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.

Dayna POV:

Brooks froze. His body, usually so controlled, became rigid. His eyes fixed on the scattered pieces of the divorce papers at his feet. The color drained from his face as he finally, truly, saw them. Saw my signature, his signature, the official seals. The undeniable proof.

He bent to pick them up, his movements slow and deliberate, as if in a daze. But just as his fingers brushed the crumpled paper, his phone blared. The ringtone. Everleigh's special ringtone. A childish, tinkling melody that grated on my nerves.

His head snapped up. His eyes, now filled with a desperate urgency, darted to his phone, then back to the papers. Everleigh always came first. Always.

He snatched his phone, his thumb swiping across the screen. "Everleigh? What is it?" His voice was laced with a frantic anxiety I had never heard directed at me. "I'm coming. Don't worry. I'll be right there."

He didn't even look at me. He just grabbed his jacket, already half out the door. "Dayna," he mumbled, his voice rushed, "I have to go. Everleigh needs me. We'll talk about this later. Don't... don't do anything rash."

Rash. The irony was a bitter pill. He was talking about divorce papers he' d already signed, about a marriage he' d already broken. I watched him go, the door clicking shut behind him. He hadn't even looked at the contents of the papers, hadn't even processed the finality of it. Everleigh's call was an emergency. My heartbreak was a "talk about this later."

A cold, hard laugh bubbled up from my chest. It was almost comical. He hadn't even bothered to read the document that severed our ties. It was just another piece of paper, easily dismissed in the face of Everleigh's latest crisis.

I got out of bed, my foot still aching, but my mind clear of any lingering doubts. I calmly collected the scattered pieces of the divorce papers, smoothed them out as best I could, and placed them in a small, locked box in my closet. The cooling-off period was almost over. I just had to wait.

Days turned into a week. Brooks didn't come home. His presence, or rather, his absence, was a palpable void. He was with Everleigh, of course. Tending to her latest manufactured crisis. I heard whispers from the staff-Everleigh's engagement to the Sterling heir had been called off. Another scandal. Another reason for Brooks to be by her side, consoling her, protecting her.

Then, one evening, he returned. He burst through the door, his face flushed, his eyes blazing, a storm cloud of fury unleashed.

"What did you do, Dayna?" he roared, his voice trembling with barely contained rage. "What did you do to Everleigh?"

I looked at him, surprised. A quiet, almost serene smile touched my lips. "To Everleigh? I haven't done anything to Everleigh, Brooks. I've been here, quietly waiting for our divorce to be finalized."

My voice was calm, almost detached. And the sight of my composure seemed to enrage him further. He took a step closer, his eyes narrowed. "Don't lie to me! Everleigh just called. She's been arrested! For theft!"

He paused, a triumphant sneer on his face. "And she said you put her up to it. Convinced her to 'borrow' a painting from a gallery, just to get back at me."

His words were a whirlwind of accusations, a frantic torrent of sound. He was talking. So much. More than he had ever talked to me. And it was all for Everleigh. All about her. My heart, which I thought was numb, pulsed with a fresh wave of pain.

"She said that?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper. "She said I put her up to it?"

"Yes!" he thundered. "She's in a holding cell right now, terrified! Do you have any idea what this could do to her? To us? To the family's reputation?"