Ninety-Nine Engagements, One Betrayal

After ninety-nine failed engagements, I finally married Brooks Preston, a stoic tech mogul who seemed to be the only man on earth who found my motormouth personality "charming."

But his quiet acceptance was a lie. I was just a convenient prop, a wife he needed to hide his obsessive, incestuous love for his adopted sister, Everleigh.

When I discovered their secret and demanded a divorce, he locked me in a dark, windowless room, weaponizing my childhood claustrophobia to break me. He needed me to take the fall for Everleigh's crimes, to protect her at all costs.

He watched me scream and claw at the walls for three days, my terror a spectacle for his cold, calculating eyes. He wasn't just indifferent; he was a monster.

I didn't break. Instead, I waited. On the night of a live-streamed gala, I looked into the camera and smiled. "Everleigh, darling, congratulations. I've already divorced him. He's all yours."

Chapter 1

My ninety-ninth engagement ended the way all the others did: with a polite, albeit awkward, conversation about our "irreconcilable differences." In reality, the difference was always the same. My mouth. It moved too fast, too often, too much. I was a motormouth, a chatterbox, a walking, talking, human-shaped podcast no one asked for. That' s what they called me, in hushed tones, in New York' s elite circles.

"Dayna, darling, you're so vibrant," my mother would sigh, smoothing my hair. "But sometimes, less is more."

Less was never more for me. More words, more stories, more laughter, more life. That was my mantra. But it scared men away, apparently. All ninety-nine of them.

After the ninety-ninth ring was slipped off my finger, I vowed. No more. No more chasing a fairytale that clearly wasn' t meant for me. Marriage was a trap, a gilded cage for my vibrant personality. I was done.

Then I met Brooks Preston.

He was everything the New York crowd fawned over in hushed, reverent tones. Tall, dark, and impossibly handsome, with eyes that held the quiet intensity of a winter storm. A tech mogul from Seattle, old money, precise, stoic. Every word he uttered was measured, every movement controlled. He was the antithesis of me. And for some inexplicable reason, I was drawn to him.

Our first encounter was at a charity auction. I was a whirlwind of nervous energy, my words tumbling out like marbles down a flight of stairs. I was bidding on a ridiculously overpriced sculpture that I didn't even like, just for the thrill of the interaction.

"And going once, going twice..." the auctioneer boomed.

"One hundred thousand!" I yelled, my voice cracking slightly.

A quiet murmur rippled through the room. Brooks Preston, seated mere feet away, turned his head slowly. His gaze, usually so impassive, held a flicker of something I couldn't quite decipher.

"Dayna," my friend whispered, tugging at my sleeve. "Are you sure? You said you hated modern art."

"Oh, I do," I responded, perhaps a little too loudly. "But it's for a good cause, and besides, I love the drama of a bidding war!"

Brooks' s lips twitched. A ghost of a smile.

"Two hundred thousand," a deep, resonant voice cut through the air. Brooks.

My head snapped towards him. He was looking at me, really looking, with those calm, steady eyes. My heart did a strange little flip.

"Three hundred thousand!" I declared, a challenge in my voice.

He raised an eyebrow, a tiny gesture that spoke volumes. "Four hundred thousand."

This went on for a few dizzying minutes, the price escalating with reckless abandon. Each time I spoke, I felt a strange exhilaration. Each time he responded, a quiet thrill. He wasn't trying to silence me. He was playing along.

"One million!" I finally shouted, my voice hoarse.

Brooks paused, then slowly, deliberately, lowered his paddle. A collective gasp filled the room. He had let me win.

"Congratulations, miss," the auctioneer beamed.

I walked over to him, a triumphant grin on my face. "You gave up easily."

He offered a small, polite smile. "Some battles aren't worth winning, especially when the other party is so... enthusiastic."

"Enthusiastic?" I laughed, a cascade of sound. "Is that what they're calling it these days? Usually, it's 'obnoxiously loud' or 'unable to shut up.'"

He tilted his head. "I found it rather charming."

Charming. No one had ever called my talkativeness charming. My smile faltered, a new, unfamiliar warmth spreading through my chest.

"You know," I began, my voice softer now, "I once bought a painting from a gallery in Rome. It was supposed to be a lost masterpiece, an early work by a Renaissance master. I haggled for hours, felt like a true art connoisseur. Got it for a steal, or so I thought. Brought it home, showed it off to all my friends. Turns out, it was painted by a student in art school, last year. The 'masterpiece' was still drying." I giggled, a genuine, unforced sound. "My friends still tease me about it."

A faint smile played on his lips. He wasn't laughing at me. He was listening.

His assistant, a severe-looking woman in a sleek black suit, cleared her throat. "Mr. Preston, your next engagement is in ten minutes."

Brooks held up a hand, silencing her without a word. His eyes were still on me. "Please, continue. I find your anecdotes... enlightening."

My heart fluttered. Enlightening. Not annoying. Not too much. This man, this stoic, silent Brooks Preston, actually found me enlightening.

"Well," I continued, emboldened, "there was also the time I bought a vintage car in Paris. The seller swore it was a classic, owned by some obscure French duke. I imagined myself driving it through the French countryside, scarf trailing in the wind. Turns out, it was a prop from a B-movie, held together with duct tape and good intentions. Broke down on the Champs-Élysées. Had to call a tow truck that looked older than the car itself." I laughed again, a little louder this time.

He chuckled. A deep, rumbling sound that sent shivers down my spine. It was a genuine laugh, not a polite cough.

In that moment, I knew. This was it. The ninety-ninth engagement was merely a prelude. Brooks Preston was the one. He was the man who saw me, truly saw me, and didn't try to dull my sparkle. He accepted my endless stories, my rambling thoughts, my very essence.

My family, accustomed to my revolving door of fiancés, were cautiously optimistic. My friends, more pragmatic, warned me to take it slow. But I was in a whirlwind. I had found my person. The man who truly understood me.

Within months, we were married. A whirlwind romance, a dazzling wedding that silenced even the most cynical of New York's socialites. I had broken the curse of the ninety-nine. I was Mrs. Brooks Preston. And for a brief, glorious period, I believed I had found my happily ever after.

But then, the quiet started to feel less like acceptance and more like a void. His stoicism, which I once found calming, now felt like a wall. I would talk and talk, filling the silence, expecting him to join in, to share, to connect. But he rarely did. His responses were always minimal, polite, vague.

I tried everything. I' d recount my day in excruciating detail, hoping to spark a conversation. I'd ask him about his work, his childhood, his dreams. He would listen, nod, and offer a quiet, "That's interesting, Dayna."

"Interesting?" I'd think. "Is that all you have to say? I just told you about my boss's scandal and my disastrous attempt at baking a soufflé!"

I started to feel desperate. I'd leave him long rambling voicemails, knowing he wouldn't interrupt. I' d try to provoke a reaction. I' d turn up the music too loud, leave my clothes all over the floor, accidentally-on-purpose spill coffee on his pristine white shirts. Anything to elicit a stronger emotion than his usual calm.

He would just smile, a gentle, indulgent smile. "Dayna, darling, you know I prefer a tidy home." Not an argument. Never an argument. Just a gentle redirection.

His unwavering calm, once a comfort, became a torment. I felt like I was screaming into an abyss, and the abyss was smiling back, patiently. Something was off. I couldn't put my finger on it, but the unease grew, a cold knot in my stomach.

Then, Everleigh came back. His adopted sister.

I met her briefly at a family dinner. She was fragile, ethereal, with wide, innocent eyes. Brooks was instantly solicitous, his quiet attention amplified in her presence. I felt a prickle of something I dismissed as sister-in-law jealousy.

A few weeks later, my phone rang. It was late, past midnight.

"Dayna? Brooks isn't answering his phone. Can you come get me? I'm at the precinct." Her voice was a shaky whisper.

My heart immediately went out to her. "Oh, Everleigh! What happened? Are you okay?"

"It's... it's a long story. I got into a bit of a scrape. A bar fight, actually. Silly, really. But the police are being quite unreasonable."

A bar fight? Delicate, fragile Everleigh? This was certainly a story I wanted to hear.

"I'm on my way," I said, already grabbing my keys. "Tell me everything. Who did you fight? Was it a man? Did he hurt you? Don't worry, I'll talk them out of anything. I'm very good at talking, you know. I once talked my way out of a speeding ticket with a very grumpy officer. He was so surprised by my monologue about the kinetic energy of a moving vehicle that he just let me go." I laughed, the familiar stream of words flowing freely.

Everleigh listened patiently, her occasional sniffle the only interruption. I felt a surge of warmth. Finally, someone who listened!

I found her huddled in a corner of the police station, looking utterly distraught. When I called Brooks, he was in a board meeting, but he listened, his voice calm, as I recounted Everleigh's dramatic tale of defending a stranger from an aggressive drunk. I embellished slightly, framing Everleigh as a heroic, albeit clumsy, defender of justice.

"I'm so sorry to interrupt your meeting, darling," I gushed. "But Everleigh, she's so brave! And the police, they just don't understand. I've told them everything, of course, about the unprovoked aggression and the self-defense, and how Everleigh just has such a strong moral compass that she couldn't stand by and watch injustice unfold. I mean, who could blame her, really? And the poor girl, she has such delicate hands, I mean, you should see them, Brooks, they're practically bruised, and oh, the injustice of it all, really!"

He listened, his silence a familiar comfort. He said he would be there as soon as possible. I waited, and waited, and waited.

Then, the back door of the precinct burst open. It wasn't Brooks. It was a lawyer, already bailing Everleigh out. A few minutes later, she was being escorted out, looking relieved, but still fragile. She glanced at me, a quick, almost imperceptible smirk, before being whisked away.

I was still sitting there when Brooks finally arrived, an hour later. He didn't even notice me at first. He strode in, his face a mask of fury, his eyes blazing. He wasn't calm. He wasn't stoic. He was a storm.

"Everleigh!" he thundered, his voice echoing through the quiet precinct. "What have you done now?"

His words were sharp, each one laced with raw, untamed emotion. He wasn't just talking. He was feeling. And it was all for her.

My breath caught in my throat. This wasn't the Brooks I knew. This was a man unleashed.

He was talking. A lot. And with so much passion. A torrent of words, sharp and biting. He wasn't just expressing concern. He was expressing deep, profound anger. And it was all directed at his sister, but laced with an undeniable, fierce protection.

Then he turned, his eyes finally landing on me. His furious expression instantly softened, replaced by a flicker of surprise. "Dayna? What are you still doing here?"

The shift was jarring. The storm instantly quelled. The quiet returned. But it was too late. I had seen it. The real Brooks. The one who could unleash a torrent of words, a storm of emotion. But only for her.

My voice, usually a waterfall, dried up. My throat was tight, my chest aching. I couldn't speak. I just got up, my legs feeling like lead, and walked out. The truth, ugly and raw, had just slapped me in the face.

Dayna POV:

The truth was a cold, hard slap to the face. The kind that leaves a stinging mark. Brooks, my Brooks, the man I thought accepted my every word, my every thought, my very existence, had just revealed a depth of emotion for his sister that he had never, not once, shown for me. And it hurt. It hurt so much I felt physically ill.

I got home and immediately started digging. Not literally, of course. My digging involved late-night internet searches, discreet calls to friends of friends, and an almost obsessive piecing together of whispers and rumors I had dismissed as mere gossip before. The picture that emerged was not pretty. It was a masterpiece of manipulation, painted in shades of deceit and forbidden love.

Everleigh Burnett wasn't just Brooks's adopted sister. She was his obsession, his responsibility, his fatal flaw. Their bond, they called it. A bond forged in childhood trauma, intensified by a family secret, and twisted into something dangerously close to incestuous love. The Preston family patriarch, a stern, traditional man, had discovered their "inappropriate relationship." To save face, to protect the family legacy, Everleigh had been exiled to Europe, to "study art." But the condition for her return, for her healing, for her very existence in the family was Brooks's marriage. To someone else. To create a respectable facade.

And that someone else was me.

Me. The overly talkative heiress, desperate for love, desperate for a marriage that would stick. An easy target. A controllable solution. He had feigned acceptance of my chatty nature, not because he found it charming, but because it made me pliable. It made me believe.

My entire body trembled. Not with cold, but with a bone-deep betrayal. I had been a pawn, a convenient prop in their twisted play. My cherished dream of a real marriage, of a man who truly saw and loved me, was a cruel mirage. He had needed a wife, and I, in my naive desperation, had walked straight into his trap.

And the worst part? The truly gut-wrenching, soul-crushing part? I loved him. I loved the stoic facade, the quiet patience I now knew was a performance. I loved the ghost of a smile, the rare chuckle, the way his eyes would sometimes linger on me. I had fallen, hopelessly and irrevocably, for the man who had used me.

The thought made me gag. I felt dirty, used, utterly foolish. When he called, his voice calm and concerned, asking where I was, I couldn't bring myself to answer. I just hung up.

I saw his car pull up to the curbside. I saw him get out, looking bewildered. He spotted me, still sitting on the bench outside the precinct, my foot throbbing from the long walk home. He started towards me.

I stood up, my legs wobbly. "Don't," I choked out. "Don't you dare come near me."

He paused, a frown creasing his brow. "Dayna, what's wrong? Are you still upset about Everleigh? I told you, she just gets into trouble sometimes. She's delicate."

Delicate. My blood ran cold. "Go away, Brooks," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "Just... go."

He sighed, a long-suffering sound. "Dayna, don't be childish. Your foot looks swollen. Let me take you home."

"I'll walk," I snapped.

"Don't be ridiculous," he said, taking a step closer. "It's late. You're hurt."

"I said, I'll walk!" I shouted, a sudden burst of anger giving me strength. I turned and limped away, not caring where I was going, just needing to be away from him.

He followed, his footsteps soft but persistent. I could hear him behind me, a silent shadow. My ankle twisted, sending a jolt of pain up my leg, and I stumbled, falling onto a low wall.

He was instantly beside me. "Dayna! I told you. Here, let me see."

He knelt, his touch surprisingly gentle as he examined my throbbing ankle. Then, with a practiced ease, he slipped off his expensive jacket and folded it, placing it carefully on the cold stone wall for me to sit on. "You really need to be more careful."

"Why did you go to her first?" I asked, the words raw. "Why was she your priority?"

He paused, his gaze meeting mine. "She needed me, Dayna. She's fragile, you know that. She has... issues. I always have to make sure she's alright."

"And I?" I asked, a bitter laugh escaping my lips. "What about me? Did I not need you?"

He sighed. "You're strong, Dayna. You can handle anything."

Strong. That was his excuse. My strength was my curse.

"Just leave me alone," I pleaded, tears finally pricking at my eyes. "Please."

He stood, his face unreadable. "I can't leave you alone out here. It's not safe."

Just then, his car pulled up beside us. The passenger door opened, and Everleigh stepped out. She looked perfectly fine, not a hair out of place, her eyes wide and innocent. She walked over, her arm slipping possessively through Brooks's.

"Brooks, darling, what are you doing? I told you she was just being dramatic. She's always so over the top." Everleigh said, her voice a sweet, cloying tone. "Come on, let's go home. You look exhausted."

Brooks gently tried to remove her arm. "Everleigh, don't. Dayna's hurt."

"Oh, she's fine," Everleigh dismissed with a wave of her hand. "Just a scraped knee, probably. Like when we were kids and you'd always rush to my side. She's just trying to punish you for leaving her alone." Her eyes, innocent just a moment ago, flickered with a knowing malice as they met mine.

I stared at her, then back at Brooks. He looked torn, but his hand was still on Everleigh's arm, not mine.

"My foot," Everleigh whined, a tiny sniffle. "It's throbbing. That horrid woman at the bar stomped on it." She exaggerated a limp, wincing dramatically.

Brooks immediately knelt, examining her perfectly fine foot. "Does it hurt here? We should get you to a doctor."

"Oh, it's nothing, really," she said, batting her eyelashes. "Just a little bruise. But it does sting when I walk."

I looked down at my own ankle, swollen and purple, the pain a dull throb. He hadn't even looked at it properly. He hadn't offered to take me to a doctor. My pain was invisible. Hers, a minor bruise, was a medical emergency.

He carefully picked her up, her light weight barely a strain. "Let's get you home."

"But Brooks," Everleigh pouted, "my shoes are ruined. They're designer, you know. And my poor little foot is so sensitive."

He chuckled softly, a sound I rarely heard directed at me. "Don't worry, I'll buy you a new pair. What do you want?"

"Oh, you're the best!" she cooed, snuggling into his chest. "And I'm so tired. Can we just go? And you can carry me all the way to bed?"

"Of course," he murmured, his voice gentle.

As he carried her towards the car, Everleigh looked over his shoulder, her eyes locking onto mine. She was wearing his shoes. My jaw clenched. My shoes were still beside me, ruined, forgotten. A symbolic gesture, perhaps?

I stood there, watching them drive away, the familiar cold knot in my stomach tightening. Then, with a sudden surge of something that felt like defiance, I hobbled into the nearby bike path. It was darker, less visible. I needed to disappear. I needed to be truly alone. He wouldn't follow me here. He wouldn't even think to.

I made it home, somehow, the pain in my ankle a dull roar now. The house was quiet. Too quiet. I pushed open the front door and saw him. Brooks. Sitting on the couch, Everleigh curled up beside him, sound asleep.

He looked up, his expression unreadable. "Dayna. Your foot. Come, let me tend to it."

He didn't move. He just looked at me, then at Everleigh, then back at me.

"No," I said, my voice flat. "I'm fine."

"But you're limping," he insisted, his voice still calm. "And Everleigh here, her ankle is still throbbing too. I've been applying ice. You should do the same."

Everleigh stirred, her eyes fluttering open. She saw me, then snuggled closer to Brooks. "Brooks, darling, my foot still hurts. Can you make it better?"

He sighed, a familiar, indulgent sound. He started to gently rub her foot.

I couldn't take it anymore. My voice came out, surprisingly steady, considering the earthquake raging inside me. "I want a divorce."

Brooks POV:

"I want a divorce."

The words hung in the air, sharp and unexpected. I stared at Dayna, her face pale, her eyes surprisingly steady. A part of me, the part that had grown accustomed to her dramatic pronouncements, dismissed it as another one of her playful exaggerations. She was always so expressive, so prone to hyperbole. This was just her way of showing how upset she was about Everleigh.

"Dayna, don't be ridiculous," I said, a faint smile playing on my lips. "You're tired, you're hurt. Let's not say things we'll regret."

In retrospect, I should have seen the steel in her eyes. I should have recognized the quiet resolve that had replaced her usual effervescence. But I was so used to her being a whirlwind, a force of nature that ebbed and flowed, always returning to me. I had underestimated her. Severely.

She had loved me, I knew that. Devotedly. With an almost childlike sincerity that I, in my detached way, had found endearing. She would leave little notes for me, filled with silly drawings and declarations of affection. She would plan elaborate surprises, meticulously researching my preferences. She would talk for hours about her day, her dreams, her fears, always ending with a hopeful glance, as if expecting me to reciprocate. I rarely did. I was a man of few words, and even fewer emotional displays.

But her love, her endless well of affection, had become a constant backdrop to my life. I had taken it for granted, like the air I breathed. I had convinced myself that her endless chatter was simply her personality, and my quiet acceptance was enough.

"I'm not being ridiculous, Brooks," she said, her voice surprisingly calm. "I'm serious."

I just waved my hand, a dismissive gesture. "Let's talk about this in the morning, when you've had some rest."

I had dismissed her. Again.

The next morning, she was gone. Not gone from the house, but gone from my life in a way I hadn't anticipated. She was quiet. Terribly, unsettlingly quiet. She moved through the house like a ghost, her usual vibrant energy replaced by a chilling stillness. She had already called her lawyer, she informed me, her voice flat. The papers would be drawn up.

I was too preoccupied with Everleigh to truly process it. The family patriarch had somehow gotten wind of Everleigh's escapades, her "bar fight" now exaggerated into a full-blown scandal. He was furious.

The next evening, I was woken by a furious shouting from downstairs. I stumbled out of bed, pulling on a robe, and headed downstairs. Everleigh was on her knees in the living room, weeping, while Grandfather thundered at her, his face purple with rage.

"You will marry the youngest son of the Sterling family!" he roared. "It's already arranged! You will restore some semblance of honor to this family!"

"No! I won't!" Everleigh shrieked, her face stained with tears. "I won't marry him! I love Brooks!"

My heart constricted. "Grandfather, please," I interjected, stepping forward. "Everleigh is not well. She needs time."

"Time?" he scoffed. "She needs a husband! A respectable husband! And you, you fool, what about your wife? You think this charade is fooling anyone?"

He raised his hand to strike Everleigh. My instincts kicked in. I lunged forward, shielding her with my body. The sharp crack of Grandfather's cane against my back echoed through the room. A searing pain shot through me, but I grit my teeth. I would always protect her.

Everleigh sobbed, turning in my arms, her face buried against my chest. "Brooks! You shouldn't have! Oh, my poor Brooks!" She kissed my shoulder, her tears wetting my skin. "I love you. I love you so much."

Grandfather scoffed again. "Enough of this disgusting display! Brooks, what about Dayna? What about your marriage?"

My eyes, still blurry with pain, darted to the top of the stairs. Dayna stood there, a silent observer, her face ashen. Our eyes met. My brow furrowed. Had she told him? Had she betrayed us?

"Dayna, come down here," I called, my voice betraying none of the turmoil inside me. She walked down slowly, her steps deliberate.

She reached me. I leaned in, my voice a low whisper. "Did you tell him?" My hand clamped around her wrist, a silent warning.

She flinched, her eyes widening in shock. "What are you talking about?"

"Grandfather," I said, a forced smile on my face, pulling Dayna closer. "Dayna and I are perfectly happy. She understands the... delicate situation with Everleigh." Then, without warning, I leaned down and kissed her.

It was a clumsy, desperate kiss, meant to appease Grandfather, to send a message to Everleigh, to remind everyone that Dayna was my wife. But as my lips met hers, I felt a flicker of something unfamiliar. A ghost of a memory, perhaps, of the many times her laughter had filled our home.

She was stiff in my embrace, her lips unyielding. When I pulled back, her eyes were cold, distant. She looked at me with an expression I had never seen before. Disgust.

"Is that meant for me, or for your sister?" she sneered, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

My jaw tightened. She was pushing me. Always pushing. My eyes darted to Everleigh, who was now watching us, her face a mask of hurt. I couldn't let Dayna ruin this. Not now.

I grabbed Dayna's face, pulling her roughly towards me, and kissed her again. Harder this time. It wasn't gentle. It was a desperate, possessive act. A declaration. "You are my wife," I growled against her lips. "And you will act like it."

She struggled, her hands pushing against my chest, but I held her tighter. I wasn't gentle. I couldn't be. Not when so much was at stake. Not when Everleigh was watching.

In that moment, I realized something terrifying. The gentle, patient Brooks she thought she married was a performance. And for Everleigh, for her fragile sanity, for her place in this family, I would shed that performance. I would be anything I needed to be. Even a monster.