I Died So My Brother Can Have Justice

Every time my wife brought her assistant into the bedroom, she made me kneel by the bed and wait.

If the assistant didn’t know how to do it, she’d have me demonstrate—step by humiliating step.

I always waited patiently for them to finish, then went over to serve them tea and water.

Celeste would pinch the back of my neck and ask:

“Aren’t you jealous?”

I shook my head, even helping them prepare contraceptives when needed.

That only infuriated her more. She’d throw me onto the bed again and again out of spite.

But the next day, I’d still kneel obediently beside the bed, waiting like always.

She’d grit her teeth and say:

“A grown man acting like this... You’re pathetic!”

I only smiled at her.

She didn’t know—

That would be the last time I’d ever be with her.

——

When I got home that evening, the scene on the sofa was all too familiar.

Damien had his back to me but turned at the sound of the door, a mocking smile curling on his lips.

Celeste raised her voice deliberately, just loud enough for me to hear.

I tied on my apron and walked into the kitchen, pretending I hadn’t seen anything. I chopped vegetables and waited for them to finish. Then I stepped out to clean up the aftermath.

Damien Locke, as always, needed honey water afterward. His throat got dry.

I knelt beside him silently, offering the drink with both hands.

I felt like a servant from some ancient dynasty.

Celeste was doing her makeup. She glanced at me, her brows furrowing slightly.

“Plop!”

The cup hit the ground. Hot honey water splashed across the floor, scalding my skin.

“Hey! Gid, are you okay?” Damien rushed over, pretending to help.

He grabbed my arm—hard—digging his fingers into the flesh until I gasped.

His smile stayed pleasant, but he leaned in and whispered with veiled menace:

“Brother, why so clumsy? If you don’t want to serve me, just say so. No need to make a scene.”

I gritted my teeth, forced a smile.

“Why trouble you with something so trivial?”

I invited him to sit down, then knelt again to clean up the spilled honey.

My palms and knees burned with small cuts, and the sticky sweetness stung where it touched broken skin. But I didn’t let it show.

I even lifted Damien’s feet gently to wipe beneath them.

Celeste tossed his clothes at him.

“Go home.”

He looked surprised.

“Mr. Hartwell?”

“You’ve got nothing left to do here.”

Damien gave me a long, resentful glance before slipping on his clothes, fastening the expensive watch she’d bought him. Then he left without another word.

I stayed kneeling, unmoving.

Not because I wanted to—but because the pain in my knees was sharp and raw. Even the smallest shift hurt.

Celeste’s voice turned cold.

“Still nothing to say?”

I shook my head.

She clenched her jaw.

“It’s just the two of us here. No listening devices. You can talk freely.”

“I know,” I replied quietly.

She threw her cigarette to the ground and stormed toward me. One hand gripped my neck, the other held up a photo of a woman.

“You and I both know she’s the killer. Why won’t you testify? What’s your connection to her?”

I stared at the woman in the photo and let out a bitter laugh.

“I don’t know her.”

“Then why protect her?”

I met Celeste’s furious gaze, unwavering.

“I’m not protecting her.”

She shoved me to the floor, pacing the room like a storm waiting to break.

“Was my brother not good to you?”

At the mention of Alden, my throat tightened. My eyes stung.

I shook my head.

“He was the best brother I’ve ever had.”

She crouched beside me and yanked my chin up.

“Then how can you let the one who killed him walk free? Is this how you repay him?”