---- Chapter 13 Brandon Carlson POV: "Get out," | rasped, shoving Caryl's concerned hand away from me. "Both of you. Leave me alone." Caryl' s face fell, but she nodded meekly and left the room. She thought Farah' s death was a victory, a final clearing of the board. She was a fool. Danial lingered. "Are you really this broken up over her?" he asked, his usual mocking tone gone, replaced by something that sounded almost like concern "Get out, Danial." "You were trained to be emotionless, a perfect leader," he pressed on. "You're not supposed to love anyone. Especially not her." He was right. My entire life had been a carefully controlled exercise in suppressing emotion. Father and Grandfather had molded me into the perfect heir: ruthless, pragmatic, untouchable. Love was a liability. But Farah... she had slipped past my defenses. She had gotten under my skin in a way no one else ever had. And now, she was gone. | had killed her. ---- "| care about her more than | realized," | admitted, the words feeling foreign and heavy on my tongue. After | was discharged, | drove to the apartment we had shared. The moment | walked in, | knew something was wrong. The furniture was different. The colors were brighter. It was her style, not mine. The housekeeper, Mrs. Gable, met meat the door. "Mr. Carlson," she said, her eyes filled with a pity | didn't want. "I'm so sorry for your loss. Miss Moore..." "What happened here?" | interrupted, gesturing at the unfamiliar room. "Where is all my furniture?" "Miss Moore had it all replaced, sir," she said quietly. "The day she came back from the hospital. She said she wanted a change." A change. She had erased me. While | was plotting her punishment, she was already planning her escape. | walked through the apartment. It was as if | had never lived there. All my things were gone. Her closet was empty. The sketchbook she always kept on her nightstand was gone. The entire apartment was a sterile, impersonal space, wiped clean of our five years together. "| don't love you anymore, Brandon," she had said in that cold, sterile room at the asylum. "Let me go." | hadn't believed her. | had thought it was a ploy. Now, | knew ---- it was the truth. | sank onto the unfamiliar sofa, the hollow ache in my chest a constant, throbbing presence. | needed her. | needed her back. My phone rang. It was the manager of a nightclub downtown. "Mr. Carlson? We found something that belongs to Miss Moore. A ring. She must have dropped it here a few weeks ago." | was in my car in minutes. At the club, the manager handed me a simple silver ring, one | had never seen before. It wasn't her engagement ring. It was something else. As | was leaving, | overheard two waitresses talking. "Did you see Caryl Carlson last night?" one of them whispered. "She was here with some guy. And she wasn't wearing her eye bandages. She was dancing like she could see perfectly fine." The world stopped. | felt a chill crawl up my spine. Caryl. She had been here. Without her bandages. | walked to a secluded corner and pulled out my phone, my fingers trembling as | dialed Leo. "| want you to investigate Caryl," | said, my voice dangerously low. "Everything. Her accident. Her medical records. Her financials. | want to know everything she has done for the past year." | needed to know the truth. Even if it destroyed me.