Chapter : The Same Room, Different Hearts
The truth had finally been revealed.
Yet instead of bringing relief...
it left the Moreau mansion wrapped in silence.
After Anita answered every question with that calm, almost emotionless composure she had always possessed, their father had quietly walked out of the house.
No explanation.
No destination.
No goodbye.
It was as though the weight of twenty-eight hidden years had finally become too much for him to carry.
Hours had passed.
His phone remained unreachable.
Even the servants unconsciously lowered their voices while moving through the marble corridors, afraid that speaking too loudly might disturb the fragile peace hanging over the mansion.
David sat quietly on the edge of his bed.
His elbows rested on his knees while his fingers remained loosely clasped together.
His thoughts refused to settle.
Eventually, his eyes wandered across the bedroom he had shared with Solomon since they were children.
Despite living in a mansion with countless bedrooms, Anita had always insisted the twins stay together.
"A room can teach brothers patience," she used to say.
"Distance teaches strangers."
Back then they had complained.
Now...
David silently appreciated her stubbornness.
His own side of the room reflected exactly who he was.
Everything was orderly.
Purposeful.
Predictable.
A tall walnut bookshelf stood neatly against the wall, filled with heavy textbooks on economics, corporate finance, investment strategy, business management and international trade.
Beside them rested thick document files bearing Cube Company's logo.
Project evaluations.
Meeting reports.
Financial statements.
Development proposals.
Each file represented another day spent learning beside his father.
Above the shelf hung framed family photographs.
Birthdays.
Vacations.
Graduation ceremonies.
Company celebrations.
Smiles that suddenly felt more complicated than before.
His study desk was spotless.
Pens aligned inside a holder.
Laptop positioned perfectly in the middle.
Documents stacked according to date.
Even the charging cable had been neatly rolled.
His bed sat beneath the large window where the evening sunlight stretched gently across crisp white sheets.
The blanket remained perfectly smooth.
The pillows stood upright.
Everything reflected the quiet discipline that had shaped David his entire life.
Across the room...
Solomon's side looked as though creativity itself had decided to live there.
His bed was neatly made, yet decorated with rich shades of mustard yellow, navy blue, burnt orange and forest green.
The colours filled the room with warmth.
The wall beside his bed had transformed into an artist's gallery.
Fashion sketches covered nearly every available space.
Elegant gowns.
Streetwear collections.
Luxury handbags.
Shoes.
Tailored suits.
Winter coats.
Wedding dresses.
Some were complete.
Others carried handwritten notes.
"Change sleeve length."
"Use linen instead."
"Silver buttons?"
"Too heavy."
His large desk bore tiny stains of watercolor, pencil graphite and fabric dye.
Measuring tapes hung from hooks.
Boxes filled with lace, fabric samples, leather pieces and sewing accessories rested underneath.
It wasn't untidy.
It simply looked alive.
Near his bedside stood several carefully arranged albums.
One contained photographs of Anita and their father's wedding.
Another documented family vacations.
Another held pictures from the twins' first day at university.
Then came the shelf David always found amusing.
Every novel written by John Bello.
Two copies of every title.
One carefully preserved.
The other obviously read until the pages had softened.
Magazine interviews.
Newspaper clippings.
Book signing photographs.
Even a framed magazine cover rested proudly among them.
Pinned above everything was one handwritten quote.
"When the world gives up on your dreams, don't stop walking. Walk even harder toward the door—with determination."
David remembered asking months ago why Solomon loved those words so much.
His brother had smiled before answering.
"They remind me of Mom."
"People think Anita Moreau became successful because she married Dad."
"They forget she built her own empire."
"She kept walking until the world finally noticed."
David looked away quietly.
The bedside clock blinked.
5:25 PM.
Across the room, Solomon carefully placed another signed edition of Twinkle Twinkle onto the shelf.
Nanny Joy had given it to him that afternoon.
He adjusted the books until every spine lined up perfectly before stepping back with quiet satisfaction.
Only then did he smile.
He wore loose sunshine-yellow pajamas, comfortable enough to make him look younger than he actually was.
His dark hair remained slightly messy after spending hours sketching, while his eyes still carried the excitement of someone who genuinely loved beautiful things.
David finally broke the silence.
"...Aren't you shocked?"
Solomon looked over.
"About what?"
David sighed.
"Everything."
"Our family."
"Our parents."
"John."
"Dad disappearing."
Solomon thought for several seconds before shrugging.
"Not really."
David blinked.
"Not really?"
Solomon smiled gently.
"What's the use of sitting here worrying?"
"It won't change anything."
He leaned casually against his desk.
"Yes."
"John is our half-brother."
"I was shocked."
"Anyone would be."
"But..."
He shrugged again.
"It isn't like Mom and Dad are getting divorced."
"It isn't like someone died."
"Our family hasn't disappeared."
He smiled.
"We simply found out we have an older brother."
Then he laughed awkwardly.
"...Who also happens to be my favourite writer."
"I honestly think that's pretty amazing."
David couldn't help staring at him.
"You really don't mind?"
The smile slowly disappeared from Solomon's face.
"I do mind."
David looked up.
"I'm worried about Dad."
His voice became quieter.
"I've never seen him leave home without saying anything."
"He must be hurting."
David lowered his gaze.
He understood.
Yet another thought quietly entered his mind.
John.
A child abandoned before he even understood what parents meant.
Growing up believing no one wanted him.
Building everything alone.
If John hated them...
Could anyone blame him?
The thought settled heavily inside David's chest.
Still...
Solomon wasn't wrong.
Thinking endlessly would solve nothing.
When their father returned—
they would have to face everything honestly.
Together.
Like a family.
The room fell quiet once more.
Then Solomon suddenly remembered something.
"Oh!"
"I nearly forgot."
He reached for a thick sketchbook and tossed it across the room.
David caught it easily before opening it.
His eyes immediately softened.
The design was beautiful.
Loose tailored trousers flowed naturally with clean, elegant lines.
The sleeveless hoodie matched perfectly, carrying subtle embroidery around the shoulders and pockets.
Simple.
Modern.
Comfortable.
Yet somehow...
There was loneliness woven into the design.
As though it had been created for someone quietly learning how to begin again.
David nodded.
"It's better than the one you drew last week."
Solomon's face lit up instantly.
"Really?"
"The proportions are better."
"The stitching will sit naturally."
"And..."
David smiled faintly.
"It feels more mature."
Solomon laughed.
"I knew changing the shoulder cut would help."
He carefully reclaimed the sketchbook.
"I'm emailing it to Mom's senior tailor tonight."
"If the sample comes out well..."
"I'll visit the workshop next week."
David nodded.
He had never doubted Solomon's talent.
"And you?"
Solomon asked.
"What are you doing tonight?"
David leaned back onto his neatly made bed.
The mattress sank gently beneath him.
He stared quietly at the ceiling.
"I think..."
"I'll just rest."
His voice sounded tired.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
He reached beside him and switched on the bedside lamp.
Warm golden light spread softly across his side of the room.
Across from him, Solomon smiled before returning to his desk.
He picked up an unfinished leather sneaker and patiently threaded fresh lace through each polished eyelet, carefully adjusting every stitch—a technique he had learned during his studies abroad.
Outside, evening settled gently over the Moreau estate.
Garden lights flickered on one after another.
The fountain continued its quiet song.
A cool breeze drifted through the slightly opened window, carrying with it the scent of jasmine from Anita's garden.
Downstairs, dinner was being prepared, and the comforting aroma of freshly baked bread slowly filled the mansion.
Neither brother spoke again.
David lay awake, wondering whether John Bello would ever be able to forgive a family he had never truly known...
while across the room Solomon worked quietly until sleep finally claimed him, his sketchbook still open beside his dreams.
Two brothers.
Raised under the same roof.
Sleeping in the same room.
Yet carrying the same truth in completely different ways.
One held onto worry.
The other chose hope.
Sometimes, both were simply different ways of trying to heal.