Marrying The Wounded King: My Ex's Regret

Dallas Cole POV: The garden felt like a cage, the air too thin to fill my lungs. Desperate, I fled toward the only other person in this fortress of stone and blood who had ever shown me a shred of kindness. Antone. Desmond's younger brother. The Enforcer. The chaotic element in a rigid world. He had always been the softer landing. When Desmond was cold, Antone was charming. When the Don was cruel, Antone brought me chocolate. I shoved open the heavy oak door to his suite, bypassing the courtesy of a knock. Hot, humiliating tears blurred my vision, warping the room into soft, indistinct shapes. "Antone?" I called out. The room was empty. The shower was running in the adjacent bathroom, steam curling out from under the door like a creeping fog. I sank onto the edge of his bed, burying my face in my hands. I needed a friend. I needed someone to tell me I wasn't just collateral damage. A soft chime pinged from the desk. It was his laptop. The screen was glowing eerie blue in the dim room. I glanced over, intending to ignore it, but my name caught my eye. The Charity Case. My breath hitched. I stood up and walked to the desk. It was an encrypted chat window with his crew. Soldier: Did Des drop the bomb on the girl yet? Antone: Tonight. It's hilarious. She actually thinks she has a shot at the throne. Soldier: You gonna comfort her? Antone: Obviously. I need to get close to Chelsea. The best way to the new Queen is through the pathetic little sister. My blood ran cold. I scrolled up, my stomach churning. There were photos. Not of me. Of Chelsea. Hundreds of them. Chelsea walking her dog. Chelsea at a gala. Chelsea unaware she was being watched. Antone wasn't my friend. He was a stalker obsessed with his brother's fiancée. He was using me as nothing more than a bridge to get to her. The bathroom door clicked open. Antone stepped out, a towel slung low around his waist. Steam clung to his skin. He saw me standing by the desk. He saw where I was looking. The charming smile evaporated instantly. "You shouldn't snoop, Dallas," he said. His voice lacked its usual warmth. It was hollow, stripped of all pretense. "You're sick," I whispered, backing away. "You don't care about me. You never did." He laughed. It was a dry, ugly sound. He walked toward me, water dripping from his hair onto the carpet. "Care about you?" He looked at me with open disdain. "You're a stray, Dallas. We feed you so you don't bite. But you have your uses." He cornered me against the wardrobe. The smell of his soap was overpowering, cloying and sharp. "Desmond broke you tonight," Antone said, his eyes glazing over. He looked at me, but he wasn't seeing me. He was seeing a blonde heiress. "You're vulnerable. You need comfort." "Get away from me," I warned, my voice trembling. "You're wearing white," he murmured, reaching out. "Just like she will." He grabbed my arm. His grip was bruising. "Let go!" I screamed. "Pretend I'm him," he slurred, suddenly sounding drunk on his own madness. "Pretend I'm Desmond. Or I can pretend you're Chelsea. The math works either way." He yanked me forward. The fabric of my dress tore at the shoulder. Panic spiked in my chest. This wasn't the brother I knew. This was a predator who had been hiding in plain sight all along. I didn't think. Instinct hijacked my limbs. I swung my hand and slapped him across the face with every ounce of strength I possessed. The sound was like a gunshot. Antone stumbled back, shock replacing the lust in his eyes. He touched his cheek. He looked at me, and for a second, the mask of the charming brother tried to slide back into place. "Dallas, I-" "Don't," I spat, clutching my torn dress. "Don't you dare lie to me again." I saw him then. Really saw him. He wasn't a savior. He was just another monster hiding inside a tailored suit. Dallas Cole POV: I didn't sleep. I couldn't. I spent the night dissecting the digital ghost of my life. I guessed Antone's phone passcode on the third try. It wasn't his birthday, and it certainly wasn't mine. It was Chelsea's. The gallery was a shrine. There were hundreds of them. Photos of her zoomed in from across streets, captured through bedroom windows. And in the notes app, I found the scripts. Drafts of messages to me-step-by-step guides on how to make me trust him so he could be near her. Tell the orphan she looks pretty. Touch her shoulder. Make her feel safe. I felt dirty. I felt used down to the marrow. I packed one bag. Just the essentials. No jewelry Desmond gave me. No clothes Antone bought me. Just the things that were irrevocably mine. A sharp knock on the door interrupted me. "The Don wants to see you," a guard said from the hallway. He didn't wait for an answer. I walked to the study. My legs felt like lead, but my spine was steel. I had nothing left to lose. Mr. and Mrs. Morgan were sitting behind the massive mahogany desk. Desmond was there, staring out the window, refusing to look at me. Antone was leaning against the bookshelf, nursing a fresh bruise on his cheek. "Sit," The Don commanded. I remained standing. "We have a situation," the Matriarch said. She was a cold woman who looked at me like I was a stain on her expensive Persian carpet. "Your parents' accident... left us with certain liabilities. And with Desmond's engagement, your presence here is becoming... complicated." "Complicated," I repeated, my voice hollow. "Is that what you call sleeping with your son for two years?" Desmond stiffened but didn't turn around. "Watch your mouth!" The Don slammed his hand on the desk. "You are a ward of this family. You are property." "We found a solution," the Matriarch interrupted smoothly. She slid a black folder across the desk. I looked down. Marriage Contract. Groom: Kennedy Simmons. My breath hitched. Kennedy Simmons. The Don of the West Coast. The man they called the Wounded King. He was a myth and a nightmare. A tech genius who ran the entire cyber-crime network west of the Mississippi. Rumor said a car bomb took his legs five years ago. Rumor said he was a recluse who flayed his enemies alive. "He needs a wife to secure his East Coast expansion," The Don said, his tone dismissive. "We need his servers for our operation. It's a trade." "You're selling me," I said. It wasn't a question. "We are securing your future," the Matriarch corrected. "He is wealthy. You will be taken care of. And you will be far away from here." Away from Desmond. Away from Antone. "I'll take it," I said. Desmond spun around. "What?" "I accept," I said, looking straight at the Don. "No!" Antone pushed off the bookshelf. "She stays. We can't send her to that cripple. She's... she's family." It was a performance. He didn't want to lose his pawn. He didn't want to lose his access to Chelsea through me. "Silence, Antone," his mother snapped. "It is done." Antone looked at me, his eyes wide with fake panic. "Dallas, tell them no. Tell them you want to stay with me. I'll protect you." I looked at the bruise on his face, then at the lies hidden behind his eyes. "I would rather marry a monster I don't know," I said softly, "than live with the ones I do." Desmond stepped forward, his jaw tight. "You're doing this to spite me." "I'm doing this," I said, picking up the pen, "to survive you."