My Husband's Brother Owns My Secret

Faye Hartman POV

The Caldwell estate loomed like a mausoleum against the gray Chicago sky. Returning here felt less like coming home and more like stepping back into a coffin.

I slipped into the master suite, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. The silence of the house was heavy, suffocating, a stark contrast to the charged, dangerous quiet of the penthouse I had just fled.

I locked myself in the bathroom, gripping the edge of the marble sink until my knuckles turned white. In the harsh vanity light, the damage was undeniable. A bruise, dark and blooming like a violet, marred the pale skin of my neck.

His mark.

A shiver traced my spine—not of fear, but of a lingering, phantom touch. I scrubbed at the memory, layering thick concealer over the hickey until the evidence of my infidelity vanished beneath a mask of porcelain perfection.

The bedroom door slammed open.

Joshua stood in the doorway, his tie undone, his face pale and clammy. He looked nothing like the powerful men of his bloodline. He possessed the Caldwell name but none of the spine.

"Where the hell were you?" he snapped, though his voice lacked true thunder. It was the bark of a small dog trying to sound big.

"I had a migraine," I lied, my voice steady despite the tremor in my hands. "I slept in the guest wing. You were too busy charming the donors to notice."

He scoffed, walking past me to toss his jacket onto the bed. "Don't start with your needy whining, Faye. I have enough on my plate."

As he turned, the morning light caught the side of his neck.

I froze.

Three angry, red lines raked down his skin, disappearing into his collar. They were fresh. Jagged.

"Cut yourself shaving?" I asked, my tone dripping with ice.

Joshua flinched, his hand flying to his neck. "Yes. New razor."

"Funny," I said, stepping closer, my fear momentarily eclipsed by a surge of cold clarity. "Since when do razors leave claw marks?"

His eyes narrowed, panic flickering behind the bluster. "You're delusional. Stop looking for problems that don't exist."

He shoved past me, retreating into the bathroom and slamming the door. The lock clicked—a coward's barrier.

I turned to the dresser, my gaze landing on a crumpled piece of hotel stationery sitting next to his cufflinks. It wasn't mine.

My fingers trembled as I smoothed out the paper. The handwriting was looped and messy, feminine.

The morning sickness is killing me, Josh. I need cash for the doctor. And I need that new song you promised. My set at the Onyx is stale.

- C

The air left my lungs.

C. Carlotta Rowe. The singer Joshua had been 'managing' for months.

Morning sickness.

He had denied me a child for three years, claiming the timing wasn't right, claiming the family instability was too high. But he had planted a seed in a club singer.

And the song.

My eyes burned, but not with tears. I looked at the locked drawer of my desk where my notebooks were hidden. I wrote under the name 'Iris', pouring my soul into jazz lyrics that Joshua sold to the club, claiming he had 'discovered' them. He was stealing my voice to build a pedestal for his mistress.

The bathroom door opened. Joshua emerged, water dripping from his face. He saw the paper in my hand.

For a second, there was silence. Then, he moved with a speed fueled by pure panic. He snatched the note from my fingers, his grip bruising.

Without a word, he marched to the fireplace and tossed the paper onto the dying embers. We watched as the flames curled the edges, turning the evidence of his betrayal into ash.

"You saw nothing," he whispered, stepping into my personal space. The smell of stale alcohol and another woman's perfume wafted off him. "If you breathe a word of this... remember what happened to your father's business. I can make the rest of the Hartman legacy disappear, Faye. Starting with you."

He adjusted his collar, masking the scratches, and walked out the door as if he hadn't just threatened to destroy me.

I stood there for a long minute, the heat of the fire doing nothing to warm the chill in my bones.

He thought I was broken. He thought I was just a hostage, a trophy to be shelved and silenced.

I turned and walked out of the bedroom, but I didn't go downstairs. I went to the East Wing, to the dusty storage room that the maids ignored. Behind a stack of covered chairs, I pried open the loose wainscoting.

My sanctuary.

Inside the small alcove sat a wooden box filled with sheet music—the originals. The proof. I grabbed a quarter from the stash I kept there and slipped it into my pocket.

I needed air. I needed leverage.

I left the estate, walking briskly past the guards who barely glanced at the 'trophy wife'. I found the payphone three blocks away, the metal cold against my ear.

I dialed the number I had memorized years ago.

"Fiona," I said when the line clicked open. My voice was no longer the trembling whisper of a victim. It was sharp. Jagged. "I need a favor. I need Joshua's bank statements from the last six months. And I need everything you can dig up on a singer named Carlotta Rowe."

"Faye?" Fiona's voice was groggy but alert. "What's going on?"

I watched a black sedan drive past, my reflection in the phone booth glass looking back at me—pale, scarred, but standing.

"Vendetta," I murmured. "I'm going to burn his world down."