Cason shoved Jackson's arm away from the counter.
"Take that back right now," Cason warned, his chest heaving. "You don't talk to her like that."
Jackson let out a dark, humorless laugh. He didn't even look at Cason. He kept his eyes fixed on the sliver of Chelsea he could see behind his brother's shoulder.
"The legal team needs you on the phone," Jackson said smoothly, his tone shifting to pure business. "The tech acquisition in Silicon Valley hit a snag. Go to the terrace and take the call. Now."
Cason hesitated. The weight of the Brooks family empire was a heavy chain around his neck. He looked at Chelsea, his eyes full of apology.
"I'll be right back," Cason whispered. He squeezed her hand, turned, and walked out to the expansive outdoor terrace.
The heavy, soundproof glass door slid shut. The physical barrier completely severed Cason from the kitchen.
The second the latch clicked, the last shred of Jackson's restraint shattered.
He lunged forward.
Chelsea stumbled backward in terror. Her spine slammed hard against the cold marble backsplash of the stove. She had nowhere left to run.
Jackson slammed both his hands flat onto the counter on either side of her hips. He caged her in completely. His broad chest pressed against her, trapping her against the wall.
He lowered his head. His breath, hot and smelling faintly of scotch, washed over her face.
"How much of my family's money are you trying to steal this time?" Jackson hissed, his voice dripping with venom.
Chelsea tilted her head up. She forced her eyes to widen. A single, perfect tear rolled down her cheek.
"I love him," she whispered, her voice cracking. "I just love him."
Jackson's upper lip curled in absolute disgust.
"Love?" Jackson mocked. "Is that what you called it five years ago when you slit your wrists in a bathtub to force me to marry you?"
Chelsea's body jerked. A genuine flash of agony ripped through her chest. The memory of the blood, the cold water, and the lies his parents told him hit her like a physical strike.
Jackson didn't care about her pain. He reached into his slacks and pulled out his phone. He tapped the screen, opening a highly encrypted folder.
He shoved the glowing screen into her face.
It was the black file. The fake police reports. The fabricated clinic records detailing her supposed history of sex work.
"You have exactly ten minutes to pack your trash and get out of this building," Jackson ordered, his voice devoid of any mercy. "Or I walk out to that terrace and show Cason exactly what kind of filth he's sleeping with."
Chelsea stared at the screen. She bit her lower lip so hard the skin broke. The metallic taste of blood filled her mouth.
She closed her eyes and gave a slow, defeated nod.
Jackson stepped back immediately, wiping his hands on his trousers as if touching the air near her had infected him. He pointed a rigid finger toward the master bedroom.
Chelsea kept her head down. She dragged her aching body across the living room and into the bedroom.
She pulled a battered, cheap suitcase from under the bed. She opened the drawers and threw her faded cotton shirts and worn-out jeans inside.
She walked over to the vanity mirror. The diamond Cartier bracelet and the lambskin Chanel bag Cason had bought her sat on the glass surface. She didn't touch them. She left them perfectly centered, a physical proof of her fake martyrdom.
She zipped the suitcase shut and dragged it out to the living room.
The glass door slid open. Cason walked back inside, pocketing his phone.
He saw the suitcase. He froze.
"Chels? What are you doing?" Cason asked, his voice rising in panic. He rushed forward and grabbed the handle of the suitcase.
Chelsea ripped her hand away from his. She forced a tragic, watery smile onto her face.
"Things are moving too fast, Cason," she lied, her voice trembling. "I need some space. I need to think."
Cason looked like he had been shot. He whipped his head around and glared at Jackson, who was standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows with his hands in his pockets.
"What did you say to her?" Cason screamed, stepping toward his brother with his fists clenched.
"I didn't say anything," Jackson replied, his face a mask of bored indifference. "She made a smart choice."
Cason lunged.
Chelsea threw herself forward. She wrapped her arms tightly around Cason's waist, burying her face in his back.
"Please!" she sobbed loudly. "Don't fight with your brother over me. Please, Cason!"
Cason stopped, his chest heaving as he looked down at her crying form.
Taking advantage of his hesitation, Chelsea let go of him. She grabbed her suitcase, turned her back on both of them, and walked out the front door.
The elevator doors slowly slid shut, cutting off Cason's desperate shouts and Jackson's cold, unblinking stare.
Chelsea walked out of the luxury high-rise. The freezing New York rain lashed against her bare arms.
She hailed a beat-up yellow cab and gave the driver an address for a rundown tenement building in Queens.
The cab merged into traffic. Chelsea sat in the backseat. She pulled a wet wipe from her purse and wiped the tears from her face. Her expression went completely dead.
Deep inside her bag, a burner phone suddenly began to emit a faint, continuous hum. She glanced down just as the flap of her purse shifted, catching the ghostly, pulsing glow of the screen lighting up with an unknown caller ID.
