The visit
1064 Words
Lia didn’t sleep.
She couldn’t—not with James’s voice still echoing through her chest and Noah’s betrayal fresh in her mind.
The USB drive sat on her desk like a bomb that had already gone off, and she kept glancing at it as if it would change or vanish. But the files remained. The check was real. The fear in James’s eyes was real.
And now, so was the enemy.
Blackstrand Media.
Lia had never heard of them before the video. But the name alone felt like poison on her tongue now. These weren’t just music investors—they were image-makers. Reputation curators. And if they were capable of controlling James’s story after his death, what else had they done to keep his silence?
She wasn’t going to wait for another message to push her forward.
This time, she’d go straight to the source.
---
The office for Blackstrand Media sat in a sleek, modern building downtown, nestled between a lawyer’s firm and a luxury real estate company. Their logo was minimal: a single black feather with no name beneath it. Discreet. Elegant. Almost like they wanted to be forgotten.
Lia dressed the part—crisp white shirt, heels, hair pinned back—and stepped through the mirrored doors with a calm she didn’t feel. She had given them a fake name when she called ahead for a “content rights inquiry.”
The receptionist didn’t even glance up.
“Name?” she asked, still typing.
“Eva Winters,” Lia replied smoothly.
The receptionist nodded. “Mr. Langston will see you. Fifth floor.”
Lia’s heart stuttered. She hadn’t expected to be welcomed.
She definitely hadn’t expected a Mr. Langston.
---
The elevator hummed all the way up. When the doors opened, it was like stepping into another world.
Polished floors. Black leather chairs. Abstract art on every wall. The kind of place that whispered money and moved in silence.
A tall man in a tailored suit greeted her.
He looked like he belonged on a movie set—gray-streaked hair, sharp jawline, and eyes like cold metal. His handshake was firm but too controlled, like everything he did was rehearsed.
“Ms. Winters,” he said with a thin smile. “I’m Adrian Langston, VP of Talent Legacy Management. Come in.”
She followed him into a glass-walled office.
“I understand you’re inquiring about a past client?” he said, settling into his chair.
“Yes,” Lia said. “James Rourke.”
Langston tilted his head. “That name is confidential under NDA, I’m afraid.”
Lia leaned forward. “Not if I’m his fiancée.”
That caught him.
Just for a moment, his smile slipped.
“You don’t look like someone grieving,” he said.
“I’ve had a year to grieve,” she replied, voice steady. “Now I want answers.”
Langston folded his hands. “And what kind of answers do you think we hold, Miss… Winters, was it?”
“I know about the contract,” Lia said. “I know about the threats. I know you tried to control his music, his life—even his death.”
Langston’s expression didn’t change.
“I think,” he said slowly, “you’ve been listening to ghost stories.”
“I think James was afraid of you,” she countered. “And if you think I’m going to stop just because you dress your threats in tailored suits, you don’t know me at all.”
Langston stood.
The meeting was over.
“Ms. Winters,” he said, walking toward the door, “grief does strange things to people. Warps memory. Fills in blanks with fantasy. Let me give you a bit of advice: walk away. Let the dead rest. Because digging up the past can be… dangerous.”
She smiled tightly.
“You’re right,” she said. “It can be.”
And as she turned to leave, she left behind one small item on the armrest of the chair—a voice recorder tucked under her jacket sleeve.
The red light was still blinking.
---
Noah was waiting in her apartment when she got home.
He looked up from the kitchen table like a kid caught sneaking cookies.
“You followed through,” he said.
Lia dropped her purse and played the audio back for him. Langston’s voice was clear, every word a threat coated in class.
“They’re hiding something,” she said.
Noah ran a hand through his hair. “If they’re still watching you, they’ll know that wasn’t your real name.”
“I hope they do.”
He stared at her. “Are you trying to get yourself hurt?”
“No,” she said. “But I’m not letting them erase James. Not when he trusted me with the truth.”
Noah hesitated.
Then he pulled a file from his backpack.
“What’s that?”
“I started digging,” he said. “Langston’s not just a VP. Before Blackstrand, he worked at two other media agencies—both shut down after lawsuits related to artist coercion. Non-disclosure settlements. You name it.”
He spread out documents—printouts, contracts, screenshots.
One name kept showing up.
Silas Cain.
“Who's that?” Lia asked.
“Founder of Blackstrand,” Noah said. “Doesn’t show up in public much. Rumored to be the money behind all of this. I think Langston’s just the face.”
“And you think this Cain guy is the one who… what? Killed James?”
“I think,” Noah said, “he’s the one who made sure James didn’t survive long enough to break his contract.”
---
Later that night, Lia sat at her desk, heart still racing.
The recorder. The contract. The money.
All of it pointed to one truth: James had been silenced.
Not just by death.
But by people who believed they could buy truth, edit memory, and bury guilt with paperwork.
Her phone buzzed.
Another message.
> You’re getting close. But be careful. Elias is watching too much now. He remembers more than you think.
Her chest clenched.
Elias.
Was someone watching him?
Was he in danger?
Lia stared at the message, a wave of protectiveness rising in her.
She’d lost James.
She would not lose the boy too.
Not to silence.
Not to secrets.
Not to Black Strand.
- Writer
