What does your heart hide
The hallway was still when I arrived. Too still. The kind of quiet that hums beneath the skin, heavy with questions.
I had expected someone to be waiting — the "guest" my father had mentioned over the phone — but the doorway was empty. My father's bodyguards stood on either side of the corridor, their presence silent but watchful. They nodded respectfully as I passed, stepping aside so I could reach my door.
The cake box was warm in my hand, the scent of vanilla and sugar softening the chill in the air. With the other, I fumbled for my keys, confusion stirring low in my chest. No visitor. No call. Nothing.
My father wasn't one for games. When Arthur Ardel spoke, the world usually followed.
The key turned in the lock. The click echoed.
As the door swung open, the familiar murmur of the television met me — a reporter's low voice filling the room. My steps faltered. Someone was there.
On the sofa, relaxed and perfectly at home, sat a man watching the news with a glass of water in his hand.
"Kais?"
He turned, that signature grin spreading across his face — the kind that always carried both mischief and charm.
"Hey," he said casually, as though this were his apartment, not mine.
I blinked, setting the cake box on the counter. "Weren't you supposed to be interviewing someone abroad?"
He stood, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeves. "I am interviewing someone." His tone danced with amusement. "And before you get dramatic — yes, I used the spare key under the rug. Terrible hiding spot, by the way."
I stared at him, half amused, half exasperated. "You broke into my apartment?"
"Not broke in," he said smoothly, strolling toward me with that easy, confident gait. "Invited myself in. There's a difference."
He nodded toward the cake box. "That for me?"
"Not a chance," I replied. "I'm expecting someone."
He grinned. "What if that someone is me?"
I froze, studying him. "You're the guest my father mentioned?"
"Bingo."
The realization landed slowly — like a delayed explosion. "You're here to interview me?"
He gave a small bow. "The honour's all mine."
I exhaled, rubbing the bridge of my nose. "My father sent you?"
"Who else would he trust to get the truth out of you?" Kais shot back. "Don't look so grim. It's not an interrogation — it's a conversation."
I sighed. "The last thing I need is another conversation about the past."
"The past made you, Ardel," he said softly. "You can't outrun it."
He moved toward the counter, helping himself to a slice of cake despite my glare. "You should really start locking your fridge too," he teased, licking frosting from his finger.
"How do you stay in shape when you eat like this?" I asked dryly.
He glanced at me, feigning offence. "Are you calling me fat?"
"I didn't say that."
"You implied it."
"You inferred it," I replied.
He laughed — a deep, warm sound that filled the apartment. For a fleeting moment, I saw Ayah in that laughter — the same spark, the same life that used to echo off these walls.
Kais dropped onto the sofa, crossing one leg over the other. "Alright," he said, "let's talk business. The interview could help you — your art, your story, your career. People know your music, but not your truth. This is your chance."
I raised a brow. "You make it sound like confession."
He met my eyes. "Maybe it is."
There was no arrogance in his tone this time. Just quiet sincerity.
It struck me then — this wasn't only professional for him. It was personal. A brother searching for pieces of the sister he'd lost.
He pulled out a small camera and a notebook. The pages were filled with neat handwriting, some words circled, others crossed out. After a quick skim, he scowled and tossed it aside.
"These questions are useless," he muttered. "They sound like something ripped out of a tabloid."
I smirked. "You wrote them."
"Yeah, and I already regret it." He began pacing, muttering under his breath. "This isn't how I want to tell her story."
"Then stop trying to script it," I said quietly. "She never lived by anyone's script."
That made him pause. Slowly, a small, knowing smile tugged at his lips. "You're right," he murmured.
"I usually am."
He rolled his eyes. "And still insufferable."
"Old habits," I replied.
He sighed, adjusting the camera. "Fine. No questions. We'll just talk."
I stood, stretching the tension from my shoulders. "Call me when you're ready."
He frowned. "Wait — where are you going?"
"To think."
He muttered something about Ardel dramatics under his breath as I walked away, the faint sound of his laughter following me down the hall.
My room greeted me like an old friend — silent, dim, patient. The air smelled faintly of turpentine and cold coffee. My desk lamp flickered to life, casting amber light over scattered papers and old sketches.
This was where I had once built worlds — melodies, brushstrokes, fragments of dreams.Now it was a mausoleum of half-finished thoughts.
I ran a finger over the edge of my old music sheets. Alex's handwriting still marked the margins. His laughter seemed trapped in the room, echoing faintly if I listened hard enough.
Why?That single question had haunted me more than any ghost.
Why had he done it? Why hadn't I seen it?
If I had asked, How does your soul feel, Alex?Maybe he would've told me. Maybe I would've listened.
But I didn't.Michael and I told him to "stay strong," to "tough it out."We never gave him permission to be fragile.
Grief teaches you strange things — how sorrow sharpens gratitude, how misery refines joy.Without pain, there's no reflection. Without loss, there's no love.
If only I had told him that.
I had just lowered myself into the chair when the door swung open with a bang.
"I've got it!"
Kais stood there, triumphant, his grin almost blinding.
I didn't even look up. "Ever heard of knocking?"
He ignored me, too excited to care. "Forget knocking — I know what I'm going to ask."
"Oh, this should be good," I muttered.
He stepped closer, his voice charged with conviction. "I'm going to ask you about the truth of your heart."
That made me look up. "The truth of my heart?"
He nodded. "That's what matters. Not the fame. Not the tragedy. You. What's left inside you after everything else is gone."
Something in his tone pulled me in — that rare mix of reverence and challenge.
I stared at him, studying the lines of his face, the echo of his sister in his smile.
"The truth of my heart," I murmured, the words tasting strange, sacred.
He folded his arms, leaning against the doorframe. "You haven't asked yourself that, have you?"
"No," I admitted. "I've been afraid to."
Kais's expression softened. "Then maybe it's time you weren't."
He walked past me, setting up the camera on the coffee table. The faint red light blinked — steady, patient. He adjusted the lens and sat across from me, the city light spilling in from the windows, wrapping the room in shades of gold and shadow.
The air felt heavy, alive — like the moment before confession.
Kais met my gaze. "So," he said quietly, "tell me, Aubrey Ardel — when the world stopped loving you, who taught you how to love again?"
The question hung in the air — fragile, devastating, divine.
And just like that,the interview began.