My Brother's Twisted Cruelty

Blaire Morin POV: I was so naive. So damn arrogant. I thought I knew Ashton, thought I knew the limits of his anger. I was so wrong. My little plans for revenge, my smug belief that he wouldn't dare push me too far-they were child's play compared to the nightmare he orchestrated. A few days after the slap, the world imploded. Ashton called me into his study, his face unreadable. "Blaire," he said, his voice devoid of emotion, "the company is bankrupt. SEC investigation. I'm going to jail for six years." My mind reeled. Bankrupt? Jail? It was impossible. Our family empire, built over generations, gone? Ashton, locked away? My protector, my rock, snatched from me? A cold, suffocating panic seized me. I was alone. I tried to offer him my jewelry, my trust fund, anything to save him, to save us. He just shook his head, his eyes distant. "It's too late, Blaire. It's done." He was gone within a week, supposedly behind bars. Our sprawling villa, the place that had been my home since birth, was seized. The staff disappeared. I was truly an orphan, adrift in a city that suddenly felt hostile and unforgiving. For five years, that lie was my truth. Five years of scraping by in the grimiest corners of New York. Every door I knocked on slammed shut. Every job application, no matter how menial, was rejected. It was like an invisible force was working against me. I lived off ramen noodles and stale bread, sometimes scavenging for food. I ate from dumpsters more times than I care to admit. The real agony began shortly after Ashton's 'imprisonment.' The phone calls started first, anonymous numbers accusing me of being a "prison wife," a "whore," suggesting I sell my body to pay for Ashton's legal fees. Then came the 'gifts'-dead rats, voodoo dolls, anonymous packages filled with rotten food. My apartment building became a canvas for their hate. One night, I woke to the stench of dog feces smeared across my door. Another time, the word "DIE" was spray-painted in thick, black letters right above my peephole. Sleep became a luxury I couldn't afford. I'd lie awake, listening to phantom knocks on my door, the chilling tinkling of what sounded like funerary bells, or worse, the mournful cries of a woman from the hallway. When I dared to look, there was never anyone there, just a scattering of fake money, 'hell money,' on my doorstep. I considered leaving New York, escaping the constant torment. But Ashton was here. In prison. I couldn't abandon him. I had to be here when he got out. I had to be strong for him. He was all I had left. The cycle was relentless. I'd break down, convinced I couldn't take another day, then piece myself back together, fueled by a desperate hope that Ashton would eventually return. The thought of him, alone and suffering, kept me tethered to this brutal existence. When I swallowed those pills the last time, a wave of guilt washed over me. What if Ashton got out and I wasn't there? Who would be there for him? Even in my darkest moment, his welfare was my first thought. And then, I woke up in the hospital. Saved. Again. Why? Why save me? Why prolong this agony? If I was meant to suffer, why not let me die? His "lesson" had been brutal. Five years of blood, sweat, and tears; five years of fighting for survival in a city that wanted to chew me up and spit me out. I stumbled out of the hospital, the crisp air biting at my skin, leaving the lingering scent of antiseptic behind. My apartment was a few blocks away, and the walk felt endless. Every step was a fresh stab of betrayal. I had been foolish, so foolish. Before, I had been too ashamed to visit Ashton in prison. How could I let him see me like this? Gaunt, bruised, wearing stained clothes I'd found in donation bins? He would be so disappointed. I always pictured him, still sharp, still commanding, even in a prison uniform. He was Ashton, after all. Now, a new, chilling thought solidified in my mind. He was probably still living lavishly, while I was rotting away. My tears had dried up long ago, leaving only a hollow ache. I started walking, not towards my apartment, but towards the formidable walls of the federal prison, a place I had avoided for years. I needed to see him, or at least confirm he was there. The prison guard looked at me, his eyes filled with pity, as I described Ashton, giving his full name and prison ID. He shook his head slowly. "Ma'am, we have no inmate by that name. Never have." The words hit me like a physical blow. The concrete beneath my feet suddenly felt unstable. The sun, usually a welcome warmth, now felt like a harsh, mocking spotlight. I stood there, rooted to the spot, the guard's words echoing in my ears, louder than any scream. Ashton wasn't here. He was never here. My world, already shattered, crumbled into dust. He had never been imprisoned. He had never lost everything. It was all a lie. A game. My "punishment." With a vacant stare, I turned and walked away, the prison gates mocking my five years of misplaced loyalty. I needed to go back. Back to the villa. I needed to see for myself.