The Broken Architect's Fiery Revenge

ion accident had shattered my dominant

haze, I overheard the tr

e me, to make me a "broken archi

et son with his lover, Kacey. He was buil

d, Kacey framed me for an attack. Dereck and his fami

roken me. He though

death, leaving him to rot in his

pte

Rollin

h word a precise incision. I was floating, not quite awake, not quite asleep, my body a batt

ick with an unsettling eagerness. "Her dominant hand, specifically. We need to

, a phantom pain that was all too re

himself. "A broken architect. She' ll have no cho

couldn't move, couldn't speak. My mouth fe

, a flicker of something in his tone-was it concern?

nd, her spirit... they are tied to her hands. Break the hands, break

, his voice dropping. "What if she finds out? What

spine. "There will be no 'finding out.' She' ll be too lost in

ar. The same hand that had once traced the lines of my architectural sketches, the same h

lt utterly fake, even in my drugged state. "I' m doing this for

ave responsibilities, Cayla. A legacy to secure. A son to ac

esigned sound. "Very well, t

regaining its sharp edge. "No traces. No

ded, his foots

ndled. Compensations sent. No, she won' t suspect a thing. She' s too... distraught." He

path down my temple. I didn't know what he was talking about,

ide, stroking my hair.

ed together for the future – all of it was a cruel mirage. The coldness I felt was not just from the hospital ro

took down the old Acevedo warehouse. Kacey Acevedo. His secret lover. His son. He had set t

er injection. I knew what it m

oyingly sweet. "It' s just to help you rest. You' ll fe

ough my very soul. My inner strength, my ability to create, felt like it was being ripped

missing. A part of me, a core piece of my being, had been surgically

rimmed, his clothes slightly rumpled. He looked like a man who h

reached for my hand, the injured one. His touch sent a fresh jolt o

Only a calculating emptiness, a chilling satisfaction hidden beneat

nything for t

e was gone, or perhaps I just didn' t want to

I rasped, my voice barely a w

by his practiced mask of devotion. "I couldn' t rest,

d of deceit. Then, he lay down on the small cot beside my bed, and w

erve ending screaming, every fiber of my being a

line, let alone a masterpiece. But even with the pain, with the shattering realiza

roken me. He though

as w