After My Groom Humiliated Me, I Took His Brother

The air conditioning in the Scott Enterprise boardroom was set to a glacial chill, but a single bead of sweat tracked down Ridge’s temple. He stood at the head of the long mahogany table, aggressively tapping a gold pen against a glossy real estate prospectus. I sat near the back, my presence as a newly minted Scott a silent, suffocating weight on his shoulders.

"The waterfront acquisition is foolproof," Ridge insisted, his voice a pitch too high, lacking its usual arrogant drawl. "We sign today, and the shell company handles the zoning."

I stared at the contract copies distributed around the table. The shell company. A thinly veiled funnel straight into Maci Turner’s manicured hands. My stomach tightened.

In the corner, Damian sat on a leather sofa, humming a tuneless melody while balancing a scalding cup of black coffee on his knee. His shoulders were rounded, his jaw slack. The perfect idiot.

"If there are no objections," the lead board director murmured, reaching for his reading glasses.

Damian stood up. His foot caught the edge of the Persian rug.

He pitched forward with a startled yelp, his arms flailing. The porcelain cup shattered against the polished mahogany. A tidal wave of boiling, dark-roast coffee swept across the table, pooling directly onto the director’s open folder.

"Damn it, Damian!" Ridge roared, slamming his fist down.

"S-sorry," Damian stammered, shrinking back, his hands trembling violently.

The director sighed, dabbing at the soaked paper with a napkin. He squinted at the smeared ink. "Wait a moment. Paragraph three... Ridge, these zoning fees are astronomical. And the beneficiary routing is completely obfuscated. This is a massive liability."

Ridge’s face drained of color. "It's a standard clause—"

"The deal is halted pending a full forensic review," the director snapped, closing the ruined folder.

Amidst the chaotic shuffling of chairs and Ridge’s hyperventilating panic, I looked at Damian. He was still cowering, but for a fraction of a second, his dark eyes locked onto mine. Through the veil of his feigned terror, he delivered a single, razor-sharp wink.

Three hours later, the metallic tang of adrenaline coated my tongue as I stood in my bedroom in the east wing. The custom emerald silk gown I was supposed to wear to tonight’s family dinner lay on the floor, shredded into jagged, lifeless ribbons. The sickly-sweet stench of Maci’s signature vanilla perfume lingered in the air like a taunt.

My thumb aggressively rubbed my bare left ring finger. Panic fluttered in my chest. Walking into the main house looking defeated was not an option, but I had nothing else formal enough for the Scott family’s draconian dress code.

Then, I saw it.

Laid carefully across the four-poster bed was a massive, matte-black garment bag. I unzipped it, the sound loud in the quiet room. Inside hung a breathtaking, midnight-blue haute couture gown. The fabric felt like liquid night between my fingers, structured and fiercely elegant. Pinned to the collar was a thick cardstock note, typed and unsigned:

*Armor for the battlefield.*

The Scott family dining room felt less like a place of nourishment and more like a tribunal. Crystal chandeliers cast fractured light over the heavy silver cutlery. Ridge sat across from me, his eyes bruised with the day’s failure. Beside him, his mother, Beatrice, held court.

"I must say, Sophia," Beatrice began, her voice the auditory equivalent of crushed ice. She didn't look at me; she stared pointedly at Damian, who was currently struggling to cut a piece of duck confit. "We expected you to quietly disappear after Ridge discarded you. Instead, you attach yourself to the family retard. It’s pathetic. I’ll be speaking with the trustees tomorrow to sever both of your stipends. The Scott empire does not fund charity cases."

The blood roared in my ears. I placed my silver fork down. The soft *clink* silenced the room.

"Damian is not a charity case, Beatrice," I said, my voice dangerously soft, slicing through the stifling air. "He is your late husband's eldest son. And unlike others at this table," I let my gaze drag over a flinching Ridge, "he doesn't need to steal from his own company to prove his worth."

Beatrice’s knuckles turned white around her wine glass. "How dare you—"

"I dare because he is my husband," I interrupted, leaning forward, the midnight-blue silk of my gown catching the light like drawn steel. "And if you ever speak of him with that vile word again, I will ensure every tabloid in this city knows exactly how the Scott matriarch treats her own blood."

Silence slammed down on the room. Beneath the table, Damian’s large, warm hand settled over my knee, his thumb tracing a slow, grounding circle.

At the far end of the table, Eleanor Scott, the elderly family matriarch, set down her crystal goblet. Her sharp, bird-like eyes darted between me and Damian. I watched her gaze snag on Damian’s silhouette. For a fleeting second, Damian had forgotten to slouch. His spine was perfectly rigid, his chin tilted at an angle of aristocratic defiance.

Eleanor inhaled sharply. I saw the recognition flash in her cloudy eyes. She wasn't looking at the family fool. She was looking at the ghost of the woman Beatrice had murdered.