Chapter 3

Farah Moore POV:

"Brandon?" Danial stammered, his face paling as he looked at his identical brother. "What are you doing here? I thought-"

"I live here," Brandon cut him off, his cold eyes fixed solely on me. He didn't spare a glance for his twin. It was as if Danial was nothing more than a piece of furniture.

"She tried to attack Caryl," Brandon stated, his voice devoid of any emotion.

"She attacked me!" I shot back, gesturing to the blood trickling down my temple. "She's insane! She needs to apologize."

The gash on my head was throbbing, a deep, searing pain. But the humiliation hurt more. I was the one bleeding, the one who had been assaulted, yet he looked at me as if I was the villain.

His gaze was flat, unmoved by the sight of my injury.

Caryl, meanwhile, had crumpled to the floor, her body shaking with sobs. "Brother, I'm so scared," she whimpered, reaching a hand out blindly. "I heard her voice, and I just... I thought she was going to hurt you. I'm sorry, I was just trying to protect you."

Brandon's icy expression immediately melted. He knelt beside her, gathering her into his arms with a tenderness that made my stomach clench. He rocked her gently, murmuring soft reassurances.

"It's okay, Caryl. I'm here. No one is going to hurt you."

I watched them, a bitter laugh rising in my throat. I remembered a time, years ago, when I had slipped and fallen down the stairs in our home. I had sprained my ankle badly, and the pain was excruciating. Brandon had simply stood at the top of the stairs, his face impassive, and told me to be more careful before calling the butler to help me.

His gentleness, his concern, his warmth... it was never for me. It was reserved for her and her alone.

I couldn't stand to watch it for another second. "I'm leaving," I said, my voice choked with disgust.

I turned to walk away, but Brandon's voice stopped me cold. "You're not going anywhere."

He was on his feet again, his tall frame blocking the exit. Caryl was still clinging to him, her face buried in his chest.

"You pushed Caryl," he said, his voice a low growl. "You will be punished according to Carlson family rules."

"Punished?" I stared at him, incredulous. "I'm the one who's hurt! She's the one who should be punished!"

Caryl peeked out from behind his arm. "Brother, make her kneel in the ancestral hall. Give her twenty lashes with the whip. She needs to learn her place."

My blood ran cold. "You have no right," I spat. "I'm not a member of your family."

"You will be next month," Brandon said coolly. "That's close enough."

Danial, ever the actor, stepped forward with a look of feigned concern. He held up the small, worn leather-bound book of sketches I always carried with me. It was filled with my private drawings, the last remaining piece of the artist I used to be.

"Farah, just apologize," he urged, his voice soft. "You know how much you love your sketchbook. Grandpa Carlson gave you this whip as a wedding gift, a symbol of authority in the family. If you don't accept the punishment, he might... destroy this."

The threat hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. That whip wasn't a gift; it was a tool of control. And the sketchbook... it held my last shred of self. Brandon knew that. He knew it was the only thing I had left that was truly mine. He had given me a choice: my dignity or my soul.

My shoulders slumped in defeat.

They dragged me to the ancestral hall, a cold, dark room filled with the portraits of dead Carlsons, their painted eyes watching me with silent judgment. They forced me to my knees on the hard stone floor.

The first lash of the whip cut through the air with a vicious whistle before it landed on my back. Pain, sharp and electric, shot through my entire body. It felt like my skin was being ripped apart. I bit down hard on my lip, refusing to scream, tasting my own blood.

Another lash. And another. The pain was immense, a searing fire that consumed me. My thin dress offered no protection. Each blow landed with brutal force, tearing through fabric and flesh.

After ten lashes, the man stopped. Brandon stepped forward, his face an unreadable mask.

"Do you admit your mistake now?" he asked, his voice as cold as the stone beneath my knees.

I lifted my head, my body trembling, my back a canvas of agony. I met his gaze, my own eyes burning with defiance.

"I did nothing wrong," I rasped.

His jaw tightened. "Continue," he ordered the man with the whip.

The lashing resumed, more ferocious than before. The pain was unbearable. An old back injury from my fall down the stairs flared up, a deep, agonizing ache that joined the fresh torment of the whip. I couldn't take it anymore.

"Please," I begged, the word torn from my throat. "Stop... please, stop."

But Brandon didn't even look at me. He was already turning away, gently guiding Caryl, who was still artfully sobbing, out of the hall.

"Let's go, Caryl," he said softly, his voice a stark contrast to the violence he had just commanded. "I'll take you back to your room."

He had proposed to me in this very mansion. He had gotten down on one knee and promised to protect me, to cherish me, to be my shield against the world. He had promised me a lifetime of love.

As he walked away, leaving me bleeding on the floor, his promises echoed in my mind, a cruel, mocking chorus.

The world dissolved into a vortex of pain. The last thing I saw before I lost consciousness was his retreating back, a silhouette of ultimate betrayal.