❤️HEARTSTRING❤️
(Lovemelody…………)
Chapter 19&20
By Triplewealth.
❤️🧡💛💚💙💜❤️🧡💛💚💙💜❤️🧡💛💚
●Kelly mansion●
The Kelly household glowed with golden light as the sun dipped behind the skyline. Expensive wine glasses clinked softly in the formal dining room where Mr. Kelly and Lorraine sat facing a long, polished table.
The door opened.
Tiffany strutted in, still in her Brocks High uniform, her heels clicking confidently across the marble floor.
“You won’t believe what they announced today,” she said, pulling out a chair and dropping her school bag carelessly to the side.
Lorraine didn’t look up from her glass. “What now? Another meaningless event?”
Tiffany grinned. “Oh, not meaningless at all. The Midnight Masquerade Gala is officially happening.”
That got Mr. Kelly’s attention. “The Brocks’ annual charity gala?”
Tiffany nodded. “Exclusive. Massive. All the power families are going. It’ll be hosted in their private ballroom.”
Lorraine raised an eyebrow. “And I assume you were invited?”
“Of course I was,” Tiffany said smugly. “But guess who else got an invite…”
There was a pause.
Lorraine expression turned cold. “You don’t mean—”
Tiffany smirked. “Mm-hmm. Her. The little countryside charity case. Sylvia.”
Mr. Kelly shifted slightly. “She’s part of the scholarship program. It makes sense.”
Lorraine ’s smile turned razor-sharp. “It’s ridiculous. Do you know how that makes us look?”
Tiffany leaned back, folding her arms. “Not to worry. I have ideas.”
Mr. Kelly sighed. “Tiffany—don’t cause any trouble.”
Lorraine nterrupted, eyes glinting. “Let her. This is the perfect chance to remind Sylvia where she came from… and where she’ll always belong.”
Tiffany smiled. “Exactly. She wants to blend in with diamonds and royalty? Let her try. And then we’ll expose her for what she is.”
Lorraine swirled her wine. “Just like her mother. Always pretending.”
Tiffany’s voice turned quieter, more sinister.
“I’ll let her shine for one night… then I’ll make her wish she’d never come back to my school
Mr. Kelly stayed quiet this time.
But none of them noticed the black envelope slipped through the front gate’s iron bars, landing silently by the door.
Inside the envelope, a note:
The secret you think is hidden is no longer a secret anymore and keep waiting for my revelation
Sender : Blackmask
●HUDSON VALLEY ●
Grandma Mae cottage
The scent of cinnamon tea lingered in the air as Sylvia sat cross-legged on the cushioned window bench of her grandmother’s modest but lovingly kept countryside cottage.
The moonlight filtered softly through lace curtains. The old wooden clock ticked in the background.
Her grandmother, Mrs. Mae, stirred a pot of soup in the kitchen, humming a gentle tune.
Sylvia held the invitation envelope in her lap, fingers brushing the silver foil.
“Grandma,” she said softly.
Mae looked over her shoulder. “Yes, sweet pea?”
Sylvia hesitated, then stood and walked to the small round table.
She laid the invitation down gently. “There’s… a school event. A big one.”
Mae turned off the stove and wiped her hands on a tea towel before joining her. Her warm eyes scanned the envelope.
“Midnight Masquerade Gala,” she read aloud, brows lifting. “Well, doesn’t that sound fancy?”
Sylvia offered a small smile. “It’s formal. At the Brocks’ mansion. I think it’s part of their scholarship program celebration… but the whole school will be there. Even Kingsley Brocks himself.”
There was a brief pause.
Mae expression softened with pride and caution. “You’re nervous.”
Sylvia nodded, looking down. “It’s… not just about the event. Tiffany’s going to be there. And Brielle. I know they’re planning something. I can feel it.”
Her grandmother reached across the table and gently took her hand.
“They may wear diamonds and silk, but you, Sylvia… you wear grace.”
Sylvia blinked, surprised.
“Grace can’t be bought. It’s in how you carry yourself, especially when they try to pull you down.”
Mae quoted and smiled, brushing a strand of hair behind Sylvia’s ear.
“Your mother would’ve wanted you to go. Not to prove anything to them. But to prove to yourself that you belong anywhere your light reaches.
Sylvia swallowed the lump in her throat. “Do you really think I can handle it?,she asked.
“You’ve survived heartbreak, loss, cruelty… and you still wake up every morning with a pencil in your hand and kindness in your heart. You’re stronger than you think,Mae answered
Sylvia gave a small, teary smile.
“I just hope the mask is strong enough,she muttered.”
Mae chuckled, reaching for the invitation.
“The mask hides your face, child. But your strength? That’s what they’ll never see coming,Mae muttered back.
Then rain started drizzling and Grandma Mae and Sylvia went inside
INT. BROCKS CORPORATE TOWER – UNDERGROUND PARKING LOT – NIGHT]
The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime. Irene walked out, her heels tapping against the polished floor as the parking lights cast soft glows across the concrete.
She moved with quiet confidence toward her sleek black coupe, unlocking it with a click.
Behind her, the elevator doors slid shut.
Then—
“You left without your charger again.”,Noah voice came from behind
She turned, arching a brow as Noah stepped out from the shadows, holding the slim white cable like it was a peace offering.
“Maybe I wanted a reason for you to chase me.”,Irene muttered half smiling
“You never need a reason. You already live rent-free in my head.”,Noah replied
She laughed — soft, unexpected. It eased the air between them.
Irene muttered saying “You should’ve come down earlier. I was halfway to storming back just to argue properly.”
“See? We’re maturing. We paused the argument instead of finishing it with broken wine glasses.”,he replied
Then he handed her the charger. Their fingers brushed — brief, familiar.
“Still coming over?”,he asked.
“I said I would.”she answered with a shrugs
“I didn’t mean for the day to end like that.”he said
Then she looked at him and muttered“I know. We both have sharp edges. That’s why we fit.”,
A short pause. Comfortable.
“I don’t want work to ruin us.”,he replied quietly
“Then stop letting it. I’m not your competition, Noah. I’m on your side — even when I don’t nod and smile.”,she muttered still looking at him
He nodded slowly. The tension had faded, leaving only truth between them.
They shared a small smile. No grand gestures. Just something steady.
She got into the car. He watched her drive off, then turned back toward the elevator, the weight on his shoulders a little lighter.
●Sylvia room●
The rain had stopped, leaving behind a glassy silence that wrapped around the house like a soft blanket. In her small upstairs room, Sylvia sat by the desk tucked beneath the slanted ceiling.
Then she unlocked her phone and changed her artist name from Mystery girl to Nightshade and she added to her bio that’s she also a painter
After then she on her lamp and the lamp cast a warm, golden glow over her scattered sketchbooks, ribbons, and velvet scraps.
In the center lay a blank, pale porcelain mask.
Its empty eyes stared up at her.
Sylvia dipped her brush into the ink and began to paint.
Slowly. Deliberately.
Each brushstroke was more than color—it was emotion carved in silence.
Around the eyes, she painted winding thorns—dark and elegant, like armor. Down the left cheek, she brushed soft silver vines, curling like whispers. And across the forehead, delicate brushstrokes formed a nightshade flower, blooming from the center—a nod to her secret identity, whether she realized it yet or not.
“They want mystery?” she whispered. “I’ll give them one.”
She reached for the small box of embellishments—feathers, lace, tiny jewels. But her hand hovered.
No. She didn’t need glitter to stand out.
She glued a single black feather to the left side—elegant, quiet, sharp like a blade.
Her eyes flicked to the small mirror on her desk.
She lifted the mask and held it over her face.
For the first time… it fit.
Not just physically. But emotionally.
“They won’t see me,” she whispered. “But they’ll remember me.”
A soft knock at her door startled her.
It was her grandmother.
“Still awake?” Mae asked gently.
Sylvia turned, setting the mask down. “Just… thinking.”
Her grandmother glanced at the mask, her eyes shining with understanding. “Then make sure you think like a queen.”
Sylvia nodded.
As her grandmother left, Sylvia turned back to the mask—and tucked a tiny symbol beneath the eye. A shadowy crescent, hidden, small, almost invisible.
A symbol no one would recognize.
Except one.
The anonymous artist who had once painted the same mark in one of his secret murals.
And the Artist was no other person but Ckart.
The elite lounge gradually emptied, the noise trailing behind like the echo of a performance ending.
Kenzie left first—loud and laughing, tossing an empty can into the bin without looking.
Davis followed, still tapping out a text to his latest crush.
Damien gave a two-finger salute and disappeared like smoke.
Jeremy was last, muttering something about patching into the library servers before lights-out.
And then Kingsley was alone.
He lingered for a moment, eyes on the dark screen of the TV across the room.
Then he stood, grabbed his sketchpad from under the couch cushion, and slipped out.
●Kingsley Apartment●
His room on the west wing of the Greenwich villa was a contrast to the boy the school thought they knew.
Minimalistic, but lived-in.
A few art supplies littered the desk. Unfinished canvases lined one wall—faces half-drawn, eyes too expressive to be safe.
He sat near the window, drawing lamp casting a warm glow across the page.
Charcoal in hand.
He didn’t sketch consciously. He never did with her.
His hand moved on its own, guided by memory.
By voice.
By her.
Sylvia.
Or maybe Nightshade.
Or maybe they were one and the same, and he was already tangled too deep to care.
Lines formed a silhouette.
A girl standing in the rain—hair clinging to her face, gaze fierce, unyielding.
Not broken. Just… tired of pretending to be okay.
He added shadows under her eyes.
A streak of darkness beneath her collarbone.
Smudged the charcoal until the emotion bled.
Then he paused.
Stared.
Why does it always come back to her?
He tossed the sketchpad aside, leaned back in his chair.
From his nightstand, he picked up a folded piece of paper—an old one.
A lyric from Nightshade’s song scrawled in his own handwriting:
“You only fear what sees you.”
He whispered the line under his breath, barely audible.
And for the first time in a long time,
Kingsley Brocks wasn’t sure if he wanted to be seen as Ckart—
or if he was going to reveal his face as Ckart the most famous painter
Robert Mansion
Samara room
The note she saw in the lounge was lay on her vanity mirror
She didn’t touch it again.
Instead, she sat slowly, like a predator settling into stillness—not out of calm, but calculation.
Her reflection looked back from the mirror: flawless skin, sculpted brows, liner sharp as her words.
She hated how still it was.
“Mirrors reflect both masks and monsters…”
She repeated the words under her breath, tasting them like poison she wasn’t sure she’d swallowed or served.
Her fingers reached up to her face—not to fix her makeup, but to trace the bone beneath. The real one. The girl underneath the glitter. The one no one saw.
Because Samara had made sure of that.
Everyone saw the power. The perfection. The danger she cultivated like an art. And she loved it.
Didn’t she?
A bitter laugh slipped out, quick and low.
“I don’t wear masks,” she said to her reflection.
It didn’t flinch.
She stood abruptly, her chair scraping back with a shriek. The air in the lounge earlier felt tighter now, like it had secrets too.
Samara crossed to the window and opened it, letting in the cool night air. She looked out—across the estate
Somewhere out there, someone thought they could rattle her.
She hated not knowing who.
She hated the way the note had gotten into the lounge.
She hated that it made her feel anything at all.
“I’m not afraid of you,” she said into the night.
The wind didn’t answer. But the silence felt smug.
She stepped back, closed the window, and locked it—twice.
Then she moved to her drawer again. This time, not to admire her masks, but to retrieve something hidden behind them: a small, leather-bound journal.
Unmarked. Untouched.
She opened it to a page near the middle, where she had scrawled a list. Not of outfits. Not of plans.
Names.
Girls she’d crossed. Girls she’d broken. Girls who might, just might, want her to fall.
She tapped a pen against the page, eyes narrowed.
Then, in smooth, precise letters, she added a new name to the bottom:
Sylvia Kelly.
Even if she wasn’t behind the notes, Samara didn’t care.
“She’s the reason they’re watching me,” she whispered. “She made me look again. Made people wonder.”
She closed the book and held it close to her chest for a moment.
Just one beat.
Then she placed it back in the locker, shut the door, and walked to the mirror once more.
The queen was back.
And her smile—this time—was made of steel.
T.B.C
