Too Late To Chase The One He Betrayed

Now, she had surrendered everything to Theresa without protest. And still, he called her unreasonable. Maybe, when she uttered those fateful words, Weston had stopped seeing her as his sister. In his eyes, she had become just another woman trying to worm her way into his life, no different from the others who shamelessly pursued him. Yet no matter how much she tried to move forward, her heart clung to the past, especially that room. Back then, after their parents’ accident, nightmares had gripped her night after night. When they moved, Weston had their rooms placed side by side, separated by nothing but a thin wall. At night, he could hear her breathing as if they were lying inches apart. He had been building his empire back then, drowning in endless work. Yet no matter how late he returned, he always found time to sit by her bed, watching over her until sleep claimed her. Maybe they had been too close. Even the designer had chuckled, "Since you’re a couple, why not just live together?" Brittany had flushed red, ready to deny it. But Weston had only taken her hand, his voice calm, and said there was no need. That stolen moment of warmth, of unspoken promise, had been enough to make her heart race for years. And now, that room had found its true owner. She smiled, elegant and unshaken. "I was never unreasonable. That room was always meant for my sister-in-law." Weston paused for a beat before taking her luggage. "As long as you understand." The sunlight caught the diamond ring on his hand, its brilliance slicing through her like an unforgiving blade. Was it because he loved Theresa so much that he couldn’t wait another second to marry her? Or was it because he found Brittany so unbearable that he wanted to sever all ties without hesitation? Whatever the reason, her dignity had long crumbled to dust. A bitter taste spread across her tongue, sinking deep into her heart. ‘Then when I leave, I hope you’ll finally be happy.’ "Brittany." Just as they reached the entrance, his voice cut through the silence, calling her name in full. "Theresa is now the mistress of this house. From now on, everything here will revolve around her. I hope after this past month, you've learned your lesson. Don’t act like a spoiled child who disrespects her elders." He actually said… she had no manners. So, he did love Theresa that much. Once, he had cradled her like something fragile, as if the slightest touch might shatter her. Now, all the pain she had endured was nothing more than a lesson in his eyes. But did he really not know why she had lost her temper back then? Ever since she was a child, music has been her dream. She had spent years watching him compose, studying every note and rhythm. And in secret, she had written a love song just for him. A month ago, the day after Theresa stepped down as her psychiatrist, Weston’s twenty-sixth birthday was just around the corner. She had spent the entire day preparing, carefully setting up every decoration. Every penny she had saved over the years, she spent on a tie for him, a small token of affection chosen with care. But after that ill-fated confession, Weston did nothing except hire a psychiatrist for her. No reaction, no response, just cold, clinical distance. So, she decided to treat it as a fleeting mistake. Something best left behind. She had written that song for him, not as a confession, but as a way to share a piece of her heart. A melody woven with her purest emotions. Then, she would remain by his side as his sister. At least that way, she could tell herself she had no regrets. But that night, she waited. And waited. The dishes on the table turned cold, untouched, and he never walked through the door. Just as she reached for her phone, ready to call the police in a panic, a notification lit up her screen. [A Rising Star in Music. The Genius Composer’s Perfect Match.] Her fingers trembled as she tapped on it. The photo said more than words ever could. Weston. Theresa. Side by side. Smiling like they had the entire world in their hands. Theresa clung to his arm, leaning into him as if they had belonged together all along.

A loud bang echoed through the room as her phone slipped from her fingers, crashing to the floor. The screen lit up upon impact, accidentally playing a video. A sweet, familiar voice poured out. Theresa’s voice. But the song, that was hers. A love song she had poured her heart into, every lyric laced with the dreams and stolen moments she had shared with Weston. She had tucked it away beneath her pillow, never telling a soul. Except that night. The night she got drunk and, in a haze of foolish courage, sang it for him. Back then, she hadn’t understood why Weston had pushed her away. But now, she did. He had wanted her to surrender. To understand that song had never belonged to her in the first place. A bitter smile curled her lips. "Brother, I will listen to you." She had never called him that before. Never. She had always used his name. But this… this was fine. Maybe it had always been meant to be this way. Without so much as a glance, Weston pushed open the door. And just like that, a bright, cheerful figure threw herself into his arms. "Weston, look! What do you think of this dress for the wedding gown?" Theresa’s face was flawless, framed by wisps of smoky makeup that accentuated her bright, adoring gaze. The wedding dress she wore was breathtaking, pure white silk cascading to the floor, its surface glimmering with diamonds that caught the light in a way that felt almost cruel. She acted as though Brittany wasn’t even there, completely wrapped up in the euphoria of love. It wasn’t until Weston cleared his throat that Theresa finally turned, feigning surprise. "Oh! Brittany, sorry—I didn’t know you were coming back today." She offered an awkward smile before playfully nudging Weston’s back. He responded with nothing but a soft, doting smile. Brittany’s fingers curled at her sides. That dress. She knew it well. Because she had designed it. The first time Theresa had stepped foot into this house, she had told Brittany that her feelings were unnatural, a disgrace, something that should never see the light of day. Theresa had her sketch out her dream wedding dress, urging her to pretend she was wearing it and imagine, just once, marrying Weston. And Brittany, naïve and desperate, had done exactly that. Now, standing before her, Theresa was wearing that dream as if it had belonged to her all along. And all Brittany knew was that it was truly a sight to behold, like a dream stitched in silk and lace. There was no anger, no resentment, only a soft, almost imperceptible smile as if this was merely the natural course of things. "Brittany, why aren’t you saying anything? Do you not like me wearing this dress? If so, I’ll take it off right away." Theresa’s voice was sweet and hesitant, her fingers already reaching up as if ready to strip away the gown at the slightest disapproval. Weston’s expression darkened. "Brittany, your sister-in-law is talking to you." Brittany lifted her eyes, her gaze steady and unreadable. For a moment, Weston felt something unfamiliar stir inside him. By the time he registered it, she had already moved. Silently, she stepped behind Theresa, her fingers gliding effortlessly over the tangled dress ties. There was no hesitation, no wasted movement, only quiet precision as she secured the loosened straps, pulling the gown into its intended shape. "This is how the dress should be worn." Weston watched her, his unease growing. Something about her had shifted. Gone was the fragile girl who once let her emotions flicker across her face. Now, she stood before him like a stranger, poised and distant, as if she had walked away from her past and never looked back. Had the hospital truly changed her so completely? He had only wanted to discipline her, to make her understand. "Brittany, you—" "Ah!" Theresa’s scream shattered the moment, sharp and sudden. The strap in Brittany’s hands was suddenly yanked, snapping apart with a sharp crack. A breath later, the fabric at the back of the wedding dress tore open. Theresa, caught entirely off guard, let out a startled gasp as she lost her balance, toppling straight to the ground. She landed hard, a pained whimper escaping her lips. Faint bruises bloomed almost instantly on her delicate wrist and calf. Tears welled up in her eyes, her shoulders trembling as she choked out soft, pitiful sobs. "Weston… my wedding dress…" "It’s okay, it’s okay. If the dress is ruined, we’ll just make a new one. I never really liked that design anyway. It barely did justice to even a fraction of your beauty." Yet even as he spoke softly to Theresa, his eyes lifted, dark with anger, fixing Brittany with a glare that left no room for doubt. Disappointment. Blame. A silent accusation that cut deeper than words.

Brittany knew that no matter what she said, it would be useless. A beauty shedding tears, Weston would never spare her a glance, let alone a shred of mercy. "Sorry, sister-in-law." The words scraped her throat, dry and hollow. Behind her back, her fingers clenched, pressing against the ribbon-cut wound on her palm, where blood had already begun to bead. She returned to the attic alone. The layout was identical to her original room, down to the neatly arranged photos lining the walls, snapshots of a past she had once cherished. Pictures of her and Weston, spanning childhood to now, each one painstakingly restored by his own hands. Her lashes fluttered closed for a brief moment. Then, one by one, she tore them down. Weston had already found his true family. Even if she vanished from his world without a trace, it wouldn’t cause the slightest ripple. Would he feel sad? Would he ever think of the disgusting little sister he had cast aside in the midst of his blissful life with Theresa? Probably not. Since he had never belonged to her, neither the song nor the wedding dress nor this room held any meaning anymore. With a single sweep of her hand, the photos tumbled into the trash. Just then, her phone rang. "Brittany! Mom and Dad already booked our tickets. We’ll be there to pick you up in five days! How’s your stay at the Beverleighs? Are they treating you well? They keep insisting Weston takes great care of you, but if he did, would he have thrown you into a psychiatric hospital…?" "Brother, it’s fine. It was my problem. Back then, I was sick." Dominic fell silent. "Anyway," she added lightly, "once you’re back, I’ll be moving out." "Yes! Yes! The moment we return, we’re bringing you home!" A faint smile tugged at her lips. His anxious yet excited voice stirred something in her chest, a warmth she hadn’t felt in a long time. These past few days, her real parents had also called her frequently. Even before their reunion, they had already transferred several properties under her name. "Who are you talking to?" A deep, sullen voice cut through the air. Brittany turned, startled. At some point, the door had been pushed open. Weston stood against the wall, his expression dark, his gaze locked onto her like a predator catching its prey. Brittany pressed her lips together, offering no response. But Weston didn’t seem to care. In just a few strides, he was in front of her, his grip firm as he caught her chin and forced her gaze to his. His eyes were cold, sharp. "Brittany, didn’t I tell you not to hurt her? She’s not like you." Yet the moment he saw the sheen of unshed tears in her eyes, his tone softened. "As long as you admit your mistake and change, I can pretend none of this ever happened. You will always be my sister." He had once indulged her, shielded her from everything. No matter what she did, he was always on her side. But Brittany understood now she was no longer the one he cherished. He wasn’t defending her. He wasn’t even listening. He was only protecting the woman he loved. So she simply nodded. Weston, ever meticulous, never once noticed the wound on her palm as he walked away. A message notification chimed. Brittany struggled to pick up her phone. Another message from her brother. [Brittany, the housekeeper’s daughter, is also in Evermist. Dad and Mom have always treated her well since she was little. If you’re not comfortable staying there, I can have her come take care of you.] A helpless smile tugged at her lips. [No need, Brother.] Two hours later, she stepped out of her room. The house was steeped in darkness, the lights long extinguished. Relying on memory, she navigated her way toward the living room, careful with every step. As she passed by Weston and Theresa’s room, she instinctively slowed, barely daring to breathe. If he saw her, he would only assume the worst, that she was putting on an act, using self-inflicted wounds to gain sympathy. She knew him too well. The shelves in the living room were still lined with bottles of medicine, silent relics of the past, when she had been weak, frail. When Weston had once bought them for her with his own hands.

He had once been the kind of man who labeled every medicine bottle with its date and purpose, afraid that if he wasn’t home, Brittany would be too clueless to take care of herself. But that care, that concern, it had nothing to do with her anymore. Now, she sat in the dim glow of the living room, patching up her wounds alone. The pain wasn’t just in her injuries. It was everywhere. It was in the way she stared at the handwriting on those old bottles, in the way she bit her lip to stop the tears from falling. For years, she had lived in his shadow, believing she mattered. How pathetic. Just as the tears threatened to slip, a blinding light sliced through the darkness, striking her eyes. "Brittany." She turned her head sharply. Theresa stood there, phone flashlight in hand, her gaze unreadable. "We need to talk." Her lips were swollen, her flushed skin marred with faint scratches. And on her neck, undeniable proof of intimacy. Brittany’s heart twisted. Of course. They were engaged. How could they not be doing those things? Theresa tilted her head, watching her reaction. "I know you blame me for sending you away, for taking Weston from you. Isn’t that right?" A sharp tremor ran through Brittany’s body. Theresa’s lips curled as she reached for her hand. "But you need to understand—there was never a future for you two. Not just because he’s your brother, but because a man like him has no patience for little girls playing pretend." Brittany felt the air leave her lungs. "Stop talking," she whispered, her voice unsteady, trembling. But Theresa had no intention of stopping. "Weston and I are equals, in background, in capability. But you?" She tilted her head, her smile laced with cruelty. "You’re just the orphan the family took in. Don’t waste your time coveting what isn’t yours. Girls who think that way end up locked in places like that." She laughed, carefree, unbothered by the way Brittany’s eyes burned red. Her body shook, but after everything, after the hospital, after the silent suffering, she was too weak to fight back. And wasn’t Theresa just telling the truth? "When summer ends, Weston and I will send you to a boarding university abroad." She sighed as if she were offering a favor. "It’s time you learned independence. Do you have any idea how repulsed he is by your feelings?" Brittany’s breath hitched. She looked up only to meet Theresa’s indifferent gaze, her smile unbearably cruel. "I told you to stop!" A raw, fractured scream shattered the silence. It was as if she had gone mad after leaving that place. Having the truth she fought to bury ripped open by the very woman who had stolen everything from her. Like a wound barely scabbed over, torn apart once more. Brittany shoved Theresa’s hand away. She didn’t resist. Her back hit the coffee table, sending the thermos crashing to the floor. Hot water splashed across the hardwood, hissing as it met the cold air. "What the hell are you two doing?" Weston’s voice cut through the tension. He stepped out, frowning, eyes dark with displeasure. Then he saw Theresa. His pupils contracted. Before Brittany could react, he had already brushed past her, reaching for Theresa’s hand. "What happened?" His voice dropped, concern laced in every syllable. The once flawless skin on her hand was flushed red, scalded by the spilled water. Against her pale complexion, it stood out like an accusation. "I’m fine." Theresa let out a soft, helpless sigh. "I heard Brittany’s footsteps and wanted to comfort her. I suppose I was too hasty... I forgot she still hasn’t fully accepted me." Only then did Weston turn to Brittany. The warmth, the tenderness that once filled his gaze, was gone. In its place, only cold disappointment. It was as if he already knew. As if the truth didn’t matter, this was just a formality. "Brittany, apologize." The security cameras were right there. Yet he wouldn’t check them. He wouldn’t even listen. Of course, he wouldn’t. That was just the way he was. Once Weston made up his mind, nothing could change it. Once, he had decided she was his beloved sister, the one he spoiled beyond reason. Now, he had decided Theresa was the center of his world. And no one else was allowed to come close.

Hiding the bloodstains on her palm behind her back, Brittany lifted her gaze to Weston. Her eyes were hollow, stripped of warmth, yet her lips curved into a mechanical smile, lifeless, like a doll going through the motions. "Sorry, sister-in-law. I only wanted a glass of water. I didn’t realize you were behind me." She tilted her head slightly, voice light, almost indifferent. "It’s a habit I picked up in the psychiatric hospital. I get a little nervous when someone touches me out of nowhere." Theresa stiffened, her expression flickering. Brittany reached for the ointment and bandages beside her, then stepped forward. "I’ll help you apply the medicine. Will you forgive me, sister-in-law?" The room fell silent. Her surrender was too smooth, too easy, wrecking whatever performance Theresa had planned. Even Weston sensed something was off. His grip closed around Brittany’s wrist. "What exactly are you trying to do?" Trying to do? Was she the one behaving strangely? Hadn’t they told her that as long as she was obedient, they wouldn’t send her back? She had played by their rules, careful not to step out of line, yet Weston still looked at her with discontent. As if no matter what she did, it would never be enough. Brittany lowered her gaze, ignoring him entirely. Without hesitation, she yanked her wrist free and, with unsettling ease, took Theresa’s injured palm in her grasp. Her fingers moved with practiced precision, securing the bandage as though she had done it a thousand times before. Weston only noticed the blood on her hand after she had finished. His expression flickered, brief, almost imperceptible, but she caught it. A muscle in his jaw tightened. Yet all he did was ask, as if out of obligation. "What happened to your hand?" For a fleeting moment, he almost sounded like the brother she once knew. "Did you hurt yourself just now, too?" Theresa’s fingers curled against her palm, her sharp gaze a silent warning. But Brittany didn’t need the reminder. She already knew. The truth was pointless. Everything had been too precise, too well-timed as if orchestrated from the start. Weston had already chosen his side, and she refused to humiliate herself further. "It has nothing to do with you, brother." Her voice was calm, detached. She gathered the leftover ointment and bandages, turning toward the attic. "I was just careless." Weston wanted to say more, but he stopped the moment he stepped forward. Brittany didn’t need to look back. She already knew. Theresa must have stopped him. That woman loathed her, saw her as a threat, framed her time and time again, and stole everything she once had. Brittany despised her. Yet, she had to admit. She was right. She and Weston were destined to drift further and further apart. That night, Brittany dreamed. She was back in the psychiatric hospital, sitting alone in a stark, empty room, pretending she belonged there. The doctor, once kind, had stepped out to take a call. But when he returned, his face had changed, and his voice was clipped and impersonal. "Miss, we’ve assessed your condition. Cases like yours are quite common." His words rang hollow, yet the judgment behind them was suffocating. "A life of indulgence makes people like you forget propriety… and shame." Brittany wanted to refute him, to claw her way out of the nightmare. But in the dream, she was paralyzed, unable to move, unable to speak. "Propriety and shame… How could you fall in love with your brother?" His tone was laced with scorn. "A young lady should have self-respect. Some dignity. Do you understand?" The ridicule coiled around her like a noose. There was no physical pain, yet each accusation tore at her, stripping away the last remnants of her dignity, piece by piece. Brittany’s eyes fluttered open. She had spent the entire night awake, lying in the suffocating silence, waiting for morning to come. Before the sky brightened, she pulled on a coat and stepped out of the villa, the crisp air swallowing her whole. Her path was set by the Civil Affairs Bureau. The first step to severing the past was to cast off the name that tethered her to it. Weston had made it clear, she was nothing to him now. Not a sister. Not anything at all. But the years she spent in his family’s home had been real. His parents had loved her and cared for her. That much, at least, had been true. For a decade, she had carried the name Beverleigh It had sunk into her skin and stitched itself into her identity. And in those cold, sleepless nights at the psychiatric hospital, she had asked herself, was she truly ready to let it go? Now, she had her answer.

"Household registration transfer and lastname change, correct?" "Yes." "What name would you like to change to?" "Lennox… Brittany Lennox." From this moment on, she severed every last tie to Weston. Even if she vanished without a word, he had no right to ask why. Five days stretched on like an eternity, each second heavier, more suffocating than the past eighteen years combined. Theresa made no effort to hide her malice, her every move laced with smug cruelty. Yet no matter what Brittany said, Weston only ever saw one truth: she was the troublemaker. Then, on the fourth morning, Theresa suddenly beamed with delight, bringing "good news." "Weston, I told my adoptive parents about our wedding. They want to return to the country to see us." "Really?" Weston’s response was gentle, indulgent. He smiled and reached out, wiping a trace of oil from the corner of Theresa’s lips. "I won’t let them down." Theresa had powerful, influential adoptive parents. Brittany had known all along that Weston valued that power more than anything. And she… she had nothing. Lowering her gaze, Brittany faded into the background, playing the part of air. Over the past few days, the villa had been flooded with wedding deliveries, delicate boxes of wedding confections, fresh bouquets filling the air with their fragrance, and even invitations personally penned by Weston. Joy filled every corner of the house. Yet none of it belonged to Brittany. "Brittany? Brittany, are you even listening?" "Huh?" Snapped from her thoughts, Brittany turned, meeting Theresa’s amused gaze and Weston’s displeased frown. "Theresa called you so many times. Didn’t you hear her?" Weston’s voice was cold. "I thought sending you to St. Darius Psychiatric Hospital would at least teach you some basic manners." Brittany’s fingers curled slightly, but before she could answer, Theresa had already slid her arm through Weston’s, her voice dripping with laughter. "Why so impatient? Brittany’s probably not used to seeing you so affectionate with someone else. She’s just a little jealous, aren’t you, Brittany?" Brittany silently picked up a napkin, dabbing at the corner of her mouth. When she lifted her gaze again, her expression was flawless. "I was just lost in thought. What is it, sister-in-law?" Theresa let out a soft, delighted laugh, covering her lips as if suppressing a secret. "Brittany has grown up. Your brother and I were thinking of taking you to tomorrow’s charity auction. I once showed your picture to the young master of Blackwood International, and he’s been dying to meet you." A crisp "clack" echoed through the room. Brittany’s spoon and fork had slipped from her fingers, hitting the floor with a sharp finality. Russell Quinn. Blackwood International’s young master is a name synonymous with scandal. A man known for indulgence, with a reputation that reeked of excess and recklessness. Brittany froze, searching Weston’s eyes, hoping, praying, to find even a hint of amusement, a sign that this was some cruel joke. But he had already looked away. Indifferent. Detached. "Brother… do you want me to marry for an alliance?" Of course, he did. Her feelings disgusted him, a thorn lodged in his throat. He wanted her gone, far away, out of sight, out of mind. Even if it meant throwing her into the arms of a man she had never met. After all, the family had raised her. It was only right for her to repay them. Weston’s expression remained unreadable, but for a fleeting moment, his gaze softened. "Your brother is settling down. You should have a home of your own, too. Besides, this is just an introduction. If you don’t like him, we can take our time choosing." Brittany understood. This wasn’t about her happiness. He just wanted her gone. "Alright," she said, voice light, indifferent. "Since my brother chose him, there’s no harm in meeting him." Setting down her utensils, she rose from the table. "I’m full. You two enjoy your meal." And just like that, she left the dining room. Obedient. Sensible. Without protest. Gone was the temper, the resistance. Even when reprimanded, she had no complaints. She had finally learned her place.

For ten years, she had been his most cherished treasure. No matter how indifferent he seemed, the ache buried in his heart ran deeper than he’d ever admit. When Weston caught the redness in Brittany’s eyes, frustration surged through him. He wanted to reach out, to say something, anything. Still, before he could move, Theresa clutched his sleeve, shaking her head in silent warning. But the hurt in Brittany’s expression was like a dagger twisting in his chest. This time, Weston didn’t let Theresa stop him. He followed Brittany upstairs, only to be met with a locked attic door. Just as he raised his hand to knock, he froze. Her voice carried through the wooden barrier, soft, trembling, raw. She had loved him in secret for years. The only person she had ever given her heart to. Yet, time and time again, he had been the one to hurt her the most. Lying on her bed, curled up in quiet anguish, she flipped through her diary, pages filled with memories of him. Of them. Every fleeting moment, every small kindness, every stolen glance. A love was unspoken. A wound never healed. And now, all he could do was stand on the other side of the door. Tear stains, unnoticed and forgotten, bled into the ink, smudging the words she once held so dearly. She was hurt. And then, she laughed. A quiet, breathless sound, as if the weight of it all had finally crushed her. “Don’t worry, brother. I won’t cling to you anymore. I won’t like you anymore.” Her whispered vow slipped past the door, landing straight in Weston’s ears like a dagger. He should have felt relieved. This was what he had wanted, to make her let go. For as long as he could remember, she had been the most precious thing in his life. His little sister. His responsibility. But the moment she confessed she loved him, something inside him recoiled. It was wrong. Impossible. Unthinkable. She was eight years younger than him. How could he ever see her that way? He refused to lead her down a path she could never take. And more than anything—he simply didn’t love her like that. But now, standing outside her door, listening to the raw, broken pieces of her heart spill into the silence, he felt no relief at all. It would pass. She would grow up. One day, she would understand that everything he had done was for her own good. So why did it feel like he had just lost something he could never get back? The charity gala was a spectacle of wealth and prestige, shimmering under the glow of crystal chandeliers. For Brittany, it was her first time stepping into a world so grand, where every smile hid a secret, and every handshake sealed a deal. Weston’s company had only recently secured its place among the elite. A few years ago, they wouldn’t have even made the guest list. Now, he was an honored figure among them. The red carpet gleamed beneath the dazzling lights. Weston stood tall in a tailored black suit, his presence commanding, his sharp features unreadable. Beside him, Theresa, draped in a striking red gown, looked every bit the perfect match. Like a bride beside her groom. Brittany trailed behind them, her gaze fixed on Weston’s back, committing it to memory, one of the last chances she’d have to do so. A reporter’s voice cut through the hum of conversation. “Mr. Beverleigh, we’ve heard wonderful news about you and Miss Walker. When’s the wedding?” Weston’s reply was steady. “We’re already making preparations.” Theresa smiled, lifting her hand to display the diamond ring on her finger. The crowd erupted in cheers, cameras flashing like a sky full of stars. “Miss Walker, you left a high-paying career as a psychologist to pursue songwriting, and your music has touched so many. Everyone’s curious: what’s the story behind your romance?” For the first time that evening, Weston’s movements faltered. Almost instinctively, his gaze swept through the sea of elegantly dressed guests, searching for Brittany. But she was gone. "Mr. Beverleigh? Mr. Beverleigh?" The reporter’s repeated calls snapped him back to the present. He exhaled lightly, forcing a small smile. "It's nothing special. For Theresa and me, it was love at first sight." For the first time in a long while, the man known for his cold indifference softened. A rare warmth flickered in his gaze as he looked at Theresa, his expression almost tender. "That song belongs to the past now. Because I love her, I would never let her endure a one-sided love alone. From now on, I’ll be the one taking the lead. I will make sure Theresa becomes the happiest woman in the world."

Screams erupted one after another. Theresa stood frozen, her eyes rimmed with red. She murmured, "Weston..." "I heard that the renowned overseas American multinational investor, Mr. Lennox, and his wife will also be attending your wedding..." Behind a stone pillar outside the auction hall, Brittany stood motionless. From that moment on, everything else faded into silence. Her thoughts stalled at Weston’s words. If he loved her, he would never have let her suffer through a one-sided crush. He had erased her love. Denied the song he had once written. Brittany curled her lips into a smirk, too drained to even cry. During those endless days in the psychiatric hospital… She had shed enough tears. Supporting herself on her knees, she bent over, trying to steady her breath. Just as she pushed herself up, a bright, crisp voice suddenly rang above her head. "So you're... Brittany?" The face before her struck a chord of familiarity as if she had seen it somewhere before. A high nose bridge, sharp brows, deep-set eyes, his features were undeniably striking. Yet, the dark circles beneath them hinted at excess, as if indulgence had long replaced rest. At that moment, those piercing eyes narrowed slightly, scanning Brittany the way one might evaluate a new acquisition. "I am Brittany. May I ask who you are?" The man blinked, snapping out of his initial surprise. His expression turned oddly amused. "You don’t recognize me?" He let out a low chuckle. "I'm Russell Quinn. Strange… Theresa said you were making a scene, insisting on marrying me." Theresa. Russell. Brittany let out a bitter laugh. "You must be mistaken. I don’t even know you. Why would I insist on marrying you?" Suppressing the discomfort coursing through her, she turned to leave. But before she could step, a firm grip closed around her wrist. Without warning, she was yanked forcefully into a secluded corner. A strange scent clung to the air, dulling her senses. Just as Brittany parted her lips to call for help, a firm hand gripped her chin, tilting her face upward. Russell's gaze swept over her, slow and assessing, before his lips curled into a satisfied smirk. "Drop the act. Your brother already made a deal with my mother. Once Theresa and your brother are married, you’ll be marrying me. At first, I figured any woman desperate enough to chase after me would be an unbearable nuisance. Still, looking at you now… you’re not half bad. Still, let’s get one thing straight: our marriage is nothing more than a business transaction. Don’t even think about meddling with the women I bring home." His indifferent tone sent a tremor of rage through Brittany. Even in the suffocating days at St. Darius Psychiatric Hospital, she had never endured such humiliation. The family she came from valued intellect and refinement. Her parents had raised her on classical literature and etiquette, instilling grace in her every step. When she grew older, Weston shielded her from the world, crafting an isolated paradise where every person she met, from high school to university, was personally vetted by him. Now, she stood before a man who treated her like a bargaining chip, his words dripping with contempt. "Have some respect. Since we clearly despise each other, there’s no reason for us to speak any further." Brittany gritted her teeth, forcing the words out as a wave of dizziness crashed over her. Something was wrong. The air felt thick and cloying, seeping into her lungs like a silent toxin. She struggled, but her limbs felt weak, utterly powerless against his grip. "Oh, don’t tell me you think you’re too good for me?" His lips twisted into a smirk. "Everyone knows you spent time in a psychiatric hospital. And let’s not forget, you’re not even Weston’s real sister. Just an orphan. Who else would take you? Be a good girl after we’re married, and I’ll ensure you don’t starve." His breath, thick with the scent of alcohol and arrogance, fanned against her forehead, sending a shudder of revulsion through her. "I know you like Weston. But let me give you some free advice: you have no idea who’s backing Theresa. Forget you. Even Weston wouldn’t dare cross them. Keep pushing, and you might just find yourself right back in that psychiatric hospital."

How did he know these secrets? Her brother had sworn that no one else would ever find out. Russell’s voice dipped, his breath fanning against her skin as he leaned in. Panic flared in Brittany’s chest. Her fingers twitched, brushing against the small self-defense knife in her pocket, an old habit from her time in the psychiatric hospital. Her pulse pounded as she fought against his grip, her fingers fumbling for the handle. Then, in a desperate surge, she drove the blade straight into his palm. A sharp cry tore from Russell’s throat. The scent of blood, hot and metallic, cut through the cloying air. "You, Brittany! Are you insane?!" His grip slackened, but before he could fully recoil, she struck. A brutal slap cracked across his face, forcing him back. Blood smeared her palm from the struggle, branding his cheek with a deep, crimson print. The sight was jarring, shocking. Like a cornered beast, Brittany lashed out, raw instinct taking over. Fear and fury melded into one, a desperate retaliation against the looming threat of being overpowered again. Brittany swung her bag wildly, striking wherever she could, her knife clenched in a white-knuckled grip. She lashed out with reckless desperation, kicking, thrashing, unleashing every ounce of humiliation and fury bottled up inside her. The uproar drew a crowd. And when Weston pushed through the sea of onlookers, this was the sight that greeted him, His delicately sheltered younger sister, hands smeared with blood, a knife in her grasp, forcing a man nearly a head taller than her into a panicked retreat. "Brittany! Have you lost your mind?!" At the sound of his voice, she lifted her head. Her eyes, hollow, distant, didn’t even register him. Instead, her gaze drifted past him, locking onto Theresa. Theresa paled instantly. Without hesitation, she shrank behind Weston. Again. Brittany’s grip tightened around the knife. Russell’s sudden appearance wasn’t random. It wasn’t a coincidence. Every piece of this moment had been orchestrated, leading her straight into their trap. A cruel realization settled over her like a suffocating weight. She was just an orphan. How was she supposed to fight Theresa? To fight the Quinn family? But as the thought coiled around her mind, something even darker slithered in. What if… all of this wasn’t just Theresa’s doing? What if Weston had arranged it, too? Brittany stepped forward, slow and unsteady, her gaze dull, exhausted. She didn’t want a fight, just an explanation. But the moment she reached out, another hand caught her mid-air. Weston. His grip was firm, his expression thunderous. Did he think she was going to strike Theresa? As if she would dare lay a hand on his beloved while he stood guard. "Brittany! Haven’t you caused enough trouble? Don’t you owe me an explanation?!" So, it was true. The slap echoed like a gunshot. “This is my explanation.” Gasps rippled through the crowd. Theresa stiffened, eyes widening in disbelief. A vivid red handprint bloomed across Weston’s cheek, tinged with the faint scent of blood. His first instinct was to check her hand. Was she hurt? But she yanked it back before he could touch her, stepping away as if even his presence sickened her. Then, realization dawned. The blood wasn’t hers. Weston’s expression darkened. "Brittany. Have you lost your mind?" She lifted her gaze, cold and steady. "Brother," she murmured, each word deliberate, cutting. "Have you forgotten? You were the one who sent me to the psychiatric hospital." Russell’s parents arrived late, only to find their son trembling like a beaten dog, his face pale with fear. Their hearts clenched at the sight. "Oh my! What happened?! My poor boy!" "I just wanted to introduce myself to Brittany, and out of nowhere, she pulled a knife and stabbed me! Dad! Mom! I told you we shouldn't marry a lunatic who came from a psychiatric hospital! Even Theresa couldn’t fix her! She’s completely insane!" "And disgusting enough to harbor a secret crush on her foster brother!" The flash of cameras erupted like a ruthless thunderstorm, capturing Brittany in her moment of disgrace, perhaps the greatest humiliation of her life.