That’s a picture of me at the bank a few months ago. That picture was taken by the bank’s security cameras, given the angle.
My chin wobbles. Of course I remember this meeting. I couldn’t forget it if I tried, and I did. Those thirty minutes when I begged the bank manager to extend us a loan were among the lowest points of my life.
No one had taught me how to act or what to say in these situations, but I did my best.
I saidplease,andyou have to understand. I reminded him he’d been my parents’ friend. That he’d been a guest at my father’s sixtieth birthday party.
Nothing worked.
My meager salary wasn’t good enough for him. And Barclay, according to the bank manager, didn’t have a chance of reviving our real estate business.
See, rumors had spread around town. Aside from a handful of high school friends he might or might not have kept in touch with—and the rich assholes wanting to marry me—he wasblacklisted everywhere. The idea that anyone would trust my brother was, and still is, laughable.
Months later, here I am. My hands shake as I stare at my tear-streaked face and the bank manager’s pitying gaze.
This entire time, Duncan’s had this picture.
He has many more pictures. More documents. Our financials. The unpaid bills. The lawsuit. Newspaper clips and articles he printed from news websites.
I stop breathing for a full minute when I see photos of me stealing pain meds from the hospital.
“Oh my God.” My teeth chatter. My hands go numb, the photos falling to the desk, the floor. “Oh. My. God.”
After a few seconds of hyperventilating, I force myself to focus.
That’s when I realize what he’s been doing goes far beyond stalking. He’s collected enough incriminating evidence to put me away for years.
If it’s revenge he’s after, he could’ve had that already.
Without me and mainly the meds, Barclay would’ve been well and truly fucked.
Except Duncan didn’t go to the police with this.
He chose hands-on vengeance instead.
He wanted to see our pain with his own eyes.
Why?
A person with a heart as huge as Duncan’s and a soul as kind as his doesn’t turn into a monster just because.
He was provoked.
By Barclay.
It’s even worse than I thought. I still don’t have the full picture, but I can feel Duncan’s pain bleeding from this desk.
The world spins around me.
I place both hands on the edge of the desk for balance. Hanging my head low, I curse under my breath.
“Barclay, what did you do?” I growl, then file the papers and photos back, shutting the desk drawer. “Why do you have to ruin everything?”
My brother wasn’t jealous. Jealousy usually means he wants me for himself, and he doesn’t, not like that.
But he does. You serve him. You looked after your parents. You gave him your trust fund. He told you to marry one rich man after the other when you started running out of money, and fully expected you to heed.
A shredded sob rips out of me. I clench a hand into a fist, slamming it against the desk.
