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."
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Chapter 5
Dayna POV:
Brooks' s body stiffened. His head snapped up, his masked face turning towards me. I saw a flicker of something in his eyes, perhaps surprise, perhaps guilt. He opened his mouth, but no words came out.
Just then, the lights flickered back on, glaringly bright, illuminating the scene. The crowd, momentarily stunned by the power outage, erupted into chatter. In the sudden surge of bodies, I was jostled, pushed away from them. I stumbled, my injured ankle protesting.
I watched, helpless, as Brooks instinctively pulled Everleigh closer, shielding her from the throng, his hand firm on her back. His concern for her was a stark, painful contrast to his indifference to my well-being.
The chaos subsided as the auctioneer, beaming, announced the winner of the "seek your soulmate" game. The prize: a painting. A significant work of art, he explained, by a reclusive and highly sought-after artist.
My gaze snapped to the stage. The painting was unveiled. My breath hitched. It was a sunflower field, vibrant and bursting with life, painted with an unmistakable style. My sister' s style. My late sister, Ava, a celebrated artist whose work was her legacy, her soul poured onto canvas.
"No," I whispered, my voice trembling. "It can't be."
The auctioneer continued, oblivious, his voice booming. "And the artist, the 'master' herself, will personally present the painting to our lucky winner!"
My blood ran cold. The 'master'? Ava had been gone for years.
The spotlight swung, landing on a figure already on the stage. A woman, masked, just like the one Everleigh had worn. The mask, the tie pin, the confident stance. It was Everleigh. Standing there, bathed in light, accepting the accolades, accepting the title of "master." My sister' s title.
"She wouldn't," I breathed, my mind reeling. "She wouldn't dare."
But she was. She was impersonating my sister. Stealing her legacy. Defiling her memory.
A wave of nausea washed over me. I pushed through the crowd, an incoherent cry forming in my throat. "She's a fake! That's my sister's work! She's not the artist!"
But before I could reach the stage, a blinding pain seared through my head. The room spun. The sounds blurred into a deafening roar. My legs gave out.
I felt myself falling, but then, strong arms caught me. A familiar scent-Brooks's cologne. He was there. Holding me.
When I woke, I was in our bedroom at the villa. The pale morning light filtered through the heavy curtains. Brooks was sitting at his desk, his laptop open, his face illuminated by the screen. He was working. Always working.
A surge of anger, hot and fierce, coursed through me. My sister' s painting. Everleigh' s brazen lies. I tried to sit up, to get out of bed, to confront him, to expose her.
But he was instantly by my side, gently pushing me back down. "Easy, Dayna. You have a fever. You passed out last night."
My feverish mind latched onto his words. "Fever? I don't care about a fever! Everleigh! She's lying! She's pretending to be Ava! She stole her painting!"
He just looked at me, his eyes calm, steady, unreadable. The same eyes that had always listened to my endless chatter without judgment. The same eyes that now seemed to hold a vast, chilling emptiness.
And then I saw it. The flicker. The tiny, almost imperceptible shift in his gaze. Not surprise. Not denial. But something else. A complicity. He knew. He had known all along.
The memory hit me then. A few months ago, in a moment of rare vulnerability, I had taken Brooks to Ava's old studio, a sacred space filled with her unfinished canvases, her paints, her soul. I had shown him her favorite brushes, explained her unique technique, shared stories of her artistic process. I had trusted him with her memory. With my most cherished possession.
"Why?" I choked out, the word tearing from my throat. "Why, Brooks? How could you let her do this?"
He didn't answer. He simply reached for the bedside table, picked up a glass of water and a pill. "Here. Take this. It will help with the fever."
"Damn the fever!" I cried, batting his hand away. "Answer me! What is your sister to you? What kind of twisted game are you playing?" My voice was rising, raw with pain and indignation. "I saw you! Last night! The kiss! The tie pin! What is going on between you two?"