Falling for my Enemy's Brother-Chapter 103: Lights On, No One Home
The sky was dull and gray. A chilly wind passed through the trees with no leaves. ๐ฏ๐ป๐ฎ๐๐ฌ๐ฎ๐๐๐ค๐๐๐ก.๐๐๐ถ
Craig Lesnar stepped out of his car, door slamming behind him. His eyes were fixed ahead, calm on the surface, but his jaw was clenched. Dangerous. Determined.
He didnโt bother knocking.
He spotted Keith exactly where he expected, slouched on the couch in his apartment, eyes locked on his PS5 screen, controller in hand like it was any other evening.
An open bag of their favorite spicy snack sat crumpled beside him on the left cushion, a half-empty can of soda sweating rings into the coffee table.
Craigโs jaw tightened. That snack used to mean comfort, late nights, shared jokes. Now, it just made his blood boil. He wanted to kick the damn thing across the room.
"I know you sent the video," Craig said coldly, stopping just inches away from Keith.
Keith looked up, eyes wide and uncertain. "Huh?"
"The video you sent to Aiden Sanchez," Craig said, each word sharp as glass. "Merlinaโs father. You still have it?"
Keith didnโt answer.
He just froze.
The controller slipped from his hands and hit the carpet with a soft thud.
He stood up slowly, like the past had just reached through the floor and grabbed him by the throat. His face went pale, his mouth opened, but nothing came out. Not an excuse. Not a denial. Just silence. The kind that reeked of guilt.
Craig looked him up and down, jaw tight. Like he couldnโt believe he was looking at this guy, someone heโd once called a friend. His best friend.
"Youโre gonna need it," Craig said, voice low, ice cold. "Because youโre testifying in court. Or writing a statement to the police. Either way, that videoโs evidence now. So make sure you have it."
He turned to leave, he was done with the conversation, done with Keith.
"Craigโ" Keith stepped forward, voice small, unsure.
Craig didnโt even let him finish the name. He spun around and punched him hard, in the face. The kind of punch that had nothing to do with fists and everything to do with rage.
Every buried memory. Every betrayal. Every second he tried to keep his cool instead of lashing out. All of it landed in that single, brutal hit.
Keith stumbled back, crashing into the side of the couch. The silence that followed didnโt settle, it lingered. Like it knew something ugly was coming and didnโt want to miss a second of it.
"Thatโs for keeping your mouth shut," Craig hissed. "And for sending it in the first place."
Keith raised a shaky hand to his cheek, wiping the blood that had started to pool at the corner of his mouth. His voice was hoarse, uncertain. "Just let me explainโ"
"Too late!" Craig snapped, the words ripping through the room like a whip.
"Can you just let meโ"
"Did you know Merlinaโs dad was the one who tried to kill Marjorie Sanchez?" Craigโs voice thundered, his tone sharp and disbelieving. "Were you in on it too?"
Keithโs face paled instantly. He shook his head so fast it was almost frantic. "What? No. No, I swear...I donโt know any of that. I only sent the video. Thatโs it."
Craig didnโt move. He just stared him down with eyes like carved glass. "You better hope to hell thatโs true," he said, his voice as hard as the punch heโd thrown. Then he turned on his heel and walked away.
Keith stood there, blood still trickling from his lip, his hands trembling slightly.
"Tried to kill?" he muttered under his breath, dazed. "What does he mean, tried to kill? Sheโs dead."
How did he find out ?
He slowly sat down on the couch, eyes fixed on the tile like it might swallow him whole. The memory came rushing in, sharper now, unavoidable.
It had been something stupid. Childish. He and Conor had fought, again. Conor always had a way of making Keith feel irrelevant, disposable. That day, Keith had stormed out, only to double back hours later.
Thatโs when heโd seen Conor with the professor, standing too close, completely unaware of their surroundings. So Keith did what any bitter, reckless idiot would do.
He filmed them.
It was meant to be a petty jab. A way to hurt Conor, maybe make his father, the infamously terrifying Charles Lesnar, step in and make his perfect golden boy suffer for once.
Keith had tried sending the clip to Charles Lesnarโs email, but it kept bouncing. Maybe he got the address wrong, or it was probably filtered out like every other unsolicited message from people who didnโt belong in his world. Either way, the message never went through.
So he improvised.
He searched for the professorโs information, found out she was married, and redirected the video to her husband instead.
Aiden Sanchez received it, Keith knew because the man actually replied, asking follow-up questions. For a brief moment, Keith had felt satisfied, almost proud. Like heโd done something important. Like heโd won.
He hadnโt expected it to turn into anything, just a little bit of trouble for Conor Lesnar. He thought if Conor had that on his plate, heโd be too busy to mess around with him.
But then... sheโd died instead.
Pronounced dead. A fall from the science wing. Everyone whispered about suicide. Keith hadnโt wanted to know more. Didnโt want the guilt to follow him. He buried it deep. Never told a soul, what heโd done.
And now?
Now it was all surfacing.
Craig knew. Craig was furious. And if Craig knew, that meant Conor probably did, tooโor he would soon.
"Shit," Keith buried his face in his hands, the cold wind biting at his skin.
This wasnโt just a video anymore. It was a ticking bomb, and it had finally gone off.
The weekend came faster than Merlina expected. She sat on a stone bench near the fountain, her fingers clutched tightly around her phone. Her screen lit up.
Aiden Sanchez:
Landed safe. See you soon.
Merlinaโs heart kicked once, then dropped like a stone. She didnโt reply.
She glanced toward the cafรฉ entrance across the street, the designated meeting spot. Quiet. Abandoned. Chosen for exactly that reason.
Outside, it looked like any other coffee shop still clinging to life. A chalkboard menu stood propped by the door, the windows were clean enough to fake regular use, and the faint glow of hanging lights gave it a deceptive warmth. But it was all a facade, every detail arranged by Craig.
The cafรฉ had been shut down for months. Craig had personally overseen the setup, hiring a crew to stage the place to look like it had never closed.
It was perfect, a place thatโs "alive" on the outside but dead inside, enough to plant cameras and mics without public suspicion.
He made sure the OPEN sign flickered, that the display case looked stocked, and even had fake receipts taped beside the register for authenticity.
Heโd checked everything, how many exits, the proximity to the main road, how long it would take backup to arrive if things went sideways.
Most importantly, heโd hidden a discreet recording device inside an old sugar jar on the table. Wired. Live. Set to capture every word that came out of Aiden Sanchezโs mouth.
This wasnโt just a meeting. It was a setup, with no room for escape, no crowd to hide in, and no more lies.
"Are you sure about this?" Craig had asked the night before, his voice low, unreadable.
She hadnโt answered. Just nodded. Because this wasnโt about being sure. This was about finally knowing the truth.
Behind the cafรฉโs tinted windows, Marjorie Sanchez waited. The mother no one was supposed to be able to meet again.
Hair tied back, sunglasses shading her face, fingers clasped tightly in her lap like she was holding herself together one second at a time. It had taken hours, days, to convince her to do this. To be seen.
But Aiden needed to be caught off guard. And the only thing in this world that could make him unravel?
Her.
After the text from her dad, Merlina stayed hidden just around the corner behind a stack of delivery crates, her heart drumming so loud it felt like it echoed through her spine.
Then the moment of truth arrived, a sleek black car pulled up, he stepped outside the back seat, slowly.
Aiden Sanchez. Tall. Composed. Confident as ever, in a suit no weekend demanded and sunglasses he didnโt take off right away. His presence soaked into the sidewalk like oil. Slick and out of place.
He headed straight towards the cafe, but as he got closer, he glanced down at his phone to double-check the name of the cafรฉ.
It matched.
Still, something felt... off. The sign flickered, the windows were clean, but there was no sound, no smell of coffee, no noise. Just stillness.
He found it odd, but not enough to question.
He pushed open the door.
A bell above jingled once, then fell silent.
No barista behind the counter. No other customers. A strange smell greeted him. Faint but unmistakable.
Dust.
Bitter and dry. The kind that settled on old wood and memories. His steps slowed.
Something wasnโt right.
As Aiden walked further in, his eyes swept the room, trying to make sense of it.
The espresso machine sat unplugged behind the counter, dust gathering in the crevices like it hadnโt been touched in months. On the wall near the register, a calendar remained frozen in time. Augustโhalf a year gone.
Cobwebs stretched lazily from a wall to the edge of a faded menu board. A chalkboard sign near the entrance still advertised a Spring Latte Specialโdespite the fact that it was winter.
The cafรฉ wore its disguise well at first glance. Lights on. A single table set up in the center, too perfectly placed. But everything else, silent machines, stagnant air, forgotten detailsโscreamed abandonment.
"Merlina?" he called softly, uncertainty creeping into his voice.
No answer. Just the faint crackle of a dying bulb overhead.
Then he heard it.
A door creaking open at the back. Footsteps, measured. Deliberate.
She stepped into view. Slowly.
Her face was pale. Her hair darker than he remembered, tied back the way she used to wear it. Before everything. Her eyes met his.
No sound. No scream.
Only the stillness of a ghost...who wasnโt dead.
"Hello, Aiden," Marjorie said softly.
