Revenge at the Altar

The terrace door slid open.

Robin walked in, a perfectly measured look of grief on his face as he wrapped me in his arms. He smelled of another woman's perfume, cheap and cloying.

"Bella, my love," he murmured, stroking my hair. His gentle voice was a fresh wave of nausea. "I know how much you're hurting. Don't be afraid. I'm here. I will always be with you."

I fought back the urge to tear him apart and buried my face in the expensive, tailored suit I had once bought for him.

I let my body tremble, and he mistook the rage for grief.

"Robin," I whispered, lifting my head to look at him with reddened eyes. My voice was broken and dependent. "Don't leave me. Please, don't ever leave me."

If he was this masterful an actor, then I would play my part until the very end.

A flicker of triumphant pity crossed his eyes. "I never will," he promised. "Never."

Late that night, I returned to the family estate, the estate our family had run for a century. I told my brother everything.

My phone buzzed. It was Robin.

"Bella, I got into a little trouble at the club. Got my arm sliced open." His voice was a mix of a whine and entitlement. "Can you come take care of me? Please? Like you used to."

Like I used to?

I suddenly remembered the first time he'd been hurt for me. We were being chased by a rival family, and he threw himself in front of me, taking a bullet meant to kill me. Even as he faded in and out of consciousness, he was whispering my name.

He survived, but the injury left his left hand with permanent nerve damage that required meticulous daily care.

But the naive Isabella who had provided that care was dead. She had died with her papa.

"I'm busy." It was the first time in five years I had ever refused him. In the past, I would have rushed to his side, frantic, ready to clean up any mess he made.

"...What?" He was stunned. "Bella, I'm hurt."

"If you're hurt, go to a hospital," I said. "I'm not a doctor."

I hung up.

The next day, I went back to our penthouse apartment to pack my things. The door was unlocked.

Robin was lying weakly on the bed in the master bedroom, a single, pathetic layer of gauze wrapped around his arm. The moment he saw me, he put on the face of an abandoned puppy.

"Bella, you came. I knew you still cared about me the most."

He grabbed my hand and brought it to his lips.

"Trust me, Bella," he said, his eyes locking with mine in a blazing, false oath of loyalty. "From now on, I won't cause you any more trouble. I will protect you. I'll protect the family. I'll protect what's ours. I will never let anyone hurt you again."

I stared at him, at the ring on his hand that was stained with my papa's blood, and slowly, a smile touched my lips.

"I entrust my everything to you, Robin."

Ping.

My phone screen lit up.

For the first time in a long while, it was a message from Ava.

It was a photo. She was in a silk robe, nestled against a sleeping Robin. Her hand rested on his chest, a triumphant smirk on her face.

The background was our penthouse, the bedroom I had meticulously decorated for him.

Let me show you what a real woman looks like, Isabella.

Unlike the countless times before when I would have flown into a jealous rage, I simply took a screenshot and saved it, my expression blank.

By day six of the countdown, I had it: the damning evidence at the sit-down.