Chapter 8 She's Dead

David's POV

Sandra's face was burned into my head.

No matter how many times I blinked or turned away, I could still see her standing there, shattered and humiliated.

"David? Are you even listening to me?"

Cyndrel's voice broke through my thoughts.

She was sitting at her vanity, removing her jewelry after the party.

She looked so composed, so perfect.

"That secretary of yours...Sandra. It's finally over, right? I can't believe she had the nerve to show up here like that. I actually trusted her."

I looked at my wife through the reflection in the mirror.

I felt a pang of nausea.

"Of course, honey. It's over," I said, the lie tasting like ash in my mouth.

"She was so delusional," she continued, shaking her head.

"Thinking she could trick us into believing she was pregnant. You wouldn't ever do that to me, right? You wouldn't throw everything we have away for a girl like that?"

She turned to face me, her eyes searching mine for a reassurance I didn't deserve.

"Of course not," I replied.

But as I watched her smile and return to her nighttime routine, I realized the depth of my own cowardice.

I had told everyone she was a predator, that she had obsessed over me, but the truth was much uglier.

I had let her in.

I had encouraged her.

Most of what happened was my fault. If I hadn't been so weak, if I hadn't sought comfort in her arms during my darkest moments, we wouldn't be standing on the edge of this ruins.

We went to bed. Every time I closed my eyes, I heard her scream.

'You're the father!'

I felt the splash of the champagne I had thrown in her face-a gesture meant to prove my loyalty to Cyndrel, but one that now felt like a brand of shame on my soul.

I couldn't stay in that bed.

Long after Cyndrel's breathing had evened out, I slipped out of the room. I grabbed my keys and drove.

I didn't have an address, but I had resources.

A few phone calls to my private security team, I had a location.

I found myself driving deep into the heart of a district.

The streets were narrow, cramped, and littered with the debris of poverty.

My luxury car felt like an alien spacecraft in these alleyways, drawing stares from the shadows.

This was where she lived? This was the world she went back to every night after leaving my study?

I found the building-a decaying apartment complex that looked like it was held together by nothing but rust and hope.

I climbed the stairs and knocked on a door that felt like it might fall off its hinges.

An older woman, looking weary and sharp-tongued, opened the door.

"What now? If you're looking for rent, I already told the police I don't have-" She stopped, her eyes widening as she took in my tailored suit.

"I'm looking for a woman named Sandra," I said, my voice tight.

"Sandra?" The woman let out a harsh, bitter laugh.

"You're too late, Mister. I kicked that girl out. She hasn't paid her bills in months. I threw her and her trashy clothes right out onto the pavement."

My heart dropped.

"What?! Where is she now?!"

"How should I know? She's probably sleeping under a bridge or back at whatever gutter she crawled out of. Good riddance, I say. She was nothing but trouble. Once I find out where she's hiding, I'm suing her for back rent."

The cruelty in the woman's voice made my blood boil.

It was the same cruelty I had shown Sandra.

I reached into my coat and pulled out a thick stack of bills-a large amount, far more than any rent she could possibly owe.

"Here," I said, shoving the money into the woman's hand.

"This covers everything Sandra owes you. And then some. Consider her debt settled."

Her jaw dropped as she fanned the bills.

"This... this is too much. Thank you! Thank you!"

I didn't stay for her gratitude.

I walked back to my car, my mind racing.

I needed to talk to her.

Privately.

Without Cyndrel watching, without the pressure of my reputation.

When I saw her crying at the party, something had shifted inside me.

At first I thought she was lying about the pregnancy...

But there was a look in her eyes-a raw, terrifying honesty-that told me I was really the father.

And if she was pregnant, and she was out there with nowhere to go...I have to find her.

I fucked up big time. My conscience is eating me alive.

I approached a group of men sitting on plastic crates nearby, drinking from a shared bottle.

"Hey. Have any of you seen a woman around here? Beautiful, long hair? She would have been carrying a suitcase."

The men looked at each other, then back at me with a smirk.

"Oh, yeah. We saw her. Quite a show she put on."

"Where did she go?" I demanded.

"Well," one of them said, leaning back.

"A car pulled up. A nice one, too. Not as fancy as yours, but close."

My pulse quickened.

"A car? Who was in it?"

"A man," the guy replied, scratching his chin.

"Tall guy. Handsome, too. Looked a bit like you, actually. He seemed to know her."

The air left my lungs. A man who looked like me.

There was only one person who fit that description.

"Harold..." I whispered into the dark.

A cold, sinking dread settled in my stomach. If my brother had Sandra, this is war.

I couldn't stay in that squatter area any longer.

I got back into my car and drove, my hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel. I needed to find her. I needed to fix this before the rot of what I'd done consumed everything.

As soon as I was back within city limits, I dialed my lead private investigator.

"James, I need an immediate location on a subject," I said, my voice tight.

"I'm sending you the photos and the last known coordinates now. I don't care what it costs. Just find him if he's with her!"

"On it, Sir David," he replied.

The next few hours were a living hell.

I sat in my office back at the mansion. I didn't know what time it was, or even what day it was. I had lost all track of time just thinking about her...

I couldn't stop thinking about her-the way her eyes had looked when the champagne hit her face, the way she had clutched those papers.

I had treated her like a nuisance, a stain on my reputation, but now that she was gone, her presence felt louder than ever.

I realized I was haunted. I had allowed the pressure of my name and Cyndrel's expectations to turn me into a man I didn't recognize.

I was pacing the floor when my phone buzzed.

I snatched it up, expecting James.

But the caller ID was blank.

"Hello?" I answered, my heart hammering.

"How are you, my good brother?"

The voice was smooth, cold, and instantly recognizable.

My grip tightened on the phone until the plastic groaned.

"Harold," I hissed.

"Where's Sandra?!"

He chuckled.

It was a dark, uneven sound.

"How does it feel, David? Knowing you've spent your life stealing from me!"

"I didn't steal anything from you, Harold," I growled, punching my desk with my free hand.

The dull thud echoed in the empty office.

"You lost because you're reckless. You're unstable!"

"Am I?" he purred.

"Well, if that's the case, then good luck with your life, David. And good luck with that heavy conscience you're carrying. Some things, once broken, can never be fixed. Enjoy the silence."

"Harold!"

The line went dead. I stared at the screen, my blood turning to ice.

Before I could process the threat, the phone rang again. This time, it was James.

"Any news?"

I barked, not even waiting for a greeting.

"Did you find her?! Is she with Harold?!"

There was a long, agonizing pause on the other end of the line.

I could hear James' heavy breathing.

"Sir... David..."

"Speak, damn it!"

"The woman you were looking for... Sandra. She's dead, Sir."

The world seemed to tilt.

I felt the air leave my lungs as if I'd been kicked in the chest. I grabbed the edge of my desk to keep from collapsing.

"W-What? What are you talking about? That's impossible!"

"She wasn't seen with any other man the one you're talking about, Sir. Her body was found about an hour ago-floating in the river near the outskirts of the district. The local authorities have already declared it a suicide. There was no sign of foul play, just... a desperate jump."

His voice cracked slightly.

"And Sir... the medical examiner confirmed she was indeed pregnant. Four weeks. The child is gone, too."

The phone slipped from my fingers, hitting the plush carpet with a soft, muffled sound.

"No," I whispered to the empty room.

"No, no, no..."

The silence in the office became deafening.

I felt like the walls were closing in on me.

She was dead.

I had killed her. I hadn't pushed her into that water myself, but I might as well have.

I had stripped her of her dignity, her hope, and her safety, and then I had watched as the world swallowed her whole.

I fell into my chair, burying my face in my hands.

My breath came in jagged, broken sobs. All the power, all the billions, all the prestige in the world couldn't bring back the life I had just snuffed out.

"I-It's my fault..." I mourned into the darkness of my palms.

"It's all my fucking fault!"