I Married Your Brother

The late autumn wind carried a chill that stung my cheeks painfully. I stood beneath the Shaw Group's building, staring at Nola Scott's "W cafe" just a short distance away, my heart gripped tightly as if by an invisible hand. The glass door was shattered into pieces, scattered across the steps at the entrance. Sunlight hit the shards, reflecting a blinding glare. Inside the cafe, tables and chairs were overturned, coffee beans that had once been neatly arranged spilled everywhere, and milk dripped down the table legs, pooling into white streaks on the floor. A faint smell of burnt coffee lingered in the air, mixed with the sharp scent of shattered porcelain. The employee shrank into the corner of the cafe, face pale as death. When Simon Shaw stormed in, the employee was trembling all over, hurriedly waving his hands. "Mr. Shaw, we truly don't know who did this! Those people wore masks, came in and smashed everything, then ran off right after. Ms. Scott... Ms. Scott is missing too!" I stood not far off, watching Simon Shaw's retreating figure. His shoulders were tightly coiled, the air around him thick with a frightening intensity. In the next moment, he slammed around, his eyes shooting towards me like shards of ice. My heart clenched, and before I could even react, he strode over and gripped my wrist tightly. "It was you, wasn't it?" His grip was so fierce it felt like he might crush my bones; a sharp pain shot through my wrist, and I couldn't help but grimace. His eyes blazed with a wild, bloody fury, and the hatred in his voice pierced me like an ice pick. "It wasn't me. I had no idea about this at all." I shook my head firmly, my voice trembling ever so slightly. I stayed home all day today, sorting through design sketches, not even stepping outside the door. How could I possibly have gone to smash Nola Scott's cafe? "If it's not you, then who is it?" He sneered coldly, his laughter dripping with mockery and disbelief. "In this whole city, who doesn't know you can't stand Nola?" He suddenly let go of my hand, then spun around and strode quickly toward the car parked by the roadside. Before I could even understand what he was about to do, he pulled a black pistol from the car and hurried back, pressing the muzzle firmly against my temple. The cold touch of metal spread across my skin, carrying a deadly chill. I trembled all over, my teeth chattering: "I really don't know, Simon Shaw. Can you just believe me this once?" My voice was pleading, my eyes brimming with grievance and helplessness. I've been with him for five years, from innocent school days to entering society. I humbled myself to the dust—has he never once trusted me? But he refused to look me in the eye, as if all the pain in my eyes was just a sham. "Tell me, where did you hide Nola Scott?" His voice was low, dripping with menace, each word striking my heart like a heavy hammer. "I didn't hide her. I don't even know where she is!" I clenched my tears, refusing to let them fall. I didn't want to appear weak in front of him, but the injustice inside me welled up like a rising tide. When I refused to admit it, Simon Shaw's anger flared; he suddenly thrust his hand onto my shoulder. I lost my footing and staggered backward, the outdoor swimming pool looming right behind me. With a muffled splash, I plunged into the icy water. The pool water in late autumn was bone-chilling cold, like countless needles of ice piercing my skin, instantly soaking through my clothes and freezing my limbs stiff. I struggled to thrash about, choking on several mouthfuls of icy water, my nose and throat burning with pain. I managed to grab the handrail at the edge of the pool and, summoning all my strength, pulled myself ashore. My clothes were drenched and clung to my body; the cold wind blew fiercely, making my teeth chatter uncontrollably. I lifted my gaze and stared at Simon Shaw's resolute retreating figure—there was not a hint of hesitation, nor any trace of lingering. At that moment, the last shred of hope I had for him completely shattered. I dragged my soaked body back to the room and rummaged through the bottom of the wardrobe to find that stack of wedding invitations embossed with golden floral patterns. The vivid red background, the gilded words 'Simon Shaw & Stella Walker'—I used to look at these words filled with joy, feeling like the happiest person in the world. But now, those words stabbed at my eyes like needles. I lit the lighter, the flame licking the edge of the invitation. The paper slowly curled and burned, black ashes falling onto the white carpet like scattered shattered dreams. I gazed at the ashes, quietly whispering to myself, "Stella Walker, stop being so humble." The words were soft but carried an unprecedented resolve.