh, unexpectedly gentle for someone who commanded entire chambers with his voice. "Yes," he said with a soft smile. "Roberta is my daughter." He tilted his head slightly, amused. "Didn't she tell you?"

Magali immediately lowered her gaze, heat rising to her cheeks. "No… she didn't."

Roberta set the tray down on the coffee table with practiced grace. "It's alright, Father," she said, her tone steady and reassuring. She glanced toward Magali, her voice softening. "She's still in shock from losing her husband. I'm simply here to support her emotionally." Her expression remained kind, patient. "When she's ready to talk to me more openly, I'll be right by her side."

Robert's expression softened with unmistakable pride, the kind that came from seeing a child grow into everything you hoped they would be.

"Thank you," he said quietly. "I can always depend on you."

For the first time in what felt like ages, the house warmed by a fraction—just enough for Magali to notice. A loving father and his daughter, sharing a quiet moment of tenderness, brought a fragile glow into a home that had endured too much sorrow. It wasn't joy, not even comfort, but it was something gentler than the cold that had settled over her life since Conrad's death.

But Robert's eyes carried urgency beneath their warmth. He couldn't drag Roberta into whatever he had come to say.

He gave his daughter a subtle nod, a silent request exchanged with the ease of long‑practiced understanding. Roberta caught it instantly. Without a word, she slipped out of the living room, closing the door softly behind her, leaving only the faint scent of tea and the echo of her quiet footsteps.

Once they were alone, Magali straightened slightly, lifting her gaze with the weary resolve of someone bracing for another blow. At this point, every conversation felt like it carried another loss waiting at its center.

"So," she asked softly, "what did you want to talk about?"

Robert drew in a slow, steadying breath. "Jeremiah passed away."

Magali gasped, her eyes widening. "Did he…" The rest of the question caught in her throat.

Robert shook his head gently. "No. He died peacefully in his sleep." His expression softened, touched by something almost tender. "According to the report, he almost seemed… happy when he passed."

Magali lowered her eyes, her chest tightening with bittersweet sorrow. After a long silence, she whispered, "I guess the news about his grandchild brought him some peace."

Robert nodded quietly. "I'm sure it did."

The room fell into a heavy stillness before he exhaled deeply, regret weighing down his shoulders. "I'm sorry," he said. "I never should have placed the responsibility of delivering that Memorial Drive on you. I should have handled it myself."

Magali shook her head faintly. "No… I'm glad I went." Her fingers tightened together in her lap, knuckles pale. After a moment, she finally voiced the question that had lingered in her mind since Brooklyn. "Is it true? Was Jeremiah really banished because other idols bullied him over his wife?"

Robert's expression darkened with a heaviness that seemed older than he was.

"Unfortunately… I don't know for certain," he admitted. "My father was the one who carried out the decision. I was around Roberta's age when Jeremiah was exiled." He looked away, regret flickering across his features like a shadow passing over a window. "I had no authority back then. No involvement in what happened."

Magali studied him quietly. For the first time, she understood how long the shadows of the Council stretched—how decisions made decades ago still echoed through the present, shaping tragedies no one alive seemed fully responsible for… yet everyone carried in some way.

Robert folded his hands together slowly, his voice softening. "But I do know this," he said. "Jeremiah loved his wife. And despite everything… he loved his son." He paused, the weight of it settling between them. "People like that don't recover easily from losing both."

The warmth quickly faded, replaced by the grave, impenetrable seriousness Magali recognized from the Council chamber. Whatever he had come to say, it was urgent—and heavy.

"Sadly," he said quietly, "Jeremiah's passing wasn't the reason I came."

Magali looked up immediately, unease tightening like a fist around her ribs. If Jeremiah's death wasn't the worst part, she wonders if she can handle what comes next.

Robert folded his hands together, fingers interlacing with deliberate care as he met her gaze. "Jeremiah's apartment was raided."

Magali went still, breath caught in her throat.

"According to the police report," he continued, "multiple individuals broke into the apartment looking for something. And they kept returning afterward, which tells me they never found it." His eyes sharpened, the softness gone. "I know what they were searching for."

A heavy silence settled between them, thick enough to feel. "Conrad's Memory Drive," Robert said. "Do you still have it?"

Magali nodded slowly. "Yes." Her voice trembled despite her effort to steady it. "Jeremiah refused his copy, so I brought it home with me. I know each family is only supposed to have one… but I couldn't just leave it there." She hesitated, dread creeping into her voice. "Did you come to take it?"

Robert shook his head. "No. Legally, if Jeremiah refused possession, the drive belongs to you now." He paused, choosing his next words with care. "But I strongly recommend that you destroy it."

Magali gasped, disbelief washing over her. "What?" she whispered. "Why?"

Robert exhaled slowly, the weight of his knowledge settling into the room like a storm cloud. "The Memory Drives are valuable far beyond sentiment," he explained. "They cannot be duplicated. So only two copies of Conrad's drive will ever exist—yours and Jeremiah's. That makes them incredibly rare collector's items."

He leaned back slightly, his face grim. "Most idol families keep their loved ones drives hidden in vaults, safes, or heavily protected estates. Some even hire private security because they know fans want it." His voice lowered, almost to a warning. "But if word spreads that a second copy of Conrad Howard's Memorial Drive still exists… in your possession… people will come for it."

Magali's hand moved instinctively to her stomach, protective and trembling.

"So I'm in danger?" she asked faintly. "But… isn't the city safe?"

"Theoretically," Robert replied. "But obsession changes people." His gaze held hers, steady and unflinching. "You'd be surprised what fans, collectors, and criminals are willing to do for something they believe is priceless. Rumors alone can destroy restraint. Morality disappears very quickly when people become convinced they deserve something."

The room felt colder now—colder than it had before Robert arrived, colder than the gray afternoon outside. His words lingered in the air like a draft slipping through unseen cracks.

"I don't want you or your child getting hurt," Robert said gently. "That's why I'm asking you to destroy the drive." He shook his head, the movement small but sincere. "Not as an order. Just… a sincere recommendation."

Magali's hands trembled long after he finished speaking. Until now, the Memory Drive had been nothing more than a keepsake—a final piece of Conrad she could hold onto when everything else had been taken from her. She had imagined it as a comfort, a treasure, a way to keep him close. She never imagined it could become dangerous.

But the more she thought about it, the more the fear settled in, creeping through her like frost.

Brandon.

Trevor.

Both had already shown her what desperation could turn people into. Sweetdance City thrived on obsession—fed by it, rewarded it, built entire careers on it. Fans worshipped idols like saints. Collectors treated their belongings like holy relics. And rumors… rumors traveled faster than truth ever could. All it would take was one careless conversation. One accidental photograph. One innocent confession to the wrong person.

And everything could spiral out of control.

Even her child, years from now, might unknowingly tell someone:

"We have a second copy of Daddy's Memory Drive."

The thought alone made her stomach twist, her hand instinctively pressing against the small swell beneath her blanket.

Robert rose slowly, sensing there was nothing more he could say. He adjusted his coat with quiet care, the fabric whispering in the stillness.

"Take care of yourself," he said softly.

Then he stepped out into the gray afternoon, closing the door behind him. And the house fell silent again—deeper, heavier, colder than before.

Magali sat motionless on the couch, her body still but her mind spiraling, as though the weight of everything pressing down on her chest might finally crush her. Outside, Sweetdance City glittered with its usual music and lights—its neon promises, its choreographed dreams, its endless celebration of beauty and performance. But from where she sat, all she could see was the ugliness beneath it. The rot. The obsession. The danger.

Khefner was gone.

Conrad was gone.

Jeremiah was gone.

And now even the memory of Conrad—his voice, his smile, the pieces of him preserved in that fragile drive—felt like something she wasn't allowed to keep. Something the world would punish her for holding onto.

For the first time in her life, a realization rose inside her that frightened her more than grief itself. She hated being an idol.

Not the music. Not the dancing. Not the art.

But the world around it—the hunger, the entitlement, the way people believed they owned you simply because they adored you. The way obsession twisted love into something sharp enough to cut.

She had spent her entire life chasing the dream her mother left behind. She had built her identity on the stage, on the lights, on the applause. But now, sitting alone in a house that felt too big and too quiet, she finally saw the truth:

The stage had taken more from her than it ever gave. It took her privacy. It took her safety. It took her husband. And now it threatened to take the last piece of him she had left.

Her hands curled slowly over her stomach, protective and trembling. The child inside her was the only thing grounding her, the only thing reminding her she still had something worth fighting for. But the world she lived in—the world she performed for—no longer felt like a place where she or her child could be safe.

The silence in the house deepened, settling around her like a second skin. And for the first time, she didn't try to push it away. She let herself feel the truth she had been avoiding. She didn't want this life anymore.

Magali moved through the days like someone drifting underwater—aware of the world around her, but unable to fully reach it. The house stayed quiet, almost reverent, as though it understood she was living inside a decision she could not make.

The Memory Drive remained hidden away, untouched, yet never far from her thoughts. Every morning she woke with the same weight pressing against her chest, and every night she lay down with the same unresolved ache. Destroying it felt unbearable—like erasing Conrad with her own hands. But keeping it meant living with fear, with the constant awareness that someone, somewhere, might come looking.

And still… She couldn't bring herself to do it.

The house settled into a gentle routine during those days. Roberta cooked, cleaned, organized appointments, and reminded her to eat and rest with a patience that never wavered. She never complained. Never asked for thanks. Never made Magali feel like a burden. Her care was steady, quiet, and freely given.

That realization lingered with Magali as she sat at the table one evening, watching Roberta move around the kitchen. The warm light softened the room, catching in the loose strands of Roberta's dark hair as she stirred something on the stove. The scene felt almost domestic—almost peaceful.

Robert cared.

Roberta cared.

Ryu cared.

Even the Council, flawed and secretive as they were, had tried in their own imperfect ways to protect her.

For all the ugliness buried beneath idol culture—for all the obsession, exploitation, and pain—there were still people who genuinely loved and protected one another. People who chose kindness even when the world around them rewarded spectacle instead.

And yet, as Magali watched Roberta quietly tending to dinner, she felt a small, shameful truth settle inside her. She had barely spoken to Roberta as a person. Not truly.

Roberta had put her own career on hold to care for her. She had stepped into the role of guardian, sister, friend—whatever Magali needed—without hesitation. And Magali had accepted that kindness without ever asking about the woman behind it.

In Sweetdance City, idols learned about one another through performances, through the stories they told on stage. That was how they connected. How they understood each other. But Roberta had given her something far more intimate than a performance.

She had given her time. Her presence. Her quiet, unwavering loyalty. And Magali realized she didn't know her at all.

Magali crossed the room with slow, deliberate steps, as though any sudden movement might shatter the fragile calm she'd managed to hold onto that day. She sat before the computer and pressed the power button. The soft hum of the machine rose into the quiet house, the screen blooming to life with a pale glow that illuminated her face. Behind her, she could hear Roberta moving gently around the kitchen—the clink of utensils, the soft simmer of something on the stove.

For days, Magali's thoughts had been consumed by grief, fear, and the impossible decision she still couldn't make. But for once, her mind drifted somewhere else entirely.

She opened the browser and typed the address for DanceTube. The search bar blinked patiently, waiting. After a moment of hesitation, she typed: Roberta Highland

The results appeared instantly. Dozens of performances filled the screen—thumbnails of Roberta in different costumes, different eras, different stages of her career. Magali stared for a long moment before clicking the first video.

The screen faded to black. Then Roberta appeared beneath a cascade of stage lights. She looked younger there—brighter, almost ethereal. Her hair had been styled to appear fuller and softer, giving her a larger presence beneath the lights. Long braided strands of brunette and pink ribbon flowed down her back as she moved with practiced grace. Her purple dress shimmered with cosmic patterns, layered fabric catching the light like stardust. She radiated elegance and quiet authority, the unmistakable aura of someone born into legacy.

She looked every bit like what she was; the daughter of Scorpio, head of the Council. A princess of Sweetdance City. Performing under the stage name "Sunny," Roberta was undeniably beautiful. Refined. Graceful. A natural idol.

And yet—Magali saw it immediately. The hesitation behind her smile.

Roberta danced flawlessly, but there was a subtle tension in her eyes, a restraint that never fully disappeared. It reminded Magali of something Brandon once said—that even the children of the Council weren't exempt from the pressure of idol culture. They too were expected to perform. To smile. To embody perfection whether they wanted to or not.

Watching her now, Magali understood. The pressure of her bloodline. The exhaustion hidden beneath elegance. The weight of expectations she never asked for. Even Roberta; calm, composed, endlessly patient Roberta; had once stood beneath those lights carrying burdens heavier than most people would ever know.

And suddenly, Magali realized something else. Roberta had probably understood her loneliness long before she ever spoke about it.

Magali leaned closer to the screen, curiosity pulling her toward the comment section beneath the performance. What she found made her chest ache. The comments weren't cruel enough to be removed, not hateful enough to spark outrage—just sharp enough to carve away at someone's confidence piece by piece.

"She's decent, but I expected way more from Scorpio's daughter."

"If she wasn't Robert Highland's kid, nobody would've hired her."

"Pretty face. Average voice."

"She's trying too hard to imitate older idols."

Magali's eyes lingered on each line longer than she should have. Roberta hadn't performed badly. Not even close. And yet the world had still found a way to wound her.

Magali watched the video in silence, her breath caught somewhere between awe and sorrow. Roberta's movements were graceful, her vocals steady, her stage presence elegant in a quiet, understated way. But it wasn't enough—not for the audience, not for the industry, not for the impossible expectations placed on her before she ever stepped onto a stage. She wasn't judged as a beginner idol trying to find herself.

She was judged as Scorpio's daughter.

Expectations had been stacked onto her shoulders long before she ever earned the right to carry them. And every performance reflected that pressure.

Magali clicked another video. Then another. And another. The pattern repeated every time.

The comments always circled back to the same criticisms:

Not unique enough.

Not memorable enough.

Too safe.

Too ordinary.

As she watched more closely, Magali began noticing the subtle desperation hidden in Roberta's performances. The way her smile lingered just a little too long. The way her movements occasionally stiffened, as though she were thinking too hard about getting everything perfect. She wasn't performing freely. She was pleading.

Pleading silently for approval from an audience that had already decided what they wanted her to be. And the worst part was that Magali understood exactly why the audience reacted that way. Roberta wasn't showing herself on stage. She was simply being an idol.

Singing songs people had heard countless times before. Wearing beautiful dresses. Smiling elegantly. Following the formula expected of her.

She performed well—beautifully, even—but there was nothing uniquely Roberta about it. No risk. No vulnerability. No defining spark that separated her from every other polished idol trying to survive the industry.

She looked like filler between larger acts. A graceful placeholder before the audience got to someone they truly came to see.

Magali's expression softened with sadness as the realization settled in. No wonder Roberta understood loneliness so well. She had spent years standing in front of crowds, trying desperately to earn affection from people who only saw her title before they ever saw her.

Magali's hand paused over the mouse just before opening the next performance. Something felt off. Her eyes drifted toward the upload dates, and her brow slowly furrowed.

There was a gap—a massive one. Years separated the next video from the previous performance. Not months, years.

That wasn't normal. Sweetdance City documented everything. Every stage appearance, every performance, every public event involving an idol was archived meticulously. For someone with Roberta's status, there should have been countless videos filling that span of time.

But there was nothing. No farewell announcement. No retirement statement. No scandal.

Just… absence.

Magali leaned back slightly, unease settling into her chest. She didn't know what happened during those missing years, but she could imagine it well enough. Idol culture had a way of grinding people down slowly, smiling while it did it. And judging by the comments she had read earlier, Roberta must have endured that pressure constantly.

Eventually, something inside her must have broken. Must have taken an extended leave. Whether voluntary or forced, she couldn't tell. This chapter of Sunny's story was simply missing.

Yet still… she came back.

Magali clicked the next performance. The screen faded in—and immediately, everything felt different. Roberta stood on stage once more, but she barely resembled the girl from the earlier videos. She looked older—not old, but matured in a way no audience could mistake for innocence. The elaborate styling was gone. Her hair no longer carried exaggerated volume; it fell naturally around her shoulders, controlled and intentional, allowing her facial expressions to shine instead of being overshadowed. The spotlight above caught the soft glow of her skin, illuminating her with a quiet, dignified radiance. Even her shoes had changed: the towering stilettos replaced by shorter, sturdier block heels made for movement rather than spectacle.

Even her fashion had transformed. The regal purples and glittering elegance remained, but darker tones threaded through the design—black lace, deeper violets, silver accents. A subtle gothic influence shaped her silhouette. Less princess. More idol.

Then the music began. Relapse by Eric Andrew Tailor echoed through the speakers.

Magali blinked in surprise. Roberta wasn't singing. The original vocals carried through the stage while Roberta simply… moved. She danced. Not like an idol performing choreography for applause. Not like someone trying to impress an audience with polished perfection. There was no exaggerated smile, no desperate attempt to win affection. She didn't even bother lip‑syncing. She just danced.

And somehow… it was the most honest Magali had ever seen her.

Even the audience looked surprised. The comments shifted almost instantly—confusion melting into excitement as Roberta moved across the stage with a confidence Magali had never seen in her earlier performances. The song pulsed through the speakers while Roberta danced beneath the brilliant spotlight, its glow pouring down like sunlight blessing the stage.

She moved beautifully. Not cautiously. Not desperately. Beautifully.

Her hips swayed with the rhythm, the layered fabric of her darker gothic dress fluttering around her like living shadows. Her striped stockings and shorter heels allowed her movements to feel freer, sharper, more expressive. Every motion carried intention. Every gesture spoke louder than lyrics ever could.

And for the first time, Roberta wasn't trying to imitate anyone. She let her body language sing for her.

The audience erupted with cheers as she spun beneath the lights, her braids and ribbons whipping around her while she pointed toward the crowd, laughing silently as fans shouted back. She moved with them rather than for them, feeding off their energy instead of begging for approval.

Magali stared at the screen, slowly understanding. Roberta had stopped trying to become a better singer. Instead, she perfected what she already good at. A dancer.

The realization hit Magali with surprising force. Roberta hadn't survived idol culture by becoming what the audience demanded. She survived by embracing the thing that made her unique. Rather than fighting her limitations endlessly, she reshaped herself around her strengths until the audience had no choice but to recognize them.

Magali clicked through performance after performance. Each one felt more alive than the last. Roberta danced across the stage, interacted directly with fans, asked playful questions between songs, pulled audience members into the performance itself. Her confidence grew visibly over time. The shy girl desperately seeking approval had vanished, replaced by a performer who understood exactly who she was.

And the audience loved her for it. Not because she became perfect. But because she became genuine.

Magali leaned back slowly, her hand resting over the small swell of her stomach as something stirred quietly inside her chest.

For the first time in a long while, idol culture didn't look entirely hopeless. Maybe surviving it wasn't about perfection. Maybe it was about finding the courage to become yourself beneath the spotlight.

Later that evening, Roberta called softly from the kitchen, "Dinner's ready."

Magali closed the browser and joined Roberta at the table. The meal was simple—warm broth, soft vegetables, rice that steamed gently in the bowls—but it felt grounding in a way she hadn't realized she needed. They ate in a quiet that no longer felt like distance. It felt like safety.

She glanced at Roberta across the table. "You really changed," Magali said softly.

Roberta blinked, surprised. "Changed?"

"I watched your performances," Magali admitted. "The older ones… and the newer ones." She hesitated, then asked, "Did you enjoy being an idol?"

The question caught Roberta off guard. For a moment she simply stared down at her tea, letting the steam curl around her fingers as she considered her answer. Then she gave a faint, almost amused smile.

"Honestly?" she murmured. "It was the hardest thing I've ever done."

Magali listened, her hands resting quietly in her lap.

"There were days I hated it," Roberta continued. "Days I cried after performances. Days I felt like no matter how hard I tried, people only saw what I wasn't instead of what I was." She exhaled slowly. "I almost quit when I was younger."

Magali's eyes widened. "Really?"

Roberta nodded. "I was around seventeen," she said. "The criticism became overwhelming. I felt trapped between expectations I couldn't meet and an audience that never seemed satisfied." A faint smile touched her lips. "Then my father sat me down and explained something to me."

Her expression softened as she spoke about Robert. "He told me that someday I would inherit the mantle of Scorpio." She glanced toward the living room, where her father had sat days earlier. "And he explained why being an idol mattered so much."

Magali leaned forward slightly, drawn in.

"He said my grandfather failed idols," Roberta continued quietly. "Not intentionally… but he didn't do enough to protect them. So when Father became Scorpio, he dedicated his life to changing that." Her eyes lowered thoughtfully. "He believes the world is full of hatred, anger, greed, loneliness… all the things that pull people apart."

She looked back up at Magali. "But idols," she said softly, "bring people together. Even if only for a few minutes. Music, dance, performances… they make people smile. They help people forget their pain. They unify strangers who otherwise would never stand beside each other."

Magali sat silently, absorbing every word.

"And Father told me," Roberta finished, "that the best way to protect idols… was to become the best idol I could possibly be." She smiled faintly. "Not the best singer. Not the prettiest performer. Just… the best version of myself."

The room fell quiet again. Magali lowered her eyes toward her plate, her fingers resting lightly against the small swell of her stomach. Conrad had spent his life bringing happiness to countless people — a light on stage, a warmth that reached strangers he would never meet. Roberta had survived by accepting herself instead of selling herself to the audience, reshaping her identity until it finally fit her instead of the world's expectations.

And somewhere between those two extremes, Magali realized there might still be a path forward for her too. A path that required strength — Conrad's strength, Roberta's strength — and her own.

That evening, the house was silent once more. Magali sat alone on the floor of the living room, Jeremiah's copy of Conrad's Memory Drive resting in her hands. The crystal surface caught the dim light softly, almost innocently, as though it didn't understand the weight it carried. She stared at it for a long time, turning it over between trembling fingers.

Conrad's memories.

His performances.

His laughter on stage.

The moments that made him eternal in the eyes of the city.

And now… a threat.

Slowly, she set the drive on the floor in front of her. Her breathing grew uneven as she stared down at it. Robert's warning echoed through her mind — steady, relentless, impossible to ignore.

At this moment, only she and Robert knew the second copy existed. But secrets never stayed buried in Sweetdance City. One careless sentence. One accidental discovery. One person deciding she didn't deserve to keep something so valuable. One person deciding they wanted something so valuable. That was all it would take.

Then they would come for it. Just like they came for Jeremiah's apartment. They searched. They didn't find it. And they would keep searching. For her. For her child.

Magali closed her eyes tightly. Conrad would never want her living in fear because of him. That realization hurt more than anything else.

Slowly, she rose to her feet. Her heel hovered above the drive. For a brief second, she hesitated — a moment suspended between love and survival.

Then she brought her heel down hard. The crystal shattered beneath the force, splintering into glittering fragments that scattered across the floor like broken stars. The sharp crack echoed through the room — a sound like something sacred breaking apart forever.

Magali stared at the ruined drive, her breath shaking. And then the tears came. A broken sound escaped her as she collapsed to her knees, folding inward as grief poured out of her all at once. She buried her face against herself, shoulders trembling violently as she cried — not just for the drive, but for everything.

Conrad.

Jeremiah.

The life she lost.

The future she feared.

All of it crashed through her in a single, overwhelming wave.

The sound of something breaking drew Roberta from the hallway. She stepped into the living room and froze. Magali was on the floor, collapsed over herself, surrounded by the glittering remains of the shattered Memory Drive. The fragments caught the dim light like fallen stars, scattered around her trembling body.

Roberta hurried to her side without hesitation. She knelt beside Magali, and the moment she was close enough, Magali threw her arms around her — clinging with a desperation that felt like she might fall apart completely if she let go. Roberta wrapped her arms around her in return, one hand cradling the back of Magali's head, the other stroking gently down her hair.

"It's okay," she whispered, her voice soft enough to steady a storm.

Magali cried harder against her shoulder, her sobs shaking through both of them. Roberta didn't speak again. She didn't try to soothe with empty promises or tell her she'd done the right thing. She simply held her — steady, warm, unmovable — as though she could absorb the grief through touch alone.

She stayed through every trembling breath. Every broken sound. Every wave of sorrow that tore through Magali's chest. And slowly, piece by piece, the grief began to empty out of her — leaving behind exhaustion, sorrow… and the first fragile hint of closure.

Roberta tightened her embrace just slightly, enough to remind Magali she wasn't alone. Not now. Not ever again.