Chapter 4

Brayden's eyes landed on the small, velvet-covered box on my nightstand. It was a gift I' d received years ago, a delicate silver locket. He had bought it for me, filled with photos of us. Now, it held a different kind of significance.

His gaze lingered, a flicker of greedy curiosity in his eyes. He reached for it, his fingers brushing against the soft fabric.

"Don't," I said, my voice sharper than I intended. I snatched it away, clutching it tightly.

A wicked idea, cold and precise, began to form in my mind. This box, this locket, it would be his final gift from me.

"This is for you, Brayden," I said, holding it out to him. "A token of my... appreciation."

His eyes lit up with a childlike delight. "For me? What is it, darling?"

"Something to remember me by," I said, a chilling smile playing on my lips. "When I'm gone."

He chuckled, a sound of pure satisfaction. "Always so dramatic, my love. But I'll treasure it." He tried to pry it open. "Can I open it now?"

"No," I stopped him. "Not yet. Open it on the night of the gala. Our big night. A celebration of everything we've built, together." My voice was laced with a venom only I could hear.

My departure was set for that night. His triumph would be his downfall. This locket would be the final, symbolic act, sealing his fate.

The law enforcement officers, who had been called after my initial report, were finishing their rounds. They'd found nothing amiss, convinced Brayden's charm and my forced composure meant everything was normal. They left, none the wiser.

For the next two days, Brayden played the part of the devoted partner. He brought me flowers, cooked my favorite meals, even tried to reignite old flames with whispered promises and tender touches. He recreated romantic moments from our past, attempts to soothe what he perceived as my lingering doubts.

There were moments, fleeting seconds, when a part of me, the old Clare, almost believed him. Almost wavered. Was I making a mistake? The thought was quickly crushed by the sheer weight of his deceit.

I endured his kisses, his embraces, each touch a fresh wave of nausea. I was a ghost already, moving through the motions, awaiting my true liberation.

My phone vibrated constantly. Holly. Her messages were relentless, a barrage of escalating taunts.

You're so slow, Clare. Always playing catch-up.

He' s ours now. Get over it.

Then, the detailed descriptions of their affair. Explicit. Cruel.

He says you' re so boring in bed. So predictable.

He laughs at your old-fashioned ideals. Your 'legacy' is a joke to him.

He told me he never loved you, not really. Just your money, and your restaurant.

The messages hit like physical blows. Each word a fresh wound. She mocked my age, my perceived lack of ambition outside the kitchen, my vulnerability. She even gloated about how she was spending the money I had poured into her career, the money I' d earned.

Remember that bonus you gave me? Brayden and I used it to buy my new car! Thanks, sis!

Then, a video file. I knew what it was. I could feel it in my bones. Yet, a strange calm washed over me. This was it. The final piece of evidence.

I clicked play. Brayden would be home soon. But I had to see it. I needed to see it all.

The video opened to Brayden and Holly. In our bed. Her hand caressed his chest, his arm draped possessively around her.

"She really thinks we're just friends, doesn't she?" Holly purred into Brayden's ear.

"She's too naive," Brayden scoffed, pulling her closer. "Always was. Good for business, bad for... well, this." He kissed her.

"But what will we do about the baby?" Holly whispered, her eyes wide. "She was asking about that again last night. About kids."

My blood ran cold. The baby?

Brayden paused, a flicker of something I couldn't quite decipher crossing his face. "We'll handle it. She'll never know."

"But if she did, Brayden," Holly pressed, her voice laced with a manipulative edge. "She'd never let you go. She'd punish you. And me."

"Clare Harris has no power over us," Brayden said, his voice flat, devoid of any warmth. "She's just a chef. A name. We'll take her name, her restaurant, her money. And she'll be left with nothing."

Holly giggled, then asked, "What about that dinner party last month? You told her you couldn't stand her talking about starting a family with you."

"She's a chef, not a mother, Holly. She's too old anyway," Brayden said, his voice dripping with condescension. "Imagine her trying to raise a kid. It would be a disaster. No, I told her I want us to focus on the restaurant, on our future. Together."

My breath hitched. The screen blurred. My own longing for a family, a child, a dream I had shared with Brayden, had been a joke to him. A means to an end.

Holly then brought up my past. "She's so sensitive about her father leaving her. Always craving approval. Easy to manipulate, right?"

"Easily," Brayden agreed. "She's always been desperate for a family. Her dead mother, her estranged father... she clung to me like a drowning woman. I just gave her what she wanted to hear."

I gasped. The memories of my desperate pleas to Brayden for a family, for a sense of belonging, twisted into a grotesque parody. He had seen my vulnerability and weaponized it.

Then, Holly's final question. "So, when will you leave her? When will you make me your wife?"

Brayden hesitated. "Soon, my love. Soon. After we've secured everything."

I pressed stop. My world, already shattered, crumbled into dust. Not just an affair. Not just embezzlement. But a baby. And a calculated, cold-blooded plan to destroy me.

The front door opened. Brayden's cheerful voice echoed through the house. "Clare, I'm home! How about that omelet?"

He walked into the living room, his smile fading when he saw my ravaged face. "Clare? What's wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Worse," I whispered, my voice devoid of emotion. "I saw a video."

His eyes widened, a flicker of panic. He snatched my phone, his cheerful demeanor vanishing. "What are you talking about?"

"It doesn't matter," I said, a strange calm settling over me. "It's all true, isn't it?"

He stared at me, his face a mask of confusion. "What's true? Clare, you're not making sense."

"You're right," I said, pushing past him. "I'm not. But you will. Soon enough."