Chapter 10 - The Fire and the Dress
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That night, my second eldest brother, Reed Whitaker, arrived at our fortified estate.
Reed was a legendary trial attorney with silver-rimmed glasses, a dangerously soft voice, and a terrifying reputation for destroying arrogant billionaires in court so politely that they often thanked him before realizing they were utterly ruined. He walked into my private study and placed three thick, manila files onto my desk.
"I found the original fire report," he said smoothly, taking a seat opposite me.
My hand tightened around my porcelain teacup.
Five years earlier, Grant’s luxury sports car had crashed into a stone wall near his Cape Cod vacation house and caught fire. The entire world believed Brooke had bravely dragged him out of the flaming wreckage. That single, monumental lie had chained me to a life of humiliation, forcing me to bow to her for half a decade.
Reed opened the first file, sliding glossy photographs toward me. "It wasn’t faulty wiring in the engine, Evie. The gas line at the guesthouse was deliberately tampered with hours before the accident. Brooke signed for a fake maintenance visit. She purposefully left the kitchen window open to create a draft."
I stared at the photos, my scars burning under my bandages.
"She intentionally started the fire to create a small, heroic rescue scenario to bond him to her forever," Reed explained. "But she’s an idiot, and the fire quickly got away from her."
"She almost killed him," I whispered, the realization chilling my blood.
"She almost killed you too," Reed corrected, sliding a sleek tablet across the desk. "Now... about the dress."
He tapped the screen, and high-definition security footage began to play.
It was from the dressing room of our mansion. Brooke stood completely alone, a pair of sharp sewing scissors in her hand. She was methodically, gleefully cutting the beautiful Parisian gown to pieces. She was smiling while she did it.
Then, the smile vanished. She began pinching her own forearms violently until deep purple bruises blossomed on her pale skin. She stared into the mirror, practiced a few tragic, heaving sobs to generate tears, and walked out of the room clutching the ruined fabric.
I watched the screen until the video ended and faded to black.
No tears came to my eyes. Only absolute, freezing clarity.
"Send it to Grant," I said quietly.
Reed raised a silver eyebrow, adjusting his glasses. "Directly to his personal email?"
"No," I replied. "Package it. Make him think he discovered it all by himself. Men like him only believe the truths they think they've uncovered."
Reed smiled faintly, a terrifying glint in his eye. "You always did have a profound understanding of punishment, little sister."
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I looked down at the frozen frame of Brooke’s psychotic smile on the tablet.
"Punishment," I said, "is when the absolute truth arrives just a few hours too late to save you."
