His Brother's Promise, My Silent Revenge

For one thousand, eight hundred and twenty-five days, I honored a deathbed promise to the man I loved. I stayed by his brother's side, acting as Grafton Mcleod's loyal assistant, his shadow, and the keeper of his secrets.

When my five-year sentence was finally up, he announced his engagement to Cherrelle, the woman who took cruel pleasure in tormenting me. His celebratory gift to me? The task of planning their perfect engagement party.

At the party, he publicly dismissed me as an "old obligation." Later, drunk and angry, he cornered me in a back office. He slammed me against the door, his mouth crashing down on mine in a brutal, clumsy kiss.

He pinned me there, his body pressing into mine, and whispered a name against my lips.

It wasn't my name.

"Cherrelle."

The violation wasn't the assault; it was the complete and utter erasure. I wasn't a person he hated or desired. I was just a stand-in, a warm body, a substitute for the woman he actually wanted. The last flicker of loyalty to his brother's memory died, leaving only ice in my veins.

The next morning, Cherrelle screamed that I'd tried to seduce him, and he stood by and let her. My own mother called to shame me. That was it. I drove to a cliff overlooking the ocean, pulled the SIM card from my phone, and snapped it in two. It was time for Cayla Bass to die.

Chapter 1

The fifth year was ending.

Cayla Bass stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, her gaze fixed on the sprawling city lights below. They blurred into a meaningless smear of color.

For one thousand, eight hundred and twenty-five days, she had been Grafton Mcleod's shadow. His assistant. His problem solver. The person who absorbed his rage and cleaned up his messes.

And it was all because of a promise to a dying man.

A flash of memory, sharp and unwelcome. The sterile smell of the hospital, the insistent beeping of a machine, and Justen's hand, cold in hers.

"Five years, Cayla." His voice was a weak rasp. "Just watch over him for five years. He's all I have."

Justen Palmer. Grafton's older brother. The only light in Cayla's world, extinguished in a wreck of twisted metal and shattered glass.

She had agreed. She would have agreed to anything.

A door slammed open behind her.

"Cayla."

Grafton's voice was sharp, cutting through the silence. He didn't bother to look at her, his attention locked on the phone pressed to his ear.

"I don't care what it takes," he snapped into the device. "Get it done."

He ended the call and tossed the phone onto the leather sofa. His eyes, cold and dismissive, finally landed on her.

"Did you get it?"

"The acquisition proposal is on your desk," she said, her voice flat, devoid of emotion. "I've highlighted the key risk factors."

"I didn't ask for your analysis," he sneered. "I asked if you got it."

Cherrelle Hughes glided into the room, wrapping her arms around Grafton's neck from behind. She pressed a kiss to his cheek, her eyes, gleaming with triumph, meeting Cayla's over his shoulder.

"Don't be so hard on her, Gray," Cherrelle cooed, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "She tries her best. It's just... not always good enough."

Grafton's expression softened as he looked at Cherrelle. He turned, pulling her into his arms. "You're too kind to her."

The scene was a familiar one. A play she had watched on repeat for five years. The doting lover, the innocent girlfriend, the useless, annoying subordinate.

Cherrelle's perfectly manicured hand reached out, picking up a glass of red wine from the bar. She took a delicate sip, her eyes never leaving Cayla.

"Oh, honey," Cherrelle said, a small gasp escaping her lips. She looked down at the front of Grafton's white shirt, where a small, dark red stain was now blooming. "Look what you did. You were standing so close, you made me jump."

The accusation hung in the air, absurd and blatant. Cayla hadn't moved a muscle.

Grafton's face darkened. He looked from the stain on his shirt to Cayla, his eyes filled with a familiar, chilling anger.

"Are you blind?" he spat. "Get out of my sight."

Cayla's hands, hidden in the pockets of her simple black dress, clenched into fists. Her fingernails dug into her palms. The small, sharp pain was a welcome distraction. It was real.

She turned without a word and walked towards the door.

"And one more thing," Grafton's voice stopped her.

She paused, her back to them.

"Cherrelle and I are getting engaged," he announced, his tone laced with a deliberate cruelty. "The party is next month. I expect you to handle the arrangements. Don't screw it up."

Each word was a hammer blow.

This was it. The final confirmation. The end of a hope she hadn't even realized she was still holding.

She had thought, foolishly, that once the five years were up, something might change. That he might see her. Not as a lover, but just as a person. As the woman his beloved brother had entrusted to his side.

But she was nothing. A piece of furniture. A tool to be used and discarded.

"Congratulations," she said, the word tasting like ash in her mouth.

She walked out of the penthouse, her steps even and controlled. She did not run. She did not cry.

Down in the sterile quiet of her own small apartment in the same building, she pulled out her laptop. Her fingers flew across the keyboard, her movements precise and automatic.

She wasn't answering emails.

She was registering for the Rourke International Rally. An endurance race. A brutal, dangerous competition on the other side of the world.

She used a name no one had called her in five years. A name that belonged to a different life. The life before the promise.

The confirmation email popped into her inbox. It was irreversible.

She closed the laptop.

The promise was fulfilled. Her sentence was served.

It was time to disappear.