Chapter 4 - The Sister’s Betrayal and the Last Remaining Ally Who Wasn’t Afraid of Damian’s Money
Inside the west wing guest suite, Brooke Vale—or rather, Brooke Miller, since her engagement to Arthur Vance’s nephew had fallen apart in a blaze of scandalous debt—was sitting on the edge of a king-sized velvet bed, staring at her own reflection in the gilded dressing table mirror.
Her mascara was smeared.
Her black silk dress was slightly wrinkled at the waist where Damian’s hands had gripped her with desperate, frantic energy just twenty minutes ago.
She didn't feel victorious.
She felt sick.
She had spent her entire adult life watching Harper—her quiet, steady, impossibly good older sister—do everything right, only to end up trapped in a gilded cage with a monster who treated people like chess pieces.
And what had Brooke done?
She had walked into the lion's den, let the lion flatter her bruised ego, and let him kiss her while Harper stood in the doorway watching her entire world burn down.
"You're a fool, Brooke," she whispered to her reflection, her voice cracking as a tear finally cut a clean path through the powder on her cheek. "A selfish, miserable little fool."
She stood up, walking over to the window that looked out over the eastern lawn toward the carriage house.
Through the blinding veil of snow, she saw a figure moving across the white expanse with a powerful, purposeful stride.
Damian.
He was holding a heavy tactical flashlight, its bright beam cutting through the swirling snow like a laser, tracking straight toward the old carriage house where Harper had gone.
Brooke’s breath caught in her throat.
He was hunting her.
He wasn't just going to bring her back—he was going to destroy her. He was going to take that ledger back by force, lock her in the panic room beneath the library, and rewrite the narrative until Harper looked like an unstable, paranoid lunatic who needed to be committed for her own safety.
"No," Brooke whispered, her hands flying to her mouth. "Not this time."
For the first time in her life, Brooke didn't think about what was convenient, or what was safe, or what would keep her in Damian’s good graces so she could leech off his credit cards for another six months.
She thought about the night she had arrived at Morning Bell bakery two years ago, broke, terrified, and bleeding from a botched abortion she had paid for with maxed-out credit cards.
Harper hadn't asked questions.
Harper had heated up soup, made up the spare bed in the back, and held her hand until morning without once making her feel small.
“You’re my sister,” Harper had said. “You don’t need an expiration date.”
Brooke turned away from the window, grabbed her heavy winter coat from the back of the door, and shoved her feet into a pair of flat leather boots she had kicked off earlier.
She didn't grab a bag. She didn't grab her phone.
She ran out into the hallway, her boots clattering against the polished hardwood floors as she sprinted toward the service stairs.
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She had to reach the carriage house before Damian did.
Or at least, she had to stop him long enough for Harper to reach the highway.
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