Ninety-Nine Engagements, One Betrayal

After ninety-nine failed engagements, I finally married Brooks Preston, a stoic tech mogul who seemed to be the only man on earth who found my motormouth personality "charming."

But his quiet acceptance was a lie. I was just a convenient prop, a wife he needed to hide his obsessive, incestuous love for his adopted sister, Everleigh.

When I discovered their secret and demanded a divorce, he locked me in a dark, windowless room, weaponizing my childhood claustrophobia to break me. He needed me to take the fall for Everleigh's crimes, to protect her at all costs.

He watched me scream and claw at the walls for three days, my terror a spectacle for his cold, calculating eyes. He wasn't just indifferent; he was a monster.

I didn't break. Instead, I waited. On the night of a live-streamed gala, I looked into the camera and smiled. "Everleigh, darling, congratulations. I've already divorced him. He's all yours."

Chapter 1

My ninety-ninth engagement ended the way all the others did: with a polite, albeit awkward, conversation about our "irreconcilable differences." In reality, the difference was always the same. My mouth. It moved too fast, too often, too much. I was a motormouth, a chatterbox, a walking, talking, human-shaped podcast no one asked for. That' s what they called me, in hushed tones, in New York' s elite circles.

"Dayna, darling, you're so vibrant," my mother would sigh, smoothing my hair. "But sometimes, less is more."

Less was never more for me. More words, more stories, more laughter, more life. That was my mantra. But it scared men away, apparently. All ninety-nine of them.

After the ninety-ninth ring was slipped off my finger, I vowed. No more. No more chasing a fairytale that clearly wasn' t meant for me. Marriage was a trap, a gilded cage for my vibrant personality. I was done.

Then I met Brooks Preston.

He was everything the New York crowd fawned over in hushed, reverent tones. Tall, dark, and impossibly handsome, with eyes that held the quiet intensity of a winter storm. A tech mogul from Seattle, old money, precise, stoic. Every word he uttered was measured, every movement controlled. He was the antithesis of me. And for some inexplicable reason, I was drawn to him.

Our first encounter was at a charity auction. I was a whirlwind of nervous energy, my words tumbling out like marbles down a flight of stairs. I was bidding on a ridiculously overpriced sculpture that I didn't even like, just for the thrill of the interaction.

"And going once, going twice..." the auctioneer boomed.

"One hundred thousand!" I yelled, my voice cracking slightly.

A quiet murmur rippled through the room. Brooks Preston, seated mere feet away, turned his head slowly. His gaze, usually so impassive, held a flicker of something I couldn't quite decipher.

"Dayna," my friend whispered, tugging at my sleeve. "Are you sure? You said you hated modern art."

"Oh, I do," I responded, perhaps a little too loudly. "But it's for a good cause, and besides, I love the drama of a bidding war!"

Brooks' s lips twitched. A ghost of a smile.

"Two hundred thousand," a deep, resonant voice cut through the air. Brooks.

My head snapped towards him. He was looking at me, really looking, with those calm, steady eyes. My heart did a strange little flip.

"Three hundred thousand!" I declared, a challenge in my voice.

He raised an eyebrow, a tiny gesture that spoke volumes. "Four hundred thousand."

This went on for a few dizzying minutes, the price escalating with reckless abandon. Each time I spoke, I felt a strange exhilaration. Each time he responded, a quiet thrill. He wasn't trying to silence me. He was playing along.

"One million!" I finally shouted, my voice hoarse.

Brooks paused, then slowly, deliberately, lowered his paddle. A collective gasp filled the room. He had let me win.

"Congratulations, miss," the auctioneer beamed.

I walked over to him, a triumphant grin on my face. "You gave up easily."

He offered a small, polite smile. "Some battles aren't worth winning, especially when the other party is so... enthusiastic."

"Enthusiastic?" I laughed, a cascade of sound. "Is that what they're calling it these days? Usually, it's 'obnoxiously loud' or 'unable to shut up.'"

He tilted his head. "I found it rather charming."

Charming. No one had ever called my talkativeness charming. My smile faltered, a new, unfamiliar warmth spreading through my chest.

"You know," I began, my voice softer now, "I once bought a painting from a gallery in Rome. It was supposed to be a lost masterpiece, an early work by a Renaissance master. I haggled for hours, felt like a true art connoisseur. Got it for a steal, or so I thought. Brought it home, showed it off to all my friends. Turns out, it was painted by a student in art school, last year. The 'masterpiece' was still drying." I giggled, a genuine, unforced sound. "My friends still tease me about it."

A faint smile played on his lips. He wasn't laughing at me. He was listening.

His assistant, a severe-looking woman in a sleek black suit, cleared her throat. "Mr. Preston, your next engagement is in ten minutes."

Brooks held up a hand, silencing her without a word. His eyes were still on me. "Please, continue. I find your anecdotes... enlightening."

My heart fluttered. Enlightening. Not annoying. Not too much. This man, this stoic, silent Brooks Preston, actually found me enlightening.

"Well," I continued, emboldened, "there was also the time I bought a vintage car in Paris. The seller swore it was a classic, owned by some obscure French duke. I imagined myself driving it through the French countryside, scarf trailing in the wind. Turns out, it was a prop from a B-movie, held together with duct tape and good intentions. Broke down on the Champs-Élysées. Had to call a tow truck that looked older than the car itself." I laughed again, a little louder this time.

He chuckled. A deep, rumbling sound that sent shivers down my spine. It was a genuine laugh, not a polite cough.

In that moment, I knew. This was it. The ninety-ninth engagement was merely a prelude. Brooks Preston was the one. He was the man who saw me, truly saw me, and didn't try to dull my sparkle. He accepted my endless stories, my rambling thoughts, my very essence.

My family, accustomed to my revolving door of fiancés, were cautiously optimistic. My friends, more pragmatic, warned me to take it slow. But I was in a whirlwind. I had found my person. The man who truly understood me.

Within months, we were married. A whirlwind romance, a dazzling wedding that silenced even the most cynical of New York's socialites. I had broken the curse of the ninety-nine. I was Mrs. Brooks Preston. And for a brief, glorious period, I believed I had found my happily ever after.

But then, the quiet started to feel less like acceptance and more like a void. His stoicism, which I once found calming, now felt like a wall. I would talk and talk, filling the silence, expecting him to join in, to share, to connect. But he rarely did. His responses were always minimal, polite, vague.

I tried everything. I' d recount my day in excruciating detail, hoping to spark a conversation. I'd ask him about his work, his childhood, his dreams. He would listen, nod, and offer a quiet, "That's interesting, Dayna."

"Interesting?" I'd think. "Is that all you have to say? I just told you about my boss's scandal and my disastrous attempt at baking a soufflé!"

I started to feel desperate. I'd leave him long rambling voicemails, knowing he wouldn't interrupt. I' d try to provoke a reaction. I' d turn up the music too loud, leave my clothes all over the floor, accidentally-on-purpose spill coffee on his pristine white shirts. Anything to elicit a stronger emotion than his usual calm.

He would just smile, a gentle, indulgent smile. "Dayna, darling, you know I prefer a tidy home." Not an argument. Never an argument. Just a gentle redirection.

His unwavering calm, once a comfort, became a torment. I felt like I was screaming into an abyss, and the abyss was smiling back, patiently. Something was off. I couldn't put my finger on it, but the unease grew, a cold knot in my stomach.

Then, Everleigh came back. His adopted sister.

I met her briefly at a family dinner. She was fragile, ethereal, with wide, innocent eyes. Brooks was instantly solicitous, his quiet attention amplified in her presence. I felt a prickle of something I dismissed as sister-in-law jealousy.

A few weeks later, my phone rang. It was late, past midnight.

"Dayna? Brooks isn't answering his phone. Can you come get me? I'm at the precinct." Her voice was a shaky whisper.

My heart immediately went out to her. "Oh, Everleigh! What happened? Are you okay?"

"It's... it's a long story. I got into a bit of a scrape. A bar fight, actually. Silly, really. But the police are being quite unreasonable."

A bar fight? Delicate, fragile Everleigh? This was certainly a story I wanted to hear.

"I'm on my way," I said, already grabbing my keys. "Tell me everything. Who did you fight? Was it a man? Did he hurt you? Don't worry, I'll talk them out of anything. I'm very good at talking, you know. I once talked my way out of a speeding ticket with a very grumpy officer. He was so surprised by my monologue about the kinetic energy of a moving vehicle that he just let me go." I laughed, the familiar stream of words flowing freely.

Everleigh listened patiently, her occasional sniffle the only interruption. I felt a surge of warmth. Finally, someone who listened!

I found her huddled in a corner of the police station, looking utterly distraught. When I called Brooks, he was in a board meeting, but he listened, his voice calm, as I recounted Everleigh's dramatic tale of defending a stranger from an aggressive drunk. I embellished slightly, framing Everleigh as a heroic, albeit clumsy, defender of justice.

"I'm so sorry to interrupt your meeting, darling," I gushed. "But Everleigh, she's so brave! And the police, they just don't understand. I've told them everything, of course, about the unprovoked aggression and the self-defense, and how Everleigh just has such a strong moral compass that she couldn't stand by and watch injustice unfold. I mean, who could blame her, really? And the poor girl, she has such delicate hands, I mean, you should see them, Brooks, they're practically bruised, and oh, the injustice of it all, really!"

He listened, his silence a familiar comfort. He said he would be there as soon as possible. I waited, and waited, and waited.

Then, the back door of the precinct burst open. It wasn't Brooks. It was a lawyer, already bailing Everleigh out. A few minutes later, she was being escorted out, looking relieved, but still fragile. She glanced at me, a quick, almost imperceptible smirk, before being whisked away.

I was still sitting there when Brooks finally arrived, an hour later. He didn't even notice me at first. He strode in, his face a mask of fury, his eyes blazing. He wasn't calm. He wasn't stoic. He was a storm.

"Everleigh!" he thundered, his voice echoing through the quiet precinct. "What have you done now?"

His words were sharp, each one laced with raw, untamed emotion. He wasn't just talking. He was feeling. And it was all for her.

My breath caught in my throat. This wasn't the Brooks I knew. This was a man unleashed.

He was talking. A lot. And with so much passion. A torrent of words, sharp and biting. He wasn't just expressing concern. He was expressing deep, profound anger. And it was all directed at his sister, but laced with an undeniable, fierce protection.

Then he turned, his eyes finally landing on me. His furious expression instantly softened, replaced by a flicker of surprise. "Dayna? What are you still doing here?"

The shift was jarring. The storm instantly quelled. The quiet returned. But it was too late. I had seen it. The real Brooks. The one who could unleash a torrent of words, a storm of emotion. But only for her.

My voice, usually a waterfall, dried up. My throat was tight, my chest aching. I couldn't speak. I just got up, my legs feeling like lead, and walked out. The truth, ugly and raw, had just slapped me in the face.