Dayna POV:

The kiss was brutal. A desperate, possessive act designed to control, to silence, to prove something to everyone but me. My lips still throbbed, a phantom pain mirroring the ache in my chest. He wasn't the man I thought I married. He was a stranger, capable of a cold cruelty I hadn't imagined.

A week later, we were at a masked ball, a glitzy charity event meant to distract from the whispers surrounding the Preston family. Brooks, ever the master of appearances, was charming, composed, his hand resting lightly on my lower back. But I felt nothing but a cold hollowness.

I caught a glimpse of Everleigh across the ballroom. She was wearing a mask identical to mine, a delicate filigree of silver and lace. But it wasn't just the mask. Around her neck, glinting under the chandeliers, was the tie pin Brooks had worn that morning. My heart clenched. A silent, public declaration of ownership.

Brooks squeezed my hand, a polite reminder. "Dayna, darling, keep up."

I pulled my arm away. "I'm perfectly capable of walking on my own."

He frowned, a barely perceptible flicker of annoyance. "Are you still angry?"

Angry? My laughter was a bitter echo in my head. "Brooks," I said, my voice low and steady, "we are getting a divorce. I filed the papers this morning. The cooling-off period ends soon." I pulled a folded document from my clutch and pressed it into his hand. "Just sign it."

His eyes widened, a rare crack in his composure. He opened his mouth to speak, but at that exact moment, a collective gasp rippled through the crowd.

"Oh my God, Everleigh!" someone shrieked.

Brooks's head snapped towards the commotion. Everleigh had stumbled, her drink spilling down her gown, a dramatic cascade of embarrassment. He started to turn, his concern palpable.

"Brooks," I said, my voice sharp, pulling him back. "Sign it. Now."

He hesitated, his gaze torn between me and his distressed sister. Then, with a frustrated sigh, he snatched the pen from my hand and scrawled his signature across the dotted line. The tip of the pen, sharp and unforgiving, grazed my skin, leaving a thin red line on the back of my hand. He didn't notice. He was already gone, rushing towards Everleigh.

I watched him go, a strange sense of liberation washing over me. It was done. The paper, now legally binding, felt like a feather in my hand. I walked to a quiet corner, the festive music and laughter a distant hum.

A masked figure approached me, holding out a single red rose. It was the start of the night's "seek your soulmate" game. Everyone was supposed to find their partner in the masked crowd.

I looked up. It was Brooks. My heart, against all odds, gave a tiny flutter. Could he...?

But then, another masked figure, identical to mine, appeared beside him. Everleigh.

Brooks paused, his steps faltering. His eyes, though masked, were fixed on her.

Suddenly, the lights flickered, then died. The ballroom plunged into darkness, a collective murmur rising from the crowd. Chaos.

In the sudden blackness, I saw them. Two silhouettes, illuminated by the distant city lights filtering through the tall windows. Locked in an embrace. A kiss. There was no mistaking it. The way his head tilted, the way her body melted into his. It was Brooks and Everleigh.

"Oh, look!" a woman beside me giggled. "Mr. Preston and his wife are so in love! So romantic!"

My stomach churned. Love. That's what it looked like. Raw, undeniable, passionate. For his sister. Not for me. He had never kissed me like that. Not once. Not even on our wedding day.

I felt a ghost of a smile grace my lips. So, this was it. The grand revelation. His love for her was so palpable, so undeniable, that even in the darkness, it shone. My talkativeness, my stories, my very essence had never elicited such a response. He had accepted me. He had tolerated me. He had never loved me. He loved her.

My eyes, now adjusted to the dim light, found Everleigh's. Even through the masks, I felt the triumph in her gaze, the malicious glint. Her lips moved, a silent message. He's mine.

I laughed. A short, sharp, bitter sound. I reached up, my fingers trembling slightly, and removed my mask. The cool air against my face felt like a cleansing. I walked towards them, my steps deliberate, my gaze fixed on Brooks.

"Did you mistake me for someone else, Brooks?" I asked, my voice chillingly calm.

Dayna POV:

Brooks' s body stiffened. His head snapped up, his masked face turning towards me. I saw a flicker of something in his eyes, perhaps surprise, perhaps guilt. He opened his mouth, but no words came out.

Just then, the lights flickered back on, glaringly bright, illuminating the scene. The crowd, momentarily stunned by the power outage, erupted into chatter. In the sudden surge of bodies, I was jostled, pushed away from them. I stumbled, my injured ankle protesting.

I watched, helpless, as Brooks instinctively pulled Everleigh closer, shielding her from the throng, his hand firm on her back. His concern for her was a stark, painful contrast to his indifference to my well-being.

The chaos subsided as the auctioneer, beaming, announced the winner of the "seek your soulmate" game. The prize: a painting. A significant work of art, he explained, by a reclusive and highly sought-after artist.

My gaze snapped to the stage. The painting was unveiled. My breath hitched. It was a sunflower field, vibrant and bursting with life, painted with an unmistakable style. My sister' s style. My late sister, Ava, a celebrated artist whose work was her legacy, her soul poured onto canvas.

"No," I whispered, my voice trembling. "It can't be."

The auctioneer continued, oblivious, his voice booming. "And the artist, the 'master' herself, will personally present the painting to our lucky winner!"

My blood ran cold. The 'master'? Ava had been gone for years.

The spotlight swung, landing on a figure already on the stage. A woman, masked, just like the one Everleigh had worn. The mask, the tie pin, the confident stance. It was Everleigh. Standing there, bathed in light, accepting the accolades, accepting the title of "master." My sister' s title.

"She wouldn't," I breathed, my mind reeling. "She wouldn't dare."

But she was. She was impersonating my sister. Stealing her legacy. Defiling her memory.

A wave of nausea washed over me. I pushed through the crowd, an incoherent cry forming in my throat. "She's a fake! That's my sister's work! She's not the artist!"

But before I could reach the stage, a blinding pain seared through my head. The room spun. The sounds blurred into a deafening roar. My legs gave out.

I felt myself falling, but then, strong arms caught me. A familiar scent-Brooks's cologne. He was there. Holding me.

When I woke, I was in our bedroom at the villa. The pale morning light filtered through the heavy curtains. Brooks was sitting at his desk, his laptop open, his face illuminated by the screen. He was working. Always working.

A surge of anger, hot and fierce, coursed through me. My sister' s painting. Everleigh' s brazen lies. I tried to sit up, to get out of bed, to confront him, to expose her.

But he was instantly by my side, gently pushing me back down. "Easy, Dayna. You have a fever. You passed out last night."

My feverish mind latched onto his words. "Fever? I don't care about a fever! Everleigh! She's lying! She's pretending to be Ava! She stole her painting!"

He just looked at me, his eyes calm, steady, unreadable. The same eyes that had always listened to my endless chatter without judgment. The same eyes that now seemed to hold a vast, chilling emptiness.

And then I saw it. The flicker. The tiny, almost imperceptible shift in his gaze. Not surprise. Not denial. But something else. A complicity. He knew. He had known all along.

The memory hit me then. A few months ago, in a moment of rare vulnerability, I had taken Brooks to Ava's old studio, a sacred space filled with her unfinished canvases, her paints, her soul. I had shown him her favorite brushes, explained her unique technique, shared stories of her artistic process. I had trusted him with her memory. With my most cherished possession.

"Why?" I choked out, the word tearing from my throat. "Why, Brooks? How could you let her do this?"

He didn't answer. He simply reached for the bedside table, picked up a glass of water and a pill. "Here. Take this. It will help with the fever."

"Damn the fever!" I cried, batting his hand away. "Answer me! What is your sister to you? What kind of twisted game are you playing?" My voice was rising, raw with pain and indignation. "I saw you! Last night! The kiss! The tie pin! What is going on between you two?"

Dayna POV:

Brooks remained infuriatingly calm. His lips, usually so still, barely moved. "What did you see, Dayna?" he asked, his voice even, devoid of any discernible emotion.

His composure was a fresh wound. It was as if he was mocking me, questioning my sanity. My feverish mind, already reeling, began to doubt itself. Had I imagined it? The kiss in the dark? The stolen tie pin? Was I just a jealous wife, prone to dramatic hallucinations?

Then, my gaze fell upon his pristine white shirt. Tucked into the collar, a faint smudge of crimson. Lipstick. Everleigh's vibrant red.

The truth, stark and undeniable, hit me with centrifugal force. It wasn't a fever dream. It was real. All of it.

A bitter, humorless laugh escaped my lips. "Nothing, Brooks. I must have been dreaming. The fever, you know. It makes you see things." My voice was brittle, thin.

A subtle easing of tension in his shoulders. He believed me. Or, rather, he believed I was retreating, as I always did, into my own world of words and stories. "Good," he said, his voice softening slightly. "I'm glad. Now, about the painting. I'm sorry about Ava's work. Everleigh... she needed it. For her portfolio. She's been struggling, you see, with her art, and she needed a boost of confidence."

My blood ran cold. Needed it? He was apologizing for her taking my sister's work? Not for the blatant theft, the desecration of Ava's memory, but for a "boost of confidence"?

He then pulled out his wallet, producing a pristine, blank check. "Here," he said, pressing it into my hand. "Compensation. Write down any amount you want. It's yours."

My hand trembled, not with fever, but with rage. A blank check. As if money could erase the betrayal. As if my sister's legacy, my heart, could be bought. I looked at the check, then at him, then back at the check. With a sudden, violent movement, I ripped it in half, the crisp paper tearing with a satisfying sound. Then I tore it again, and again, until it was nothing but confetti, fluttering to the floor.

Brooks stared, genuinely startled. A flicker of something, perhaps confusion, crossed his face. He had clearly not expected that.

"I don't need your money, Brooks," I said, my voice dangerously low. "I don't need compensation for my sister's art, and I certainly don't need it for my heart." I pulled the duvet up to my chin, turning my back to him, effectively shutting him out.

The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating. I could feel his gaze on my back, a silent question. He was expecting me to speak, to explain, to fill the void. But I had no words left for him. My well of chatter, once overflowing, was now bone dry.

He cleared his throat. "Dayna," he began, his voice hesitant, "if it's not money you want... perhaps a larger share in the company? I can arrange for a substantial stock transfer. It would secure your financial future, and... well, it would show my commitment."

Still, I didn't respond. My silence, usually a source of anxiety for me, now felt like a shield.

He sighed, a long, drawn-out sound. "Or... we could have a child, Dayna."

My head snapped around. "A child?" I scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping my lips. My memory replayed itself, a cruel reminder of his past words. A child? Dayna, we're not ready. It's too much responsibility. I'm too busy. Everleigh needs me.

"Now you want a child?" I asked, my voice laced with venom. "Now, when we're getting divorced? Now, when you've made it abundantly clear your priorities lie elsewhere?" My blood boiled. I grabbed the torn divorce papers from the bedside table, the ones he had signed so carelessly after rushing off to Everleigh, and threw them at him. They fluttered through the air, landing softly at his feet.

"We are divorced, Brooks!" I screamed, my voice raw with anguish. "D-I-V-O-R-C-E-D! I am not your incubator! I am not a broodmare! And I am certainly not going to have your child just so you can appease your grandfather and keep your precious Everleigh close! We are over!" I bit down hard on my lip, drawing blood. The metallic taste filled my mouth, a stark reminder of the pain he had inflicted.