Secrets and Truths

LEONARD:

I pulled up to the building, rode the elevator, and knocked as if I’d rented the whole apartment for Eric and his crew. I knew Erica would be inside…she’d have left the office with Jimmy the moment news about our wedding escalated, except she had come straight to this crib.

The nerd opened the door and immediately slumped to the floor in shock. This is worse than I thought—he urgently needs rejuvenation. It’s becoming abnormal for a man to be so fragile.

I wasn’t wrong. Erica stood behind the couch, taking in the scene with a shaky body.

“Eric!” I called into the room, ignoring both of them. “Eric!”

A door creaked, and Eric stepped out. He was still in the gown, eyes puffy, skinnier than he had been minutes ago. He looked pale, like he could collapse at any moment.

My heart constricted at the sight. Yet, I coldly crossed the room to him. His eyes found mine. He opened his mouth to speak, closed it again.

I hesitated, wondering whether to ask if he needed time to grab a few things or get straight to why I’d come. I chose the latter. Gripping his wrist, I hauled him out of the apartment. No one stopped me. Not Erica. Not the nerd. Their objection wouldn’t have mattered, but I’d expected it. Instead, Eric followed behind, silent and weak.

On the drive out, I watched in the rearview as vans and buses emptied reporters onto the premises—cameras, microphones, the works. They were ready to ambush their victim.

“We made it!” I cheered, forgetting the cracked air between us.

He stared at me…stunned, confused, dreamy. My smile died. I glanced at him but had no words. I couldn’t admit I’d raced down there to save him from the reporters who’d tear him apart. I was supposed to be furious, and that…was exactly how I should pose.

I steered into my most exquisite hotel. Ignoring the flurry of staff at my sudden arrival, I yanked Eric out of the car as gently as I could.

I rarely came here, although the place generated a significant portion of my revenue. It’s a sanctuary for famous politicians, models, actors, musicians, influencers, and business tycoons. Meeting those people casually is overwhelming—so I leave the running to my top managers.

My presence turned heads. Before I reached the entrance, senior staff lined up, heads bowed. I hate that drama…those servile bows…but I needed this place for Eric’s safety. With the right people staying here, no reporter would dare cross the line. And if they did, this is my domain—I could do whatever I pleased, regardless of what the law says.

“Prepare the penthouse,” I ordered whoever trailed behind us.

“It’s occupied,” a voice whispered.

I stopped mid-step. Eric bumped my arm, whimpering and rubbing his forehead. But I was more interested in what I just heard than his dramatic expression. The penthouse was usually reserved for me—barely used and kept vacant to avoid awkward run-ins like this one.

“Occupied?” I asked, turning to the staff. They wouldn’t look up.

“By who?” I pressed.

“The Minister,” someone mumbled from bowed heads.

Fresh fury rose in me. “Look up,” I spat. They raised their heads like puppets. Most of them stole glances at Eric, who was fidgeting beside me.

“Offer your Minister another exclusive or a refund. Do whatever, but get him off that space. Now.”

They flinched at my command.

“Mr. H—Hays,” the manager stammered, but was cut off when Eric tugged my sleeve, bringing my attention to him as he shook his head. His eyes were scared and unsure whether I’d understand or obey.

I understood. Obey? Why should I? I wasn’t doing this for him; he had no right to step in.

“Prepare another room,” I said and stepped into the elevator with him. The staff displayed equal parts surprise and relief, nodding at Eric in appreciation as the doors closed.

You are wrong! Eric didn’t do that. I didn’t yield to him. I simply prioritised a customer’s comfort.

I dragged him into the lounge, unlatched my grip, and slumped into a chair. He stood in the open doorway, rubbing his wrist, head lowered. I watched him, torn between wanting to beat him senseless for making a fool of me or for tagging me a gay across the country. Then I saw the bruise on his neck, and the red imprint of my grip on his wrist. My anger softened into a silver of remorse. Maybe I’d let him off for now.

Silence stretched between us. He remained pinned to the doorway; I breathed shallowly until the suite was ready and we were ushered into it.

For clarification, the rooms are always clean and ready for occupancy. When I say “prepare,” I mean changing the sheets and pillowcases to brand-new ones. Although they’re already washed and sterilized, I still prefer them new.

“Leo…” he muttered as I turned to leave. “Thank you.”

“Thank you? This is not hospitality.”

“I know.”

“Until everything is under control, stay here.”

“Can we please talk?”

“Use the receiver if you need anything.”

I walked out. Talk? There was nothing he could say to fix this—nothing that would earn my forgiveness.

However, I left strict orders: a better wardrobe for him, whatever he needed provided, and under no circumstances was he to receive visitors or allowed to leave the hotel. Then I went home. Reporters were already rustling at my gate; the moment they spotted me, they swarmed. I stepped out of the car.

“Mr. Hays,” a reporter shouted. “What’s your actual sexuality?”

“I can be anything for you,” I replied. “Gay, fluid, your sugar daddy…but you know what else I could be? Your nightmare.”

“We’re just doing our jobs.”

“If you don’t get off my property, I’ll make sure you never dust up your careers again.”

“Are…you threatening us?” she stammered.

“Do I look like someone with cheap threats? You feed on my history. You should know better.”

I disappeared inside.

Jimmy and Bernard were gone. I’d expected Bernard to stay…after all, I’d taken his car, and we had more to talk about. But he wasn’t there. After a shower, I drove to his place. Jimmy was there, too. His car was under the awning canopy.

I walked in.

Bernard sat on the living-room stairs, shirt unbuttoned, head down against the rail. He looked wrecked.

“How is Eric?” he asked without looking up. The question didn’t surprise me; I was the same—worrying about Eric over myself. “Is Eric really Lucia?” he added. “He’s not…right?”

“What’s next?” Jimmy asked when neither of us responded to Bernard. “What are you going to do about the article?”

“Nothing.” I dropped onto the couch. Jimmy took the opposite one.

“You’re the most wanted…alleged…gay bachelor in the country, and you want to do nothing?”

The label no longer bothered me. It was false; why waste energy disproving it?

“There’s something more important I need to do. Something I want you to help with.”

The media thinks Eric is a doppelganger. Fine. But if Eric and Erica are truly Geruxs and their birth was meant to be a secret, whoever buried that secret in the past will move to protect it. Eric and Erica aren’t safe. Before the world discovers their actual relationship, and before unknown people try to erase it…I need to act.

“I need every detail on Eric and Erica,” I said. “How they came to be. Why they were hidden, and who hid them.”