The Fake Daughter Took Everything, So I Destroyed Them

The car ride was suffocatingly quiet.

When the vehicle finally stopped, I looked out the window.

The Sinclair manor sat in the dead of night, wrapped in heavy fog. It didn't look like a home. It looked like a fortress.

Rows of men in black suits stood by the iron gates.

No one welcomed me. No one offered a warm greeting.

An elderly butler with a cold face led me straight up the stairs.

“The young master's temper has been... unstable,” the butler warned, not looking back. “Do not speak unless spoken to. Do not turn on the main lights.”

He stopped in front of a heavy oak door at the end of the hall.

He opened it, gestured for me to step inside, and didn't follow.

I stepped into the pitch-black room.

Click.

The heavy door shut behind me, and the lock turned from the outside.

I stood in the dark, my duffel bag gripped tightly in my hand.

The air in the room was freezing. It smelled faintly of expensive cedar and something sharp, like sterilized metal.

I braced myself.

I expected the heavy breathing of a dying man. I expected the squeak of a wheelchair, or the angry shout of a disfigured invalid.

Instead, I heard steady, even footsteps.

They were coming from the shadows near the balcony.

The moonlight spilled through the floor-to-ceiling windows, cutting across the dark room.

A figure stepped into the pale light.

My breath caught in my throat.

He was towering, easily over six feet tall, with shoulders broad enough to block out the light.

He wasn't in a wheelchair.

He wasn't covered in burns.

His face was breathtakingly handsome, with sharp, aristocratic features and eyes as cold as a frozen lake.

He stood firmly on his own two feet.

It was Brandon Sinclair.

Before I could even process the lie, he moved.

He was impossibly fast.

In a split second, I was slammed hard against the wall.

The duffel bag dropped from my hand.

A large, calloused hand gripped my jaw, pinning me in place. His fingers pressed dangerously close to my throat.

“Who sent you?”

His voice was a low, murderous rumble. It vibrated against my skin.

“Did Ashton finally run out of patience? Or did the elders decide to speed up my funeral?”

He leaned in closer. The sheer force of his presence was suffocating.

“Speak. Before I snap your neck.”

He was testing me.

He thought I was just another spy, another assassin sent by his greedy relatives to finish the job.

Anyone else would have cried.

Anyone else would have begged for their life, trembling under the weight of his killing intent.

But I had already died four years ago in those mountains. I had nothing left to fear.

I didn't flinch.

I didn't scream.

I looked the terrifying billionaire dead in the eye.

“If I were here to kill you, Mr. Sinclair,” I said, my voice completely steady, “I wouldn't have come through the front door.”

His eyes narrowed. The grip on my jaw tightened slightly.

I didn't break eye contact. Slowly, deliberately, I reached into my coat pocket.

Brandon’s muscles tensed, ready to strike if I pulled a weapon.

Instead, I pulled out my phone.

I unlocked the screen, opened the voice memo I had saved an hour ago, and hit play.

The quiet room was suddenly filled with Ashton’s bitter voice.

“I care about Brandon! The man is a half-dead cripple...”

Then, Candice’s smooth, venomous tone followed.

“A slight dosage increase in his pain management IV... He goes to sleep one night and simply doesn't wake up.”

I watched Brandon’s face as the recording played.

He didn't look surprised.

But the cold, murderous intent in his eyes slowly shifted into something else.

When the recording ended, the room fell into a heavy silence.

Brandon stared at me for a long moment.

Then, he let out a low, dark chuckle.

He released my jaw and took a step back, slipping his hands into his pockets.

“So,” Brandon said, his tone carrying a hint of dark amusement. “The sacrificial lamb has teeth.”

I rubbed my jaw, keeping my posture perfectly straight.

“The car accident,” I said calmly. “The paralysis. The six months to live. It was all a lie.”

“A necessary one,” he replied, walking over to a leather armchair and sitting down.

“The Sinclair empire is rotting from the inside. Traitors in the board, greedy relatives waiting for me to fall. I needed to flush them out.”

He looked at me, his gaze sharp and calculating.

“And they sent you. The disgraced Mercer daughter. The perfect scapegoat.”

“They think I'm stupid,” I said. “They think I'll quietly take the fall when they finally make their move against you.”

“And what do you want?” Brandon asked.

I walked toward him, stopping just a few feet away.

“A partnership.”

I laid it out plainly.

“I will play the role of the terrified, obedient wife. I will keep Ashton and Candice completely blind to the truth. I will be your eyes and ears inside this house.”

Brandon tilted his head, listening.

“In return,” I continued, my voice dropping to a cold, hard pitch. “You will protect me. And you will give me the power and resources I need to completely destroy the Mercer family.”

I didn't want a quiet escape.

I didn't want to just walk away and let karma do the work.

I wanted to be the karma.

Brandon looked at me.

For the first time, a genuine smile touched his lips. It was a dangerous, predatory smile.

He was fascinated.

He had expected a weeping, useless girl begging for mercy. Instead, he got a woman just as ruthless as he was.

Brandon stood up.

He reached out his hand.

“Deal, Mrs. Sinclair.”