His Cruel Love, My Broken Heart

For three years, I was Bradley Porter's bodyguard. And his substitute. Tonight, I took a bullet for him, the wound in my shoulder still fresh.

But he didn't care. His assistant pulled me out of the hospital, my wound infected and feverish, because the woman I was a substitute for, Kylie Tyson, was back.

At the private airport, he embraced her with a love I had never seen.

Kylie looked me up and down with disdain. "Bradley, make her carry my luggage."

He saw my pale face, the bandage peeking from my collar, but his voice was sharp. "What are you waiting for? Get the luggage."

There were five large suitcases.

Just moments before, Kylie had faked a sprained wrist, and he had examined it with panicked concern. When I took a bullet for him, he just glanced at me and told his men to "clean up the mess."

That night, I went home and added another black stone to the glass jar on my dresser.

I made a promise to myself: for every time he hurt me, I would add a stone.

When the jar was full, I would leave him forever.

Tonight was stone number three hundred and sixty-eight.

The jar was almost half full.

Chapter 1

For three years, one thousand and ninety-five days, I was Bradley Porter's bodyguard.

And his substitute.

He paid me an annual salary of two million dollars. My job was simple: protect him, and when he was drunk or in a bad mood, let him hold me and call me by another woman's name.

"Kylie."

His voice was always hoarse with desire when he pressed against me, his breath hot on my neck.

He never looked at my face in those moments.

He didn't need to. He just needed me to have a face that was seventy percent similar to hers.

Tonight was no different.

I had just taken a bullet for him during a hostile takeover negotiation, the wound in my shoulder still throbbing with fresh pain. The doctor said I needed at least a month of rest.

But Bradley Porter didn't care.

He ripped open his tie, his eyes clouded with alcohol. He stumbled toward me, his powerful presence filling my small apartment.

"Kylie," he whispered, his hands finding their way under my shirt, his fingers brushing against the bandage on my shoulder.

I flinched, a sharp pain shooting through me.

He paused for a fraction of a second, his brow furrowed not with concern, but with annoyance.

"Don't move," he commanded, his voice low and dangerous.

I froze. I was Kaci Holt, his most loyal shield. I was not allowed to feel pain. I was not allowed to refuse.

He pushed me onto the bed, his body covering mine. The weight on my shoulder was excruciating, and cold sweat beaded on my forehead.

Through the haze of pain, I stared at the ceiling.

He was thinking of her again.

The story was always the same. Kylie Tyson. The beautiful, spoiled socialite who had broken his heart and disappeared two years ago. She was the daughter of the Tyson family, a perfect match for him in status. They were childhood sweethearts, the golden couple in the eyes of the city.

But she left him.

And he found me.

A bodyguard who looked like her.

"Just a substitute," he had told his friend once at a party, his voice dripping with disdain. I was standing just a few feet away, invisible in my black suit.

Some drunk guest had tried to grope me, his greasy hands sliding down my back. I looked to Bradley for help, for a single glance of support.

He just swirled the wine in his glass, his eyes cold and empty.

"She's just a tool," he said, loud enough for me to hear. "A dog. You can play with her if you want."

My heart felt like it had been squeezed by an icy hand.

That was the night I found out my place in his world.

I was an orphan from the foster care system, with no past and no future. He found me on the streets, hungry and beaten. He gave me a home, a purpose. He never asked about the strange, crescent-shaped birthmark on my wrist, the only unique thing I owned. He didn't care.

He gave me a new name.

"You look a bit like her," he'd said, studying my face under the dim light of his study. "From now on, you are Kaci. My Kaci."

I thought it was a new beginning. A promise.

I was so naive.

I learned later that "Kaci" sounded like "Kylie." A phonetic replacement.

I dedicated my life to him. I endured brutal training, learned to fight, to shoot, to kill. I collected scars on my body like trophies, each one a testament to my loyalty.

The first night he came to my room, drunk and heartbroken, he held me tight and sobbed her name.

That was when our relationship changed.

I became his physical and emotional placeholder.

I thought if I was loyal enough, sacrificed enough, he would eventually see me. The real me.

I fell in love with him. Deeply, hopelessly.

Then, one day, I found a hidden box in his closet. It was filled with pictures of Kylie Tyson. In every photo, she wore a radiant smile, a stark contrast to my own guarded expression in the mirror.

In the box was also a diamond necklace, with a small "K" pendant.

It wasn't for Kaci. It was for Kylie.

He had bought it for their anniversary, the day before she left him.

He kept me around to fill the void she left, to wear clothes she might have worn, to let him pretend she was still there.

The love I felt was a joke. A cruel, one-sided fantasy.

But I couldn't leave. I loved him too much.

So I stayed, hoping for a miracle.

One night, I overheard him on the phone with his friend again.

"Kaci? She's just a shelter dog I picked up. Loyal, obedient. Knows how to sit and stay. What more can you ask for?"

His words echoed in my ears.

A dog.

That night, I went to a small shop and bought a simple glass jar and a bag of black stones.

I went home and placed one small, black stone inside.

It represented the first scar on my heart.

I made a promise to myself. For every time he hurt me, for every time he used me as a substitute, for every time he made me feel worthless, I would add a stone.

When the jar was full, I would leave him.

I would pay back the life he gave me, and then I would be free.

Tonight, as he used my body to remember another woman, I felt the wound on my shoulder tear open again.

Warm blood seeped through the bandage.

The pain was immense, but the pain in my heart was worse.

When I get back to my own place, I will add another stone to the jar. Number three hundred and sixty-eight.

The jar was almost half full.

The doctor said I needed to stay in the hospital.

"The wound is infected, Miss Holt. You have a high fever. You cannot be discharged."

A nurse stood beside him, her face filled with worry. "Your body is at its limit. You need rest."

But Bradley Porter's assistant, a man with a face as cold as his boss's, just handed me a set of clothes.

"Mr. Porter needs you. Miss Tyson is back."

My heart stopped for a second.

Kylie.

She was back.

The assistant didn't care about my fever or my infected wound. He just repeated his words, "Mr. Porter is waiting at the private airport."

I pushed myself up, my body screaming in protest. Every muscle ached, and my head was spinning. I gritted my teeth and followed him out of the hospital.

The wind at the airport was cold, cutting through my thin clothes. I saw them from a distance.

Bradley was standing by his private jet, and a woman with long, flowing hair was running toward him.

Kylie Tyson.

She jumped into his arms, and he caught her, spinning her around. The smile on his face was one I had never seen before. It was bright, genuine, and full of a love that was never meant for me.

The cold, ruthless billionaire was gone. In his place was a man completely besotted.

"Bradley, I missed you so much!" Kylie's voice was sweet like honey, but to me, it sounded like poison.

"I missed you too, my Kylie," he said, his voice thick with emotion. He kissed her deeply, a kiss full of longing and relief.

I stood there, a few yards away, my presence completely ignored. I was just part of the scenery. The pain in my shoulder was a dull throb compared to the sharp agony in my chest. My heart felt like it was being torn into pieces.

Kylie finally noticed me. She looked me up and down, a flicker of disdain in her eyes.

"Bradley, who is this? Why is your bodyguard a woman?" she asked, her tone demanding. "I don't like it. And my luggage is heavy. Make her carry it."

Bradley looked at me for the first time. There was a hint of something in his eyes-maybe guilt, maybe just annoyance.

"Kaci, your wound..." he started to say.

It was the first time he'd shown any concern for my injury. A tiny, foolish spark of hope ignited within me.

But it was extinguished as quickly as it appeared.

Kylie pouted, her lower lip trembling. "Oh, my wrist! I think I sprained it on the flight." She cradled her wrist as if it were broken.

"What? Let me see!" Bradley's attention snapped back to her instantly. He examined her wrist with an exaggerated concern that was almost comical. "Does it hurt? We need to get you to a doctor right away!"

I remembered the night I took a bullet for him. I had collapsed, bleeding on the floor. He had just glanced at me, his face impassive, and ordered his men to "clean up the mess."

The contrast was a slap in the face.

I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms. I forced myself to breathe, to push the bitterness down.

"Kaci," Bradley's voice was sharp, impatient. "What are you waiting for? Get the luggage."

There were five large suitcases. Each one was heavy.

I walked toward the plane, my steps unsteady. With each step, the pain in my shoulder intensified. I picked up the first suitcase, and a wave of dizziness washed over me.

The world tilted, and the edges of my vision turned black. I could feel my body giving out.

"Useless," Kylie sneered from behind me. "Can't even carry a single bag. Bradley, where did you find such a weakling?"

Bradley didn't even look at me. His focus was entirely on Kylie.

His words hit me harder than any bullet.

Endure. That's all I was to him. A thing that could withstand pain.

My heart felt like a frozen block of ice.

I remembered the bullet, the searing pain, the blood. I had looked at him, hoping for a shred of compassion. He had turned away.

I had whispered, "Sir, it's for you."

He hadn't even looked back.

Now, he was fussing over Kylie's fake sprain.

"I'm sorry, Miss Tyson," I said, my voice barely a whisper. I had to apologize for being weak, for being in pain.

"Sorry isn't good enough," Kylie said, her voice dripping with malice. "I want you to carry my shoes. My feet hurt from the flight."

She kicked off her high heels. They landed in front of me.

Bradley said nothing. His silence was his consent.

I bent down, my wound screaming in protest. The world spun violently. I picked up her shoes, the scent of her expensive perfume filling my nostrils.

It was the same perfume Bradley sometimes sprayed on my pillow.

Kylie looked at me with a triumphant smile, then turned to Bradley, her voice turning sweet again. "Bradley, dear, I'm so tired."

"I'll carry you," he said, his voice now a gentle murmur.

He picked her up as if she weighed nothing.

As he walked past me, he didn't even glance in my direction. He was completely absorbed in his perfect reunion.

I watched them go, my vision blurring. The shoes in my hand felt impossibly heavy. The pain was too much.

My body finally gave up. I collapsed onto the cold tarmac, the world fading to black.

Bradley and Kylie started their new life together. They were inseparable, their happy photos plastered all over the news and social media.

I moved out of the apartment he provided and into a small, sterile room in the staff quarters.

It was for the best. I packed my few belongings, my heart a hollow, echoing chamber. There wasn't much. A few changes of clothes, some books, and the glass jar, now more than half full of black stones. I looked at it and a bitter laugh escaped my lips.

One morning, I received a call. It was Bradley's butler. "Miss Holt, Mr. Porter requests your presence at the main family estate."

A sense of foreboding washed over me. I hadn't seen him in weeks.

The moment I stepped into the grand foyer of the Porter estate, a sharp sting exploded on my cheek.

Kylie had slapped me. Hard.

The force of it sent me stumbling back. My cheek burned, but the pain was distant, overshadowed by the icy dread in my heart.

"What was that for?" I asked, my voice steady despite the shock.

"You thief!" she shrieked, her face a mask of rage. "You stole my mother's emerald necklace! The one Bradley gave me!"

I stared at her, confused. I had never seen that necklace in my life, except in the photos in his secret box. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Liar!" She slapped me again, on the other cheek. This time, I saw it coming but didn't move.

Blood trickled from the corner of my lip. I tasted copper.

"Bradley! Look at her! She's not even denying it!" Kylie ran to Bradley, who was standing by the fireplace, watching the scene unfold with cold detachment. She threw herself into his arms, sobbing dramatically. "That was the last thing my mother gave me before she passed away! How could she do this?"

He stroked her hair, murmuring comforting words I could never hear. His eyes, however, were fixed on me. They were as hard and unforgiving as granite.

"Kylie wants you punished," he said, his voice flat. "She wants you to kneel on the gravel path outside, in the rain, until she forgives you."

It was a cold, rainy day. The temperature was dropping. My wound from the bullet had not fully healed.

I looked at him, searching for a sign, any sign, that he didn't believe her. But there was nothing. Just empty indifference. He was a judge who had already passed sentence.

"Fine," I said. My voice was quiet, but firm.

I walked out of the house, into the pouring rain. I knelt on the sharp gravel, the small stones digging into my knees.

Before I fully settled, I turned my head and looked at them through the large glass window.

"You know, Kylie," I said, my voice carrying over the sound of the rain. "The old Kaci would have begged for mercy. She would have cried and sworn her innocence."

Kylie's fake sobs stopped. She looked at me, her eyes filled with hatred.

"The old Kaci was weak," I continued. "She was a girl who cried when she was hurt. A girl who pleaded for a scrap of affection."

I remembered a time, early on, when I had failed a training exercise. I had cried from the pain and exhaustion. Bradley had found me.

"Tears are for the weak," he had said, his voice laced with contempt. "If you want to stay by my side, you become strong. You become unbreakable."

So I did. I stopped crying. I learned to swallow my pain. I learned to be the weapon he wanted me to be.

"I begged you to see me," I whispered to the man behind the glass, though he couldn't hear. "I begged for you to look at me, just once, as a person."

The rain soaked me to the bone. The cold seeped into my body, a deep, chilling ache. My knees were on fire.

Through the window, I could see Bradley leading Kylie to the dining room. He had his arm around her. They were laughing. He pulled out a chair for her, his movements full of a tenderness he had never shown me.

I remembered all the times I had trained in the freezing rain, pushing my body to its limits, just to be worthy of standing behind him. I remembered the pain, the exhaustion, the belief that my suffering would one day be recognized.

He never noticed. His gentleness was reserved for only one person. And it wasn't me.

A bitter smile touched my lips. How foolish I had been.

I am not meant to be cherished. I am meant to be broken.

But something inside me had shifted. The pain was still there, but it was different. It was no longer the pain of a heartbroken girl. It was the cold, hard anger of a woman who had nothing left to lose.

I will kneel. I will endure this punishment.

But this is the last time.

From this day forward, I will live for myself.