Grayson stared at the ceiling of his penthouse, trying to fall asleep, but the song in his head wouldn't let him.
Her voice haunted him. It wasn't just the raw power of it—it was the ache underneath. Like something stolen. Like someone who had been told to stay quiet too many times and finally decided to scream.
He rolled over and picked up his phone. He still had the raw cut of her song in his inbox. He listened to it again—again—and on the third play, he noticed something strange.
The lyrics.
They weren't random.
"You buried me beneath your empire
Taught me silence was safer than truth
But I kept the echo, I kept the fire
And now I'm burning through you..."
It wasn't just poetry. It was personal.
He replayed it, dissecting every word. The pain was real. Too real.
And then it hit him.
This wasn't just a girl chasing fame. She was hiding something.
Or someone.
Across town, Ariella sat on the fire escape outside her apartment, head against the rusted railing. She watched the stars, or tried to. But all she could see was his face when he said his name: LaRoche.
Grayson LaRoche.
What were the chances? What kind of sick twist of fate was this?
She knew who his father was. She remembered the whispers. The old tabloids. Her mother's screams when they moved cities. The way Naomi would freeze when a certain face appeared on TV.
Grayson was his son.
And that made her—
Ariella inhaled sharply, gripping her chest. She couldn't finish the thought.
She had always been told her father was dead.
Now she wasn't so sure.
The next morning, Naomi Gray entered the office of her longtime friend and former attorney, Ruth Sinclair.
"You told me we buried this," Naomi said without greeting.
Ruth didn't look surprised. "We did. But you can't bury fire, Naomi. It resurfaces."
Naomi tossed the broken phone onto Ruth's desk. "She's with him. She doesn't know who he is—but she's with him. What am I supposed to do?"
Ruth leaned back, her expression unreadable. "You tell her the truth. You let her decide."
"I can't," Naomi whispered, voice cracking. "She'll never forgive me."
"Maybe not. But if you don't, someone else will. And it won't be with love."
Meanwhile, back at LaRoche Studios, Grayson sat across from his father in a glass conference room, voice low and cautious.
"Did you ever… have someone before Mom?"
Richard LaRoche raised an eyebrow. "Where's this coming from?"
Grayson shrugged, faking nonchalance. "Just curious."
His father laughed dryly. "I've had plenty of someones. Why?"
"No reason."
But inside, Grayson was boiling. Something wasn't right. And the more he dug, the more questions surfaced.
His father had skeletons.
And he was about to start opening the closet.
After school, Ariella walked into her mother's kitchen and dropped her bag hard on the counter.
"I know who he is," she said flatly.
Naomi froze mid-step.
Ariella's hands were shaking. "Grayson. LaRoche. You didn't think I'd find out?"
"I tried to protect you."
"From what?"
Naomi looked like a woman drowning. She sat down slowly.
"You were born into a lie. I kept you safe by building a wall around that lie."
Ariella's voice cracked. "Is he my father?"
The silence screamed the answer.
Naomi closed her eyes. "Yes."
And just like that, the air vanished from the room.
Later that night, Ariella called Grayson.
"Can we meet?"
She didn't tell him anything on the phone. Just a place and time.
When they met—under the pale lights of the park by the river—she looked different. Older. Like something had been taken from her.
Grayson handed her a coffee without speaking.
"I know who your father is," she said.
"I know who your mother is," he replied.
And they both froze.
Ariella's voice broke. "He ruined her. Left her with nothing. And now I'm singing for him."
"You're not," Grayson said. "You're singing for yourself."
"No," she said bitterly. "I'm singing for revenge."
And for the first time, Grayson didn't smile.
Scene cut: Los Angelus
Sophia Devereux stepped off the private jet in silence, heels clicking against the tarmac.
Her assistant rushed to her side. "Should I call the family?"
Sophia's lips curved into a cold smirk. "Let them sweat a little longer."
She stared out across the city skyline.
"If ghosts are rising," she whispered, "then it's time Los Angelus remembers who built the cemetery."