Married to the Devil's Brother for My Ultimate Revenge

"Jackson, please!" I screamed, my voice tearing my throat raw. "You can't do this! I'm carrying your baby! Our baby!" Jackson stood by the heavy metal doors, his arms crossed over his tailored suit. His face was a mask of carved ice. He didn't look at my tears. He didn't look at the sheer, unadulterated terror consuming my soul. "Begin the extraction," Jackson ordered the trembling doctor. Before the surgeon could even lift the silver scalpel, the operating room doors swung open. Taylor strolled in. She wasn't wearing a hospital gown. She was wearing a stunning, crimson silk dress that clung to her perfectly healthy curves. In her hand, she held a delicate crystal bowl filled with a rich, red strawberry dessert. My breath hitched. Strawberries. My deadly allergy. The very scent of them used to send Jackson into a protective panic, clearing entire rooms just to keep me safe. Now, he watched her eat them with a soft, adoring smile. "Taylor," I gasped, the betrayal suffocating me like a physical weight. "How could you?" Taylor took a slow, deliberate bite of the dessert. She chewed, swallowed, and let out a light, melodic laugh that echoed violently off the sterile tile walls. "Oh, Alynna," Taylor sighed, walking toward the operating table. She leaned over me, her eyes dancing with pure, unfiltered malice. "You really are pathetic. Did you honestly think Jackson ever loved a mousy, boring little orphan like you?" She traced the edge of the surgical tray with her perfectly manicured fingernail. "You were nothing but a walking organ donor," Taylor whispered, her voice dripping with venomous triumph. "And you were so desperately in love, you didn't even notice. Do you know how much it cost to pay off the auction staff at Sotheby’s? A hundred thousand pounds to loosen those chandelier bolts. A small price to pay to get you on this table without raising any suspicion." My blood ran completely cold. The accident. The falling glass. It was all a meticulously orchestrated execution. "You tried to kill me," I choked out, my chest heaving violently. "I tried to harvest you," Taylor corrected smoothly, taking another bite of the strawberries. "There's a difference." The sheer, absolute terror of her words crashed into me like a tidal wave. The physical trauma from the crushed glass, combined with the devastating, world-shattering betrayal, pushed my body past its absolute breaking point. A sudden, blinding spike of agony ripped through my lower abdomen. It wasn't a dull ache. It was a vicious, tearing cramp—a vice grip of pure fire clamping down on my womb. "Ah!" I screamed, my back arching violently off the steel table. A warm, terrifying rush of liquid soaked the sterile white sheets beneath me. The heart monitor attached to my chest began to blare a frantic, high-pitched warning, filling the room with a deafening panic. The doctor rushed forward, his face draining of all color as he looked at the crimson stain spreading across the linens. "Mr. Eala," the doctor stammered, his hands shaking wildly. "She's going into severe shock. The trauma... she's miscarrying." The fragile, desperate hope I had clung to completely shattered. My baby. My innocent, unborn child. Gone. Snatched away in a pool of blood and betrayal. I sobbed, a raw, guttural wail of pure agony tearing from my lips. Jackson’s calm facade finally cracked. But it wasn't out of grief. It was out of pure, unadulterated rage. "You useless, pathetic waste!" Jackson roared, slamming his fist against the medical tray. Instruments clattered to the floor. "That was my heir!" He glared at my bleeding, broken body with absolute disgust. He didn't mourn our child. He mourned a lost asset. "Cut her open anyway," Jackson commanded, his voice a lethal, unyielding vow. "I don't care if she bleeds out. Take the kidney now!" The doctor picked up the scalpel, his hands trembling as he approached my exposed skin. In that single, agonizing second, something inside me completely snapped. With a primal scream, I twisted my wrist, dislocating my own thumb with a sickening pop. The leather strap loosened just enough. I ripped my hand free, ignoring the blinding pain. Before the doctor could even blink, I lunged upward. I snatched the surgical scalpel directly from his trembling fingers. Without a single ounce of hesitation, I slashed the razor-sharp blade across his forearm. The doctor shrieked, dropping back as blood sprayed across his white coat. "Grab her!" Jackson bellowed, lunging toward the table. I swung the scalpel wildly, the blade slicing through the air inches from Jackson’s face. He stumbled backward, his eyes widening in sheer shock. I didn't wait for him to recover. I ripped the straps off my ankles, my bare feet hitting the cold tile floor. Pain exploded through my crushed ribs, but I didn't care. I shoved the heavy metal doors open and sprinted down the sterile hospital corridor. "Don't let her get away!" Jackson’s roar echoed behind me. I burst through the emergency exit doors, colliding instantly with the freezing, unforgiving London rain. The icy downpour soaked through my thin hospital gown in seconds. I stumbled down the wet pavement, my bare feet bleeding against the harsh concrete. I didn't know where I was going. I just knew I had to run. My lungs burned. My vision tunneled into a dark, suffocating blur. The blood loss from the miscarriage and the chandelier was finally dragging me under. I turned down a narrow, pitch-black alleyway. My knees buckled. I hit the wet cobblestones hard, the scalpel slipping from my numb fingers. I lay in the freezing puddle, the rain washing the blood from my legs. I was going to die here. In the gutter. Alone. My eyelids fluttered shut. The cold embraced me completely. Then, the rhythmic, deliberate click of footsteps echoed over the pouring rain. Someone was walking down the alley. I forced my eyes open a fraction of an inch. A towering figure stood over me, blocking out the dim streetlights. "Well," a deep, chilling voice murmured, vibrating with a dark, terrifying amusement. "Look at what my pathetic brother did to you."

"The bleeding has stopped. My private physicians managed to stabilize you." The voice was a low, terrifying rumble that vibrated from the shadows of the room. I slowly turned my aching head. I was in a state-of-the-art medical wing, but the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the glittering London skyline told me I was inside a sprawling Mayfair penthouse. Sitting in a velvet armchair beside my bed was a man forged from pure, unapologetic darkness. He shared Jackson’s sharp jawline and striking features, but where Jackson exuded a polished, approachable charm, this man radiated absolute, lethal danger. It was Brendon. Jackson’s terrifying, billionaire older half-brother. The black sheep of the family who ruled the shadows of the city with an iron fist. "You," I whispered, my throat raw. "You brought me here." "You collapsed in my territory, Alynna," Brendon stated smoothly, crossing his long legs. "I couldn't exactly leave my sister-in-law to die in the gutter. Especially not after the fascinating show my pathetic brother put on tonight." I squeezed my eyes shut, the horrifying memory of the scalpel and Taylor's laughter burning behind my eyelids. "They were going to take my kidney. Taylor is dying... she needed it." Brendon let out a dark, mocking chuckle. It held absolutely no humor. He reached onto the glass table beside him, picked up a thick medical dossier, and tossed it directly onto my lap. "Read it," Brendon commanded. With trembling fingers, I opened the file. It was Taylor’s official, unredacted medical history. I scanned the pages, my eyes darting over the test results, the blood panels, the organ function charts. "She doesn't have kidney failure," I breathed, the words scraping out of my throat in sheer disbelief. "Her kidneys are completely healthy." "Flawless, actually," Brendon corrected, his piercing eyes locking onto mine. "Taylor faked the entire illness. She bribed a private physician to forge the initial diagnosis." "But why?" I choked out, my chest heaving violently. "Why would she put me on a butcher's table if she didn't even need the organ?" "Because she is a jealous, vain creature," Brendon said coldly. "She didn't just want Jackson. She wanted to permanently mutilate you. She wanted you scarred, broken, and hollowed out, simply because she couldn't stand the thought of you walking away whole. It was never about survival, Alynna. It was about sheer, unadulterated cruelty." The remaining air completely vanished from the quiet room. My best friend. The woman I had loved like a sister, had orchestrated my slaughter not out of desperation, but out of pure, malicious vanity. They had murdered my unborn child for absolutely nothing. A cold, terrifying numbness began to spread through my veins, freezing the last remaining fragments of my shattered heart. Brendon picked up a sleek remote control and pointed it at the massive flat-screen television mounted on the far wall. "And the performance of the year continues." The screen flickered to life. The news channel was broadcasting live from the pouring rain outside the Harley Street clinic. Standing at a podium, surrounded by a sea of flashing cameras and reporters, was Jackson. He looked completely and utterly devastated. His hair was disheveled, his tie was undone, and tears—thick, heavy, agonizing tears—were streaming down his face. "My wife is out there somewhere!" Jackson sobbed into the microphones, his voice cracking with a perfectly executed, hysterical grief. "Alynna was in a terrible accident at Sotheby’s. She was disoriented. She ran from the hospital before the doctors could treat her. Please! She is pregnant with our first child! I am offering a five-million-pound reward to anyone who brings my beloved wife home safely!" My stomach violently turned. The sickening hypocrisy of his tears made bile rise in my throat. He was playing the tragic, desperate husband to the world, while just hours ago, he had coldly ordered a doctor to cut me open without anesthesia. "He's a monster," I whispered, my nails digging into the silk sheets. "He's a parasite," Brendon corrected, stepping closer to the bed. "While he stands in the rain crying for the cameras, his legal team is secretly filing emergency injunctions in the high courts." I looked up at him, my brow furrowing. "Injunctions for what?" "To declare you legally dead," Brendon revealed, his voice dropping to a lethal, chilling frequency. "The moment the courts grant the presumption of death due to your catastrophic blood loss, Jackson inherits everything in your name. Including the multi-million-dollar design company your deceased parents left you before you became an orphan." The final puzzle piece violently snapped into place. The mousy, submissive girl who had loved Jackson evaporated into the ether. The grief for my lost baby hardened into a weapon of pure, indestructible titanium. I didn't want to cry anymore. I didn't want to hide. I wanted blood. I looked at Brendon. Brendon reached inside his tailored jacket and pulled out a crisp, gold-embossed document. He slid it across the mattress, right over Taylor's forged medical file. Beside it, he placed a heavy, solid gold fountain pen. It was a real, legally binding marriage certificate. "Sign that paper. Marry me. Let me give you the power to crush him into dust. Let's go crash his little press conference." I didn't hesitate. I didn't blink. I picked up the gold pen and signed my name on the dotted line, legally binding my soul to the devil himself. I dropped the pen and slowly pushed the silk sheets off my legs. I stood up, ignoring the agonizing pain in my ribs. I looked directly into my new husband's eyes, my own reflecting a cold, murderous promise. "Give me a scalpel," I whispered, my voice completely devoid of mercy. "I have a surgery to finish."

"God, they are so incredibly gullible," Jackson laughed, his voice echoing in the luxurious suite. He wiped a fake tear from his cheek. The cork of the vintage champagne popped with a loud, celebratory crack. Taylor emerged from the adjoining room. She wore a crimson silk robe that clung perfectly to her healthy body. "Did you see the look on that reporter's face?" Taylor giggled. She walked over and accepted a crystal glass from him. "You should win an award for that crying fit. They bought every single second of it." "Of course they did," Jackson sneered. He pulled her close, kissing her neck. "The whole world is crying for the poor, heartbroken widower. By tomorrow morning, the courts will declare her legally gone. The design company, the properties, everything she owned will be ours." "She really thought you loved her," Taylor said. She took a long sip of her champagne, her eyes gleaming with malice. "It’s almost sad how blindly devoted she was." "She was a means to an end," Jackson replied coldly. "A spare part. Nothing more." A loud, electronic beep suddenly pierced the room. The heavy double doors locked with a resounding, metallic thud. Jackson frowned. He set his glass down on the marble counter. "What was that?" "Probably just the security system," Taylor dismissed, taking another sip. "No," Jackson said, stepping back. "That sounded like the lockdown protocol." Before he could take another step, the inner doors of the suite slid open. I walked in. I was no longer the bleeding, broken girl they had left to die on a cold steel table. I wore a breathtaking, midnight-blue silk gown that swept across the floor, perfectly hiding the bandages on my ribs. My hand rested lightly on the arm of my new husband, Brendon. He stood beside me, radiating a dark, lethal authority that instantly sucked all the oxygen from the room. Jackson’s champagne flute slipped from his fingers. It shattered against the marble floor, the expensive liquid splashing his shoes. The color completely drained from his face. "Alynna?" Jackson choked out. He stumbled backward as if he had just seen a ghost. "How... you’re supposed to be dead." Taylor dropped her glass next. Her jaw unhinged in pure terror. "Brendon? What are you doing with her?" "Good evening, Jackson," I said, my voice eerily calm. "You always loved putting on a show, Jackson. But you forgot to turn off the cameras." "What are you talking about?" Jackson demanded. His voice trembled violently. I pointed to the sleek security lenses mounted in the corners of the suite. A small red light blinked on each of them. "Brendon's security team redirected the clinic's internal feed directly to the press monitors outside," I revealed. "No," Jackson breathed, shaking his head. "Yes," I continued, my voice echoing in the silent room. "Every single reporter standing in the rain just watched you pop champagne. They heard you laugh about my death. They are broadcasting this exact moment live to the entire world." "Turn it off!" Jackson yelled. He lunged toward the wall panel, his hands shaking. "Brendon, turn it off right now!" "It's too late," I whispered. "They already know. I sent them the proof of your fake marriage registry. I sent them Taylor’s perfectly healthy medical records. The world knows she never had kidney failure. They know you orchestrated the chandelier falling." Taylor let out a strangled gasp, covering her mouth. "You... you ruined us." "I haven't even started," I promised softly. "Brendon just bought every single debt you owe. You don't own your cars, your penthouse, or even the clothes on your back. You are utterly, publicly, and completely ruined." The reality of his destruction crashed down on him. Jackson’s knees buckled. He collapsed onto the shattered glass on the marble floor, ignoring the sharp cuts on his skin. Tears—real, desperate, agonizing tears—spilled down his cheeks. "Alynna, please!" Jackson sobbed. He crawled toward me, reaching out with trembling hands. "You took my money! You took my reputation! We're even! I have absolutely nothing left! Please let us go!" I looked down at the man I had loved for three years. He was nothing but a pathetic, sniveling coward. I smiled coldly, the ice in my veins freezing my heart completely. "Financial ruin was just business, Jackson," I said, my voice dropping to a lethal whisper. I nodded to Brendon. The doors behind us swung open. Four of Brendon’s massive, suited guards marched into the room. They weren't alone. They were pushing a heavy, sterile steel operating table. Taylor screamed as the guards grabbed her arms. "No! Let me go! Jackson, help me!" Taylor shrieked, her voice tearing through the room. She kicked and thrashed, but they effortlessly lifted her off the ground. They slammed her down onto the cold metal. Thick leather straps were instantly buckled over her wrists, her ankles, and her chest. Jackson scrambled backward, his eyes wide with absolute, primal terror. I walked over to the surgical tray resting on the edge of the table. I picked up a gleaming silver scalpel, the metal cold and heavy in my hand. I turned to face my ex-husband. "You ordered an organ extraction," I reminded him, my eyes burning with a dark, unholy fire. "You wanted a kidney but failed. Now, I want what you owe me for killing my unborn child." I pointed the blade directly at his chest. "Someone is losing a heart tonight, Jackson," I vowed, the absolute finality of my words suffocating the room. "Choose. Her, or you."

The heavy, suffocating silence in the VIP suite was broken only by the sound of Jackson’s ragged, pathetic breathing. He remained on his knees, surrounded by the shattered crystal of his celebratory champagne, staring intently at the gleaming silver scalpel in my hand. "Alynna, please," Jackson begged. "You can't do this. I'm your husband. I loved you." "You loved what I could give you," I corrected. "You loved my blind devotion. You loved my inheritance. And you loved my healthy organs." I took a slow, deliberate step toward him. Beside me, Brendon stood like a towering shadow of death. "Someone is paying the price tonight, Jackson," I repeated. "You ordered a harvest. You wanted to carve me open on a butcher's block. Now, the debt is finally due. Choose. Her, or you." On the heavy steel operating table a few feet away, Taylor thrashed wildly. She fought against the leather straps binding her wrists and ankles. Her crimson robe twisted tightly around her struggling body. "Jackson!" Taylor shrieked. Her voice tore through the room in pure panic. "Tell them no! You promised me! Please, don't let them do this to me!" Jackson didn't even look at her. "Take her!" Jackson screamed. His voice cracked with pure, desperate hysteria. He pointed a violently shaking finger at the woman he claimed to love. "Take her heart! Cut her open, not me! I don't care what you do to her, just let me live! Take her heart!" Taylor froze instantly. The frantic thrashing stopped. A look of absolute, world-shattering betrayal washed over her tear-streaked face. "You bastard!" Taylor wailed. She let out a bloodcurdling scream of pure agony and despair. "I did this for you! I faked everything for you! You said I was the only one you loved!" "Shut up!" Jackson yelled back at her, his face pale and slick with cold sweat. He looked back at me, his eyes wide and pleading. "Alynna, listen to me. It was her idea. All of it. She wanted your money. She wanted your organs. I was just going along with it because she threatened me. Please, you have to believe me. She was always jealous of you, so she seduced me." I stood there, looking down at the man kneeling in the spilled champagne. The sheer, absolute disgust rising in my throat was suffocating. I had spent three years of my life worshipping this pathetic creature. I had cooked his meals, nursed him through fevers, and carried his innocent child. I had been willing to die for him. And he was absolutely nothing. He was a hollow, empty shell of a man who would throw anyone to the wolves just to save his own skin. "You truly are a monster, Jackson," I whispered. "Just let me walk away. You can have her. You can do whatever you want to her. Just let me go." I looked at the scalpel in my hand. My fingers were trembling. It wasn't from fear, but from the overwhelming, intoxicating rush of absolute power. I could do it. I could drag this blade across his chest and watch the life drain from his eyes. I could carve out the heart he had just offered up so easily. But as I stared at his sniveling, tear-stained face, the ice in my veins began to thaw, replaced by a cold, calculating clarity. I would not stoop to their level. I would not let their darkness consume my soul. I opened my hand. The silver scalpel slipped from my fingers. It clattered loudly against the marble floor, landing right beside Jackson’s trembling knees. Jackson let out a massive, shuddering gasp of relief. He slumped forward, pressing his forehead against the cold floor. "Thank you," he sobbed uncontrollably. "Thank you, Alynna. I knew you couldn't do it. I knew you were too good to be a killer." "I am not good," I interrupted. "I simply refuse to ever dirty my own hands with your worthless blood." I turned my gaze to the massive, suited guards standing at attention near the walls. "Strap him down," I commanded. Jackson’s head snapped up. His eyes widened in fresh, primal terror. "What? No! You said—" "I said I wasn't going to cut you," I corrected smoothly. I stepped back, moving closer to Brendon's protective warmth. Before Jackson could even scramble to his feet, two of Brendon’s guards lunged forward. They grabbed Jackson by the arms, hauling him off the floor with brutal, unforgiving efficiency. "No! Get off me!" Jackson kicked and screamed. He thrashed wildly, but it was absolutely useless. They dragged him across the room. They slammed him onto a second steel operating table that had just been wheeled in from the shadows. Thick leather straps were instantly buckled over his wrists, his ankles, and his chest. He was secured right next to Taylor. "Alynna, please!" Jackson shrieked. He pulled violently against the heavy restraints. "Don't do this! You can't do this!" Taylor turned her head to look at him. Her eyes were filled with venom and hatred. "Welcome to hell, Jackson," she spat. I walked over to the narrow space between their tables. I looked at Taylor, who was sobbing uncontrollably, and then at Jackson, who was hyperventilating in pure panic. "You wanted a harvest," I said coldly. My voice was completely devoid of any human mercy. I looked past them, nodding to the team of private, corrupt doctors Brendon had brought into the suite. They stood in the shadows, waiting for my final word. "Leave it to the doctors for the operation," I ordered. "Take their kidneys. And take their bone marrow. Drain their blood. Do whatever you want. Make sure they feel every single second of it." I turned on my heel and walked toward the heavy oak doors of the suite. Brendon fell into step beside me. As the heavy doors opened, the agonizing, bloodcurdling screams of Jackson and Taylor echoed behind me. The sound vibrated off the marble walls, filling the corridor. The sound of their absolute destruction should have brought me a profound, triumphant satisfaction. But the moment the doors clicked shut, sealing them inside their own personal hell, the fiery adrenaline that had been keeping me upright completely vanished. The entire world tilted violently on its axis. A sudden, blinding wave of absolute agony ripped through my lower abdomen. It was a vicious, tearing cramp, a thousand times worse than the pain on the butcher's table. My breath caught in my throat. A fresh rush of warmth soaked through the thick bandages beneath my silk gown. "Alynna?" Brendon’s voice cracked with a sudden, sharp alarm. My knees buckled. The glittering chandeliers above blurred into a chaotic smear of light. I was bleeding out. The physical aftershocks of the devastating miscarriage were finally dragging me under. "Brendon," I gasped, my vision going completely black. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't speak. I collapsed forward, the darkness swallowing me whole. But before I hit the cold floor, strong, muscular arms caught me. I fell directly into Brendon’s chest, my fingers weakly clutching the lapels of his bespoke suit as the pain tore my world apart.