Chapter 8 - THE WRECKAGE OF A COWARD
-8-
"Help you, Brandon?" I asked, my voice carrying a quiet, conversational tone that somehow sounded infinitely more terrifying than a shout. "With what? Finding a new cardboard box to live in? Or are you looking for a recommendation letter for a job as a parking lot attendant?"
Brandon flinched as if I had struck him across the face—ironically, the exact same spot where his mother had hit me at the St. Jude Gala. He bowed his head, resting his forehead against the cold marble floor for a long, agonizing moment before looking back up at me with tear-filled, bloodshot eyes.
"I know I messed up," Brandon choked out, his voice thick with raw desperation. "I know I was a coward. When my mother hit you... when Natasha ripped your dress... I froze. I was terrified of losing my family’s approval, my inheritance, my status. But I swear to God, Evangeline, every day since then has been a living hell."
I walked slowly around the edge of my glass desk, stepping closer to him, my heels clicking rhythmically against the floor.
"You didn't just freeze, Brandon," I said softly, looking down into his pathetic face. "You made a conscious, deliberate choice. When you had to choose between defending a woman you claimed to love and protecting your own shallow, entitled comfort, you threw me to the wolves without a second thought. And the moment your family lost their money, your mother and father dropped you faster than a hot potato, didn't they?"
Brandon’s lower lip quivered. The truth of my words hit him like a physical blow.
"They abandoned me," he sobbed, burying his face in his hands. "After the federal marshals seized the Greenwich mansion, my parents packed up what little cash they had left and fled to Europe. They left me behind in a studio apartment in Queens with a mountain of legal debt and unpaid credit card bills. I lost my car, my apartment, my friends... everyone I ever knew treated me like a leper."
"And so you decided to track me down," I noted coldly, crossing my arms again. "You thought that by playing the victim, by crying crocodile tears in front of the girl you betrayed, I would suddenly feel sorry for you? You thought I’d write you a check, wipe away your debts, and welcome you back into my life like a stray puppy?"
"No! Well—I mean, I didn't know what else to do!" Brandon cried, lunging forward to grab the hem of my designer trousers.
Before his dirty fingers could touch my suit, Marcus Vance’s heavy boot intercepted his wrist, pinning Brandon’s hand firmly against the marble floor. Brandon let out a sharp cry of pain.
"Keep your hands to yourself, rat," Marcus growled, his voice dropping into a lethal register.
"Marcus, let him up," I commanded smoothly.
Marcus hesitated for a fraction of a second, glaring down at Brandon with pure contempt, before slowly stepping back.
Brandon cradled his bruised wrist against his chest, gasping for breath as he looked up at me with a mixture of terror and lingering delusion. "Evangeline... we had something real. Before all this corporate madness, before you revealed you were a billionaire heiress... we were happy in that little coffee shop, walking in the park, talking about our future. Can't we go back to that? Just you and me?"
I stared at him. For a split second, I tried to find any trace of the man I thought I loved six months ago. But there was nothing there—only a hollow, desperate parasite begging for a host.
"We were never happy, Brandon," I said, my voice cutting through the silent office like a laser. "You were happy because you thought you had reeled in a quiet, submissive girl who would cater to your fragile ego while asking for nothing in return. The moment I stepped out of the box you put me in, your entire world fell apart."
I turned my back on him, walking over to the floor-to-ceiling windows to look out at the Manhattan skyline.
"Marcus," I said quietly.
"Boss?"
"Escort Mr. Sterling off the premises. Use the freight elevator, not the executive one. And inform building security that if he ever manages to breach our perimeter again, he won't be talking to me—he’ll be talking to a federal judge about a restraining order violation."
"With pleasure," Marcus smiled grimly, grabbing Brandon by the back of his cheap hoodie and hauling him upright with brutal efficiency.
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"Evangeline! No! Please! Just five more minutes!" Brandon screamed, thrashing wildly as the tactical guards dragged him toward the private elevator. "You can't do this! I loved you!"
"No, Brandon," I whispered to the empty room as the elevator doors chimed shut, sealing away his pathetic cries forever. "You just loved the idea of owning me."
