Chapter 8 - Brooke’s Confession and the Midnight Inquest Inside the Gilded Prison of the West Wing
Inside the locked guest suite of the west wing, Brooke Miller paced back and forth across the plush Persian rug, her arms wrapped tightly around her shivering shoulders.
The room was warm—too warm, heated by a silent, efficient baseboard radiator—but she couldn't shake the deep, bone-chilling cold that seemed to emanate from somewhere inside her own chest.
She had done it.
For the first time in her twenty-seven years of drifting through life like a piece of flotsam, she had actually stood up for someone else.
She had betrayed the man who held the purse strings, the man who could make her life comfortable or miserable with a single phone call, the man who represented every single toxic shortcut she had ever been tempted to take.
And she felt... clean.
Terribly, terrifyingly clean.
Clack.
The heavy brass deadbolt on the exterior side of the door turned with a sharp, echoing snap.
Brooke stopped pacing, her breath catching as the heavy oak door swung inward.
Damian stood in the doorway.
He wasn't shouting. He wasn't breathing heavily.
His face was a mask of cold, terrifying marble, his dark eyes devoid of any human expression, looking at her the way a butcher looks at a side of beef.
"You think you’re a hero, don't you?" Damian asked softly, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him with a quiet, deliberate click.
Brooke swallowed hard, trying to keep her voice from trembling as she stood her ground near the dressing table.
"I did what I should have done months ago," she said, lifting her chin. "You treated her like garbage, Damian. You treated both of us like property."
Damian chuckled.
It was a dry, humorless sound that sent a shiver straight down her spine.
"Property?" He took a slow step toward her. "Brooke, sweet, naive Brooke. Do you honestly believe Harper is going to protect you when the federal indictment comes down?"
"What are you talking about?"
"Do you know where that bakery in Albany came from?" Damian asked, tilting his head with a mocking smile. "Do you know how Harper bought the storefront when she was twenty-four years old with zero credit and no family money?"
Brooke blinked, her defensive posture faltering for a fraction of a second. "She... she saved up. She worked three jobs."
"She didn't save a damn dime," Damian said smoothly, closing the distance between them until he was standing just inches away. "I funded it. Through a shell company I set up before I even met her. Her entire life—her bakery, her little independent identity, her precious dignity—was built on foundation stones I laid out for her."
Brooke shook her head frantically. "You're lying. Harper isn't like that. She’s honest."
"Everyone is honest until they're sitting across a federal prosecutor’s desk looking at twenty years in a penitentiary," Damian whispered, his face inches from hers. "And when Harper hands over that digital drive—when she tells the feds how her little innocent bakery was used to wash three million dollars in municipal bribes—do you really think she’s going to leave her beloved sister out of the conspiracy charges?"
Brooke’s breath hitched.
The room seemed to tilt sideways.
"Conspiracy?" she whispered. "I didn't know anything about bribes."
"Oh, but you lived under my roof," Damian smiled, a cruel, razor-thin line of satisfaction touching his lips. "You accepted my money. You drove my cars. You stayed in my house for three months without a job or a lease. In the eyes of a federal grand jury, you’re not the heroic sister coming to the rescue, Brooke. You’re an unindicted co-conspirator."
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He reached out, his long fingers lightly tapping her cheek once before he turned and walked toward the door.
"Enjoy your stay, Brooke," he said without looking back. "Because by sunrise, the only people left in this house are going to be federal marshals."
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