CHAPTER 267: UNRAVELLING

The living room, usually immaculate, looked like a war zone. Documents covered the marble floor like a paper snowfall, some shredded, others soaked with spilled whiskey. Two computer monitors glowed dimly from his desk, one looping security footage from the building’s garage, the other showing lines of corrupted video files he’d been trying and failing to delete.

Brandon sat in the middle of the mess, barefoot, wearing yesterday’s clothes. His tie hung loose around his neck, his hair matted and damp with sweat. The package from the night before, brown paper, now torn open sat on the coffee table in front of him. The contents were spread out like evidence: glossy photos, each one a punch to the ribs.

Danny Perez.

Levi Van Doren.

Blood on asphalt.

The last photo, the one that froze his breath, showed him, Brandon standing outside a car. That Danny’s car. The timestamp was from the night the paparazzo died.

He didn’t remember being there. At least, he didn’t think he had been.

But the image didn’t lie.

His hand trembled as he reached for the lighter beside the pile of photos. The small flame hissed, licking the edge of one print until the image curled and blackened, but the smoke was too slow. The faces still stared back at him through the half-burned sheen, accusatory and alive.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered, flinging the photo into the fireplace. "You think you can scare me?"

His voice echoed in the stillness, raw, uncertain. The sound of someone trying too hard to sound like himself.

Behind him, the front door clicked open.

"Mr. Marlowe?" Kara’s voice was careful, tentative. She stepped into the living room, stopping short at the sight of the wreckage. "What on earth??"

Brandon straightened sharply, pulling on his jacket as if that would somehow restore normalcy. "Kara. You’re early."

She blinked, trying to mask her surprise. "I... yes, I came to drop off the finalized proposals for your mother’s memorial charity gala." Her eyes flicked to the pile of photos in the fireplace, the smoldering edges curling in the air. "Is everything all right?"

"Fine," he said too quickly. "Just cleaning up some old records."

Kara hesitated, then bent to pick up a stray flash drive from the floor. It was sleek, black, marked with a small strip of masking tape scrawled in pen: D.P.

"Do you want me to store this with the archives?" she asked.

Brandon froze.

"No," he said after a beat, his tone clipped. He reached out and snatched it from her hand, slipping it into his pocket. "That’s personal."

Kara blinked at the shift in his expression. He looked... haunted. The smooth confidence that usually dripped from him was gone, replaced with something jittery, raw.

She set the folders on the counter carefully. "Of course sir. I’ll just... leave these here."

He nodded but didn’t look at her. His attention was fixed on the flickering monitors again, one displaying frozen footage from the parking structure. A shadow lingered there, tall, indistinct, someone walking away from a car Danny used to drive.

"Mr. Marlowe," she said slowly, "you should get some rest."

He didn’t answer. He didn’t even blink. His lips moved slightly, whispering words she couldn’t quite catch.

"Who’s watching me?"

Kara frowned. "Sir?"

His head jerked up, eyes sharp now, almost wild. "Did someone ask you to come early? Did anyone call you this morning?"

"Wh—no," she stammered, startled. "I just wanted to get ahead on..."

"Don’t lie to me!" The outburst came so suddenly that she flinched. Papers rustled in the breeze of his movement as he slammed his hand on the desk. The sound reverberated through the apartment.

A long silence followed. Brandon’s shoulders heaved. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost a whisper. "I’m sorry. Just... a lot on my plate."

Kara swallowed, forcing a small nod. "Of course."

She gathered her bag, heart hammering, and backed toward the door. "I’ll check in later."

Brandon didn’t reply. As she slipped out, she glanced over her shoulder once more , and saw him kneeling by the desk drawer, stuffing folders into a paper shredder, eyes hollow, movements mechanical.

By the time the elevator doors closed, Kara already knew she wasn’t coming back.

*

Lyse stared at the ceiling of her new apartment, the pale morning light washing over her face in dull grey. The world outside her window moved on without her, cars humming, people walking, city life surging like a river she had fallen out of.

Her phone buzzed for the fifth time that hour. She didn’t move.

The news played softly from the television: "Sources close to the Marlowe family confirm tensions surrounding the late Sutton Marlowe’s estate..."

Her chest tightened. Every headline was another needle, threading guilt into her skin.

Levi’s name still trended, his face flashing on talk shows and tabloids. Each host dissected his supposed downfall, every whisper amplified, Anya’s death, the scandal, the accusations.

And though she told herself she shouldn’t care, her heart ached every time his image appeared.

Because she thought that she knew Levi.

The man who brought her coffee in the morning before meetings, who pressed a kiss to her hair when he thought she was asleep. The man who once told her he didn’t believe in fate, but that if it existed, she was probably his punishment and salvation rolled into one.

He couldn’t have done the things they said he did.

But he had lied. About who he was that night. About the marriage.

And that betrayal stung deeper than the public spectacle ever could.

She sat up slowly, rubbing her temples, trying to push away the dull pounding in her skull. The apartment was pristine, too neat. The kind of order that came from trying to control something when everything else was chaos.

The knock on the door startled her.

"Lyse?" a familiar voice called softly. James.

She hesitated before opening it. He stood there holding a paper bag that smelled faintly of takeout coffee and pastries. His expression softened when he saw her, tired, hollow-eyed, but still carrying that quiet dignity that had always made her seem untouchable.

"You look like you’ve been living on fumes," he said, stepping inside. "Eat."

She took the bag silently. "You didn’t have to."

"I know. But I wanted to." He gave a lopsided smile. "Besides, I’m worried about you."

"I’m fine."

He gave her a look. "You’re not fine, Lyse. You got this apartment even though i told you to remain with me. And I know you’ve been talking to Brandon again."

Her stomach tightened. "He’s been checking in. Making sure I’m okay."

"Right." James tone was careful. "You realize that man thrives on control. He doesn’t ’check in,’ he circles."

Lyse exhaled, setting the coffee down. "He’s been kind to me."

"He’s also been unraveling." James stepped closer, lowering his voice. "You need to be careful. There’s something off about him lately. He’s angry. Desperate. You can feel it."

She looked away, fingers curling around the cup. "Everyone’s angry."

"Not like him."

Their eyes met. For a heartbeat, she almost told him everything, about Levi, about the photos, about how none of it made sense. But the words stuck. Trust had become too fragile to hand over.

James sighed, sensing the wall. "If you need me, call."

When he left, the apartment felt colder. Lyse sank onto the couch, coffee untouched. Her phone lit up again, another notification, another article.

This one with a single headline:

"Welhaven Heir Under Investigation for Destruction of Evidence."