When My Lover Attacked Me to Protect His Mistress

I don't remember finding my phone. Don't remember scrolling through my contacts with shaking fingers, the screen blurring through fever and tears. But somehow I'm sitting on the cold marble floor outside the condo, my back against the wall, and my father's voice is in my ear.

"Gabriella?"

The sound of my name—my real name, not the clipped "Ella" Lukas always used—breaks something inside me. A sob tears out of my throat.

"Daddy." The word feels foreign. I haven't called him that in three years. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"Where are you?" His voice sharpens, all business now. I hear movement on his end, the rustle of fabric. "Are you hurt?"

My cheek throbs. My shoulder aches where it hit the doorframe. But that's not what hurts.

"I was wrong," I whisper. "About everything. About him. You tried to tell me, and I—"

"Gabriella." Firm. Steady. The voice that built an empire. "Where are you?"

"Outside the condo. He kicked me out. I don't—I don't have anywhere to go."

The silence stretches for three heartbeats.

"You have a home," he says quietly. "You've always had a home. I'm sending Riggs. Don't move."

The line goes dead. I let the phone slip from my fingers, my head falling back against the wall. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows across the hall, the city glitters like broken glass.

Inside the condo, champagne corks pop.

---

Skylar stands in the middle of the master bedroom, surrounded by the wreckage of my life.

My clothes are scattered across the floor, some slashed with scissors, others soaked in what smells like wine. The jewelry box my grandmother gave me lies open and empty on the dresser—she's already pocketed anything valuable. But it's the photo albums that make her smile.

She picks up the leather-bound book from my childhood, the one with my mother's careful handwriting labeling each picture. Family vacation to Martha's Vineyard. Gabriella's eighth birthday. Christmas at the estate.

"Look at little princess Gabriella," she sings, flipping through pages. "So perfect. So privileged."

She rips out a photo—me and Riggs building sandcastles, both of us gap-toothed and sunburned. The paper tears easily. She lets the pieces flutter to the floor.

"Skylar." Lukas appears in the doorway, champagne flute in hand. His eyes are glassy, his tie loosened. "What are you doing?"

"Cleaning." She tears out another page. My high school graduation. My father's arm around my shoulders, both of us beaming. "Getting rid of the trash."

He watches her destroy the album, page by page, and takes another sip of champagne.

"She's gone," Skylar says, moving to the next album. This one's from college—my sorority formal, spring break trips, late-night study sessions. "Finally. It's just us now, like it was always supposed to be."

Lukas nods slowly. The champagne in his glass catches the light, golden and effervescent. He doesn't stop her when she throws the albums in the trash, doesn't flinch when she grinds her heel into a framed photo of me and my father.

He just drinks, and watches, and says nothing at all.

---

Riggs arrives at dawn.

I'm still in the hallway, wrapped in a blanket a kind neighbor brought me hours ago. The fever has broken, leaving me hollow and shivering. When the elevator doors open and my brother steps out, I barely recognize him. He's in a tailored suit despite the early hour, his jaw set, his eyes cold.

Behind him, three men in dark clothing carry empty boxes.

"Ella." He crouches in front of me, his hand gentle on my uninjured shoulder. Up close, I see the fury banked in his eyes. "Let's get you home."

He helps me to my feet, steadying me when I sway. One of the security team produces a key—my key, the one I'd left on the hall table when Lukas threw me out. Riggs takes it, his fingers closing around it like a weapon.

The door swings open.

Lukas is on the couch, his head in his hands. Skylar's nowhere to be seen—probably in the guest room, sleeping off her performance. He looks up when we enter, and whatever he sees in Riggs's face makes him go pale.

"Mr. Bennett, I can explain—"

Riggs doesn't speak. Doesn't acknowledge him. He just looks at Lukas with the kind of cold, measuring stare that precedes corporate annihilation. Then he turns to his team.

"Pack everything that belongs to my sister. Everything."

They move through the condo like a surgical strike. I watch from the doorway as they gather my trashed belongings, my destroyed albums, every trace of my three-year mistake. Lukas stands frozen, his mouth opening and closing, but no words come out.

Riggs finds the torn photos on the bedroom floor. He picks up a piece—me and my mother, her face ripped in half—and something in his expression goes arctic.

He walks back to the living room. Stops in front of Lukas. Still doesn't say a word.

But the look he gives him—the absolute promise of destruction in his eyes—makes Lukas take a step back.

Then Riggs takes my arm, and we leave.