Chapter 2

The next few weeks with Antone were a blur of manufactured bliss. He was the perfect boyfriend, attentive and romantic. But sometimes, a strange look would cross his face when he saw Chelsea, a flicker of intense emotion that he would quickly mask with a smile for Dallas. She dismissed it as a brother's concern for his future sister-in-law.

It was a stupid, foolish thing to do.

One evening, she was in Antone's room, waiting for him to get out of the shower. His laptop was open on the desk. A chat notification popped up on the screen. It was from one of his bandmates.

"Dude, you still playing the long game with the charity case? Don't you get tired of pretending?"

Dallas froze. Her blood ran cold.

With trembling hands, she scrolled up through the chat history.

"It's not so bad," Antone had written a few weeks ago. "She's easy to handle. A few sweet words, a sad song, and she melts. Anything to keep her away from Desmond and Chelsea. I can't let her ruin this for Chelsea."

Another message: "Chelsea looked so happy today. As long as she's happy, I can put up with Dallas for a little longer. It's not like I'm actually touching her. Just enough to keep her hooked."

The words blurred. Every tender touch, every whispered "I love you," every shared moment-it was all a lie. A carefully constructed performance. He wasn't protecting her. He was protecting Chelsea. The woman his brother was engaged to. The woman Antone was secretly, obsessively in love with.

He had used her grief, her vulnerability, her love. He had made her a pawn in his own twisted game of unrequited love.

A wave of nausea washed over her. She stumbled back from the laptop, a choked sob escaping her lips. She had been betrayed. Not once, but twice. By two brothers.

The bedroom door opened. Antone stood there, a towel around his waist, a smile on his face. The smile vanished when he saw her expression.

"Dallas? What's wrong?"

He saw the open laptop, the chat window, and his face went pale. He knew he was caught.

The kiss was desperate, tasting of mint toothpaste and the faint, bitter scent of alcohol on his breath. It was a smell Dallas hadn't noticed before. He'd been drinking.

Her mind, sharpened by the fresh, brutal clarity of his betrayal, reacted instantly. This wasn't a kiss of passion or love. It was an act of possession, a frantic attempt to reassert control.

Her hands came up and shoved against his chest. Hard.

"Get off me."

Antone stumbled back, genuine surprise on his face. He was used to her being pliant, eager.

"Dallas? Baby, what's wrong?" He tried to pull her close again, his voice dropping to the smooth, coaxing tone he used so well. "Is this about what you read? It's not what it looks like. I can explain."

His words were poison. Every syllable was a lie she could now see with painful clarity.

"You're still thinking about him, aren't you?" Antone's expression shifted, the manufactured concern curdling into something ugly when she didn't immediately melt. "Desmond. That's it. You're using this as an excuse because you're upset he's getting married."

His grip on her arms tightened, his fingers digging into her skin. The gentle musician was gone, replaced by a man whose charisma was a thin veil for a dark, possessive anger.

"It doesn't matter," Dallas said, her voice flat and cold. "Stop pretending you care."

"Pretending?" He laughed, a harsh, humorless sound. "I'm the one who was here for you! I'm the one who picked up the pieces after he broke your heart!"

He misunderstood. He thought her words were about Desmond. His ego couldn't conceive of any other reason for her rejection.

"I gave you everything!" he snarled, his face close to hers.

He grabbed her, pushing her back toward the bed. The force of it knocked the air from her lungs.

Before she could react, he was looming over her, his weight pinning her down. He ripped at the collar of her dress, the simple blue fabric tearing with a sound that echoed the shredding of her last illusions.

His eyes were wild, filled with a desperate, hungry look she'd never seen before.

"Why are you still so obsessed with him?" he demanded, his voice a low growl. "I'm here. I'm the one who loves you. Why can't you see that?"

Humiliation and a cold, sharp fear washed over her. She struggled, pushing at his shoulders, but he was too strong.

"Antone, stop," she said, her voice firm. "I don't want this."

Her rejection only seemed to fuel his rage. He was drunk, angry, and out of control.

"You're mine, Dallas," he hissed, his mouth crashing down on hers again, a flurry of wet, aggressive kisses that made her feel like she was drowning.

Then he started talking, his words a broken, slurred confession against her skin.

"Why does he get everything? He gets the company... he gets her. She's so perfect. Why won't she just look at me?"

He was crying now, hot tears falling onto her cheek. He wasn't talking to her. The "she" in his desperate plea wasn't Dallas. It was Chelsea.

The pieces clicked into place with horrifying speed. The chat logs. His obsession. This drunken, violent display. He was on her, but in his mind, he was with Chelsea. He was acting out a sick fantasy, and Dallas was just the stand-in.

The coldness in her veins turned to ice. It was a violation so profound it transcended the physical.

With a surge of adrenaline, she brought her hand up and slapped him across the face. The sound was sharp, shocking in the quiet room.

He froze, his head snapping to the side. The wildness in his eyes flickered, replaced by a dazed confusion.

"Who am I, Antone?" she asked, her voice shaking with rage and a terrible, soul-deep sorrow. "Who do you think you're with right now?"

The sting of the slap seemed to sober him up. He blinked, his gaze clearing, and for the first time, he seemed to truly see her. He saw the torn dress, the terror in her eyes, the red mark on her skin where his fingers had dug in.

A look of dawning horror crossed his face.

"Dallas... I... I'm so sorry," he stammered, scrambling off her. "I didn't mean... I was drunk."

He reached for her, but she flinched away as if he were on fire.

"I'm sorry," he pleaded, his voice cracking. "Please, Dallas. I love you."

The words were meaningless now, an automatic script he couldn't deviate from.

She sat up, pulling the torn fabric of her dress together. The warmth of his presence was now a chilling poison. She was shivering, but her mind was strangely calm. The worst had happened. There were no more illusions to shatter.

"Those things you said," she stated, her voice steady. "Were they just drunk talk?"

"Yes! Of course," he said, too quickly. "Just nonsense. I love you, Dallas. Only you."

She looked into his eyes and saw the lie. He was a good actor, but she knew the script now. She knew all the lines. And she was done playing her part.

She stood up, moving toward the door.

"Dallas, wait," he begged, grabbing her hand. "Don't go."

She closed her eyes for a moment, a wave of exhaustion washing over her. She was so tired of this house, of this family, of their games. It was time to end it.