My Fiancé Married Me To His Brother

The rhythmic thud of the windshield wipers was the only sound inside the cabin of the Rolls-Royce. Outside, the sky over the southern city had torn open, dumping sheets of gray water onto the pavement. Delia sat in the back seat, her spine not touching the leather. She watched her reflection in the darkened glass. The woman staring back at her looked bored. Her eyelids were heavy, her posture slack. She looked like Delia Fitzgerald, the youngest daughter of a dynasty, a medical school dropout who spent more time shopping than studying. She adjusted the corners of her mouth. A little lower. More petulant. Perfect. "We have arrived, Miss Fitzgerald," the driver said. Delia didn't answer immediately. She let a beat of silence pass, the way a spoiled child would. Then she pushed the door open before the valet could reach it. Her red-bottomed heel hit the soaked red carpet. Water splashed her ankle. She didn't flinch. She let out an exaggerated sigh, checking her phone as if the weather were a personal affront to her existence. She walked through the metal detector. Her eyes flicked up. To the left. To the right. Cameras. Blind spots. Exit routes. The analysis took less than a second. Her brain cataloged the security grid of The Zenith Club while her face registered only mild annoyance at the humidity affecting her hair. Ansel Gibson was waiting at the end of the long corridor. He stood with his back to her, his shoulders tight. He was looking at a painting on the wall as if it held the secrets to the universe, but his foot was tapping a frantic rhythm against the floorboards. "Ansel," she said. He spun around. The reaction was immediate. He took three sharp steps back, his hand flying up to cover his nose and mouth. His eyes widened, not with attraction, but with a visceral, biological panic. "Stay there," he muffled through his hand. Delia stopped, cocking her head. "Ansel, honey, are you okay?" "Delia, we're done," he said. The words were rushed, muffled by his palm. "I can't do this anymore. I don't want you harassing my family about this." A cold, sharp laugh bubbled in her chest, but she strangled it. On the surface, she raised her eyebrows. "Harassing?" she asked, her voice dripping with confusion. "Ansel, are you under some sort of misconception about how this works?" He blinked. He hadn't expected the pushback. He expected tears. He expected her to beg. "I..." He stammered, taking another step back as she shifted her weight. "I just mean, don't make a scene." "Okay," she said. He froze. "Okay?" "Yes. As you wish. The engagement is off." She turned on her heel. The movement was precise. Surgical. She didn't wait for his response. She walked away, her heels clicking a steady, unbothered rhythm on the marble floor. She could feel his confusion radiating against her back. He was the one dumping her, yet he stood there looking like he was the one who had been discarded. She didn't head for the exit. She turned a corner, slipping past the velvet rope that marked the VIP section. She passed a door marked Private: Authorized Personnel Only. A sound stopped her. It was faint, buried under the drumming of the rain on the roof, but her ears picked it out. A muffled cry. A wet, gargling sound. Her stomach tightened. The sensation wasn't fear; it was memory. The smell of copper and dust filled her nose, a phantom scent from a desert halfway across the world where she had stitched soldiers back together under fire. A waiter pushed a cart of dirty dishes past the intersection. In the split second the cart blocked the security camera's line of sight, she moved. She slipped through the door and into the rain. The private garden was a maze of high hedges and stone statues. The rain soaked her silk dress instantly, plastering the fabric to her skin. She didn't shiver. She lowered her center of gravity, her steps becoming silent rolling motions, heel-to-toe, absorbing the sound. She moved toward the gazebo in the center of the garden. She crouched behind a statue of a weeping Greek goddess. Through the curtain of rain, she saw them. A man sat on a high-backed velvet chair that had no business being outdoors. He wore a black suit that absorbed the light. One leg was crossed over the other. In his hand, a silver lighter flipped open. Click. Clack. Two massive bodyguards were pinning a man to the wet stone floor. The man on the ground was bleeding from the mouth. His pleas were desperate, broken things. "Please... Mr. Gibson... I didn't know..." The man in the chair didn't blink. He flicked the lighter. A small flame danced against the storm, defying the wind. "You didn't know," the man repeated. His voice was low, a baritone that vibrated in the humid air. It wasn't a question. It was a verdict. Delia stopped breathing. Killian Gibson. The Godfather of the South. The man her brother Foster had told her to run from if she ever saw him. He sat there with the casual elegance of a king deciding an execution. He raised a hand. The bodyguards tightened their grip. She needed to leave. Now. She shifted her weight to retreat. Her heel found a dry twig beneath the mud. Snap. The sound was microscopic. In this storm, it should have been invisible. Killian's hand stopped mid-air. He didn't turn around. He didn't jump. He just tilted his head slightly to the side, like a predator picking up a scent on the wind. "Come out," he said. The voice cut through the rain. The two bodyguards drew their weapons instantly. Two black muzzles pointed directly at the statue she was hiding behind. Her mind ran the calculations. Distance: fifteen meters. Hostiles: three. Weapons: two visible firearms. Cover: minimal. Probability of neutralizing all three without sustaining fatal injury: 12%. She exhaled. She released the tension in her shoulders. She let her jaw go slack. She widened her eyes. She stepped out from behind the statue. She stumbled slightly, letting her wet hair fall into her face. She wrapped her arms around herself, shivering violently. "I'm sorry..." Her voice trembled. "I... I think I'm lost. I was looking for the ladies' room." Killian Gibson stood up. He turned slowly. His eyes were black. Not dark brown. Black. They locked onto her, sweeping from her wet hair down to her ruined shoes, then back up to her face. He wasn't looking at a lost girl. He was dissecting a specimen.