Falling for my Enemy's Brother-Chapter 48: Talk that Talk

Conor Lesnar.

Dark brown hair falling just past his collar, eyes the same shade but colder, sharper. His jaw was strong, clean-shaven, and his skin smelled faintly of something expensive—like leather and spice, but he looked nothing like Craig Lesnar.

This was the face behind the whispers. The man she’d been imagining ever since she arrived at Belford. Rumors had teeth, but reality had claws—and now she was face to face with it.

Merlina stood still, memorizing him. No tattoos. No piercings. No hint of the monster she thought she’d see. Just a man who carried his power quietly, the kind that didn’t need to shout to threaten. A storm that didn’t thunder until it was right overhead.

He caught her staring. "Lost words?"

His voice was casual, but it carried a sharp edge—like a knife wrapped in silk. Merlina blinked. She’d imagined this moment a thousand different ways, but nothing prepared her for how calm he looked. How normal.

"Who are you?" he asked again, more direct this time.

"Merlina." Her voice came out steady, but her body betrayed her—heart pounding so loud, she was sure he could hear it.

He stared. "What do you want?"

She could feel her throat tightening, her lungs barely able to pull air. Her fingers curled into her sleeves. "I need to speak with you. Alone."

He chuckled, glancing at the girl beside him, Holly. She gave Merlina a once-over and rolled her eyes like she couldn’t believe the audacity.

"Say whatever you came to say," Conor said, looking her up and down. "I don’t entertain strangers in dark corners."

That arrogance—she felt it rise off him like heat from pavement. Her jaw clenched. She thought Craig was difficult, but this? This was worse. The smirk. The cold indifference. She hated him instantly.

"I think you’d want to hear what I have to say. Alone."

He leaned in, and for a second she smelled the smoke of whatever fire he’d crawled out of. "Really? This is new. Who the hell do you think you are?"

The words slapped her across the face.

"And why would I give a damn about anything you have to say?"

She stepped forward, her voice slicing through the tension like a blade. "Merlina Sanchez. Does that name mean anything to you?"

For a moment, the smirk faded. He whispered, "Sanchez..." like tasting a word that left a bitter aftertaste.

He didn’t say anything more. Just gestured toward the door and walked out. No instructions. No words.

"What the hell, Conor?" Holly called out.

He didn’t even look back.

Merlina followed him out through the back entrance, legs stiff, breath shallow. They stepped into the night air—cool, sharp, with the thump of music still vibrating faintly through the club walls. The door swung shut behind them, loud in the quiet alley.

Conor turned slowly. "You’re Marjorie’s daughter?"

She stared him down. "It’s Mrs. Marjorie Sanchez to you. And yes. I am."

His mouth pressed into a line.

"I know what happened. I need to hear it from you," she said. "Why did you kill her?"

His eyes narrowed, cold fire behind them, his hands tightening at his sides. "I didn’t kill your mother."

A sharp laugh escaped her. "Don’t. Everyone in Belford knows you’re the prime suspect. Your family covered for you, but that doesn’t mean you’re innocent."

"You know nothing." He took a step closer, voice low. "Did they tell you I was drugged that night? Unconscious for hours?"

"Convenient," she spat. "What a story. Must be nice to have a rich family who can buy innocence."

His eyes darkened. "Get your facts straight, Marlene, before you—"

"Merlina," she corrected, her voice cracked like lightning through glass.

Marlene?

He couldn’t even get her name right?

The rage hit her so fast it stunned her. A white-hot flood surged up her spine, pressing against her chest like it wanted to burst out through her fists.

Conor didn’t flinch. His expression remained unreadable, detached even. "You came here to accuse me without knowing anything."

"And you think saying you were high out of your mind makes you innocent?" she shouted, voice splintering. "You were the last one seen with her. Your name was on her phone. You showed up in her call log—"

He rolled his eyes and turned slightly, like the air in the room annoyed him. "You people always believe the worst about the rich. Ever wonder if that’s why you’re stuck?"

Merlina blinked. You people?

Her hands clenched at her sides.

"And your parents ever think," he continued, stepping toward her slowly, "that by covering things up, they’re just protecting a killer?"

His voice dropped low, poisonous now.

"Don’t you dare call me a killer," he said, lips curled slightly. "Or I might really kill someone."

She took a step back, but her voice didn’t waver. "You don’t scare me."

He scoffed, but something about her defiance made his eyes twitch—just barely.

"You have no idea what I went through. What her death did to me," he said, breath hitching, like something inside him cracked open without his permission. "I was in rehab. For weeks. Trying to breathe without..."

"And she’s been dead for a year!" Merlina snapped, her voice rising like a siren. "While you’ve been walking around like nothing happened!"

"I didn’t kill her!" Conor roared back, voice echoing off the walls, loud enough to shake something loose in both of them. "I’m innocent!"

He paused, chest heaving. His voice dropped again, brittle now.

"Believe it or not... I actually liked and cared about your mother. Respected her."

Her laugh was sharp and ragged. "You cared?" she said, tears prickling her eyes, disbelief lacing every syllable. "She was married. With three children. And you have the nerve to talk about care?"

He looked down briefly, eyes blinking fast like he was somewhere else for a second—somewhere far, locked in a moment he wasn’t ready to revisit.

"I couldn’t help how I felt, okay?" he said finally, voice rough. "She was the most beautiful thing about Belford. Still is. There’s no way I could’ve—" he stopped himself, jaw tightening. "There’s no way I could’ve killed her."

Merlina stared at him like he was something inhuman. She couldn’t even name the feeling bubbling beneath her skin—it wasn’t just anger. It was Embarrassment. Disgust. Everything.

And yet, she couldn’t look away.

Conor’s pupils dilated as he took a shaky breath, like something was short-circuiting in his head. He kept glancing around, lips moving slightly like he was trying to think of something and failing.

"I think..." he muttered, eyes distant now, "she killed herself. I think it was suicide." freewebnøvel.coɱ

The word landed like a brick to her chest.

"Suicide?" she whispered, stunned.

He nodded slowly. "Yeah. She left me a note. I didn’t want to say... but she wrote it. Before."

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Merlina’s voice cracked, her body trembling now. She could barely see through the tears burning behind her eyes. "You’re sick. You’re really fucking sick. Trying to ruin her reputation when she’s not here to defend herself? How dare you? You fucking junkie!"

"I’m not—" he started, but his voice shook too."Look, just wait."

He pulled his phone from his jacket with trembling fingers. For once, the cocky veneer slipped.

He fumbled through it, then turned the screen toward her.

A photo.

A letter.

Merlina stared, jaw slack as she stepped closer.

’I have made mistakes too huge to erase.

They will never forgive me, and even if they eventually do, I will never forgive myself.

It’s not worth it, living in vain.

—Marjorie Sanchez’

Her mother’s handwriting. Clear. Familiar. And yet—off. Like someone had traced it with shaking hands. Her vision swam.

Her body flinched. Her stomach clenched. She blinked hard, hoping the words would vanish. They didn’t. Her hands trembled. Her knees felt weak.

No. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. Her mother would never write that. Her gaze searched for flaws in the loops of the letters, some subtle inconsistency that would prove it a forgery. Something. Anything. Her heart thudded so violently she could hear it in her ears, drowning out everything else.

"This is bullshit," she hissed, voice shaking with rage. "You think I’m going to buy this? My mother would never—ever—do that. She wasn’t weak. She wasn’t broken."

Conor looked at her, dead in the eye. No sarcasm, no smugness—just something almost hollow. "She left that note to me," he said quietly. "I kept it. In case someone like you showed up."

"Why would she leave you a note?" she choked, the question clawing out of her throat. "Why would she even trust you with something like that?"

He exhaled, long and slow.

And then the pause.

That awful, loaded silence.

His gaze dropped to the floor. When he spoke again, it was barely above a whisper. "Because... we were having an affair."