After My Groom Humiliated Me, I Took His Brother

The midnight air in the east wing was thick, suffocating me in a way the custom silk sheets couldn't fix. I abandoned the four-poster bed, the hardwood floor biting into my bare feet as I wandered toward the faint, rhythmic hum of the concealed servers in Damian's study. The heavy mahogany door was cracked open, spilling a sliver of pale, bluish light into the corridor.

I raised my hand to push it open, a glass of ice water sweating against my palm, when a voice stopped me dead.

"Marcus, I don't care how deep Beatrice buried the shell companies. I want the final financial trail linking her to the hitman."

The voice was a low, resonant baritone. Ruthless. Articulate. It was the same voice that had offered me the keycard in the bridal suite, but stripped of all gentle restraint.

"We finalize the murder evidence by tomorrow," the voice commanded. "No more delays."

My lungs seized. My fingers went numb. The water glass slipped, shattering against the floorboards with a violent, echoing crash.

Inside the study, the shadow moved with lethal speed. The door swung wide. Damian stood there, a sleek phone gripped in his hand. He didn't slouch. His jaw wasn't slack. He looked like a king interrupted mid-conquest.

"I'll call you back," he murmured into the receiver, never breaking eye contact with me. He tossed the phone onto his desk.

The heat of betrayal flared in my chest, hot and suffocating. I rubbed my bare left ring finger, a phantom ache radiating up my arm. "Another Scott family lie," I whispered, my voice shaking with a dangerous, brittle edge. "How long have you been playing me, Damian?"

"I haven't played you, Sophia." He stepped forward, the predator I had glimpsed on our wedding night fully uncoiled. "I’ve played them. For twenty-two years."

"You expect me to believe—"

"Beatrice murdered my mother," he cut in, the words striking like physical blows. His dark eyes darkened further, swirling with an ancient, calcified grief. "I was seven. I watched her poison the tea, and when my mother stopped breathing, Beatrice looked at me and smiled. To survive, my mind broke. And when it healed, I made sure they believed it hadn't. A broken toy isn't a threat."

The anger draining from my veins was instantly replaced by a chilling, absolute clarity. I looked at the man who had hidden his brilliance behind a mask of humiliation, enduring decades of mockery to avenge the woman he loved. We were mirrors of each other—cast aside, underestimated, and burning alive with the need for retribution.

I stepped over the shattered glass, closing the distance between us without breaking his gaze. "You need the final evidence," I said, my voice dropping to a deadly calm. "How do we get it?"

A slow, lethal smile curved his lips. "We break into the Scott Enterprise physical servers."

By noon the next day, the marble lobby of the Scott Enterprise building was a hive of bespoke suits and calculated ambition. I adjusted the lapels of my crimson blazer, the color a deliberate provocation. Across the atrium, Damian shuffled behind a massive marble pillar, his shoulders hunched, his eyes fixed on the floor. Waiting.

I needed to pull every security camera and guard toward the center of the room. Fortunately, the perfect bait was strutting straight toward the executive elevators.

"Maci," I called out. My voice echoed off the vaulted ceiling, sharp and clear.

Maci Turner froze, her hand hovering over the call button. She turned, her lips tightening into a thin, glossy line. "Sophia. Are you lost? The charity ward is downtown."

I closed the distance, my heels clicking a steady, predatory rhythm against the stone. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw two security guards shift their weight, their hands resting near their radios. Perfect.

"I'm actually here to check on Ridge," I said, stopping mere inches from her. I let my gaze drag up and down her designer dress with deliberate, surgical disdain. "I heard the waterfront acquisition blew up in his face yesterday. A standard clause, wasn't it? Or was it just a sloppy attempt to funnel company money into a mistress's bank account?"

Maci’s neck flushed a violent, mottled red. "Keep your voice down, you crazy bitch."

"Why?" I tilted my head, raising my volume just enough to make the passing executives pause. "Are we keeping secrets, Maci? Like how Ridge is about to face a board inquiry because he can't hide his own incompetence?"

"Shut up!" Maci lunged, her acrylic nails flashing toward my face.

I stepped back effortlessly. The guards sprinted forward, shouting orders, completely abandoning their posts at the north corridor.

Through the glass reflection of the security desk, I watched Damian’s slouched silhouette vanish. He slipped through the unguarded fire doors with the fluid grace of a phantom. He had exactly ten minutes to meet Marcus Chen in the basement, bypass the biometric locks, and download the decrypted files that would end Beatrice Scott's life of luxury.

"Ma'am, step back," a guard barked, inserting himself between me and a hyperventilating Maci.

"She attacked me!" Maci shrieked, pointing a trembling finger.

I smoothed my blazer, projecting nothing but cool, aristocratic boredom. In my pocket, my phone buzzed with a single, encrypted text.

*Secured.*

I looked at Maci, a genuine, terrifying smile spreading across my face. "Have a wonderful afternoon, Maci. Enjoy the view from the top while it lasts."