Broken And Betrayed: A Billionaire's Regret

Benne

showed my face. But it wasn't my face from today, poised and controlled. It was my fa

rned me critical acclaim-and twisted it. They had spliced my character's most vulnerable moments with fabricated audio, making it sound as if I were ad

f Beckham' s classmates, New York' s elite, froze with champagne flutes halfway

x Bennett. The washed-up actress Justin Barlow inexplicably marri

his. It had Beckham and Bertram' s cruelty written all over it, guided by the precise, malicious

ines would write themselves. The comments would be a swarm of digital whispers, each one a tiny, sharp sting. Whispers of my past, twisted into a caricature of ambit

arms crossed, a smug, triumphant smirk on his face. Bertram, ever th

ertram whispering. "Wait for it. She's goin

wanted the drama, the validation that

wift, brutal efficiency he usually reserved for hostile takeovers. He grabbed the mast

een wen

idn't shout. He didn't have to. He strode over to them, grabbed them both by the arm in a grip that made them wince, and dragged

at led to a deserted terrace, my legs shaking. The cold night air was a s

d, ghost of a habit. I just held them there, a silent

do you think

through the quiet. He strode over

hes from mine. His breath smelled of expensive whi

filled with condemnation. The same look he gave me wh

gna

y throat. Oh, the irony was thick enough

cked in the deepest, darkest

ous crack in the contractual foundation of our marriage. For two years, I had allowed myself to beli

n he wa

Barlow summer estate. I was watching him. I turned away for a second

ze. The next, only the humming of a distant lawnmower and the deafening beat of my own heart. The world didn't

EO! My voice was a raw tear in the fabric of the perfect afterno

stin's voice was a roar. He had

"He's gone, Alex!" Justin shouted, his face contorted

horrifying moment. The sun was so bright. The birds were still

"Please, Justin. Let me take him. Just let me have him. We can go aw

me, his eyes filled with an accusation th

al. He made me sit in the front row of the crematorium and watc

ghost in my own life, a hollowed-out shell going through the

gain. Not in front of hi

s talking abou

e vacant stare I'd had for months after Leo died. He mistook my trauma for shame over th

trying to pull m

th the condescending calm he used to soothe hy

ballroom doors behind us were thrown open, b

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