Chapter 5
Quentin’s POV
“What did you say?”
The words crashed into me like a freight train, leaving me stunned. I stared at my secretary, my face going pale as the blood drained away.
“Sir, I… I’m so sorry.” Her voice trembled, barely a whisper. She repeated herself haltingly, as though saying it again could ease the impact. “Mrs. Brooks… Iris… she–she killed herself.”
My chest constricted, each syllable clawing its way into me. I couldn’t breathe. The room tilted wildly, spinning as her words sank deeper, dragging me under.
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“Where?” My voice was sharp, cutting through the suffocating air with more force than I intended.
“By the old pier,” she murmured nervously. “The police are there now.”
I bolted out of the shopping mall without hesitation. Delilah’s voice called after me, but it faded into insignificance. None of that mattered now. My only thought, my singular focus, was the pier.
She killed herself? No. That couldn’t be real. Iris wouldn’t… she wouldn’t do that.
The scene at the pier resembled something out of a nightmare. Red and blue lights strobed across the dark waters, their eerie glow casting long, distorted shadows over the damp wooden dock. Police officers
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worked the scene, their movements brisk and procedural. I shoved through the growing crowd, heart hammering against my ribs.
“Where is she?” I barked at the first officer who crossed my path.
He pointed toward the shoreline. “They’re retrieving the body now, sir.”
The word body made my stomach churn violently.
As I approached the shoreline, the air changed–salt, damp wood, and the faint, nauseating metallic tang of death. The waves licked at the edges of the dock, a sound that should have been comforting. Instead, it felt taunting, an echo from a life I no longer understood.
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And then it hit me. This place.
I stopped cold, realization sweeping over me like the incoming tide. This was our place–our secret escape by the water. The spot where Iris and I had spent countless evenings, dreaming of forever.
Why here? Why would she choose here?
“Quentin.”
Simon’s voice came from behind me. I turned to see him standing a few feet away, his face grim, heavy with the weight of unspoken truths. “They’re pulling her body out now.”
“She’s not…” My voice cracked, fractured like glass under too much pressure. “This can’t be real.”
Simon shook his head, pity and anger etched
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into every line of his face. “I told you this would happen. I warned you, Quentin. There was no way you could keep the truth from her forever.”
“Don’t,” I snapped, though the words lacked strength. “Don’t put this on me.”
“Who else should I blame?” His voice sharpened like a knife. “You lied to her. You used her. And now she’s dead because of it.”
I wanted to yell, to deny it, to tell him he was wrong. But I couldn’t find the words. All the fight in me faded as my eyes locked on the officers carefully pulling Iris’s lifeless body from the water.
I froze. Completely. Breath hitching as I stood like a statue, watching them lay her small, fragile form on the dock. Her hair clung to her pale, lifeless face, and her lips
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were tinged with an unnatural blue.
“Mr. Brooks,” a detective addressed me. He stepped closer, holding a plastic evidence bag in his gloved hands. “We need you to confirm if this is your wife.”
I opened my mouth, but no sound escaped. My body felt like it might collapse under its own weight.
The detective continued, his tone shifting to something softer. “We also found this by the scene.” He gestured to the bag in his hand, which contained a crumpled piece of paper. A suicide note.
My hands trembled as I accepted it. I unfolded the note, staring at the uneven
handwriting as the words pierced what little. of me was left intact.
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i do to dwes
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I can’t do this anymore. The man I loved betrayed me. The life I thought we had was a lie.I don’t want to live in this pain any longer.
The paper slipped from my shaking fingers, fluttering to the ground as I stumbled backward. Her words were like a vice around my chest, squeezing until I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t function.
“She knew,” Simon said, his voice cutting
Sharply through the fog in my head. “She knew everything. And now she’s gone.”
“I don’t care.” The words came out automatically, hollow, like an instinctive defense. “She didn’t mean anything to me.”
The lie felt acrid on my tongue, but I latched onto it, clung to it like a lifeline, because admitting the truth would destroy me.
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Simon scoffed bitterly. “Keep lying to yourself, Quentin. See where it gets you.”
The officers worked silently as they placed Iris’s body onto a stretcher. I told myself to look away, to walk away, but my feet wouldn’t move. Something inside me cracked, splintered beyond repair.
Her face invaded my mind. Her smile, her laughter, the way she’d once looked at me with absolute trust, like I was her whole world. Every one of those memories cut deeper than the last.
I had thought I could keep her at arm’s length, manipulate her like everyone else in my world. I thought I could lie my way through it all and remain untouched.
But there I stood, staring the truth in the face, drowning in the wreckage of what I’d
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done.
“Mr. Brooks,” the detective’s voice broke my spell, drawing me back. “Can you confirm if this is your wife?”
I swallowed hard, my throat dry and raw. “No…” The word was a whisper of desperation. “This isn’t her.”
The detective frowned. “But the evidence-”
said it’s NOT HER!” I shouted, raw emotion bubbling over. My voice cracked under the weight of my denial.
The officers exchanged uneasy glances but didn’t press further. I turned on my heel and walked away, ignoring the pain radiating in every direction.
Because to confirm it, to speak the truth,
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would make it real. And I wasn’t ready for
that.
Iris
The scissors met my hair with sharp, decisive snips. Locks tumbled down onto the vanity, littering the surface like fragments of an old life left behind.
I stared at my reflection, unrecognizable now. My long waves were gone, replaced by jagged, uneven strands. Every cut severed a piece of Iris Brooks–the naive, broken woman who had let herself love the wrong man. I smeared makeup over my face, transforming myself further. Shadows here, sharp contours there, a jagged scar tracing down my cheekbone.
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org joy your oldes
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By the time I was done, the woman staring back at me wasn’t Iris Brooks. She was a stranger. Fitting.
Behind me, the television droned on, the news anchor’s voice clinical and detached. “…The tragic suicide of Iris Brooks, wife of prominent businessman Quentin Brooks…”
I glanced toward the screen, where they played footage of the scene at the pier. The yellow tape. The reporters swarming like vultures. And then him.
Quentin. Kneeling on the shoreline, face buried in his hands. He looked shattered, tears streaking his face as he clung to a body they thought was mine.
I felt bile rise in my throat. He doesn’t care about me. He cares about how this looks. Always the showman, playing the
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devastated husband for the cameras, for the headlines.
I couldn’t suppress a bitter smile as I turned off the screen. The silence felt like victory.
But my revenge wasn’t over. Not yet.
I opened my laptop and logged into my dummy account. The image of Quentin kissing Delilah filled the screen, a damning truth staring back at me.
I hit “Post” and watched as the picture went live, accompanied by a cutting caption:
Caught in the act: Quentin Brooks and Delilah Starling–the truth behind the lies.
Within minutes, the post exploded. Likes, comments, shares–it spread like wildfire.
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I scrolled through the reactions, each one stoking the fire inside me.
“Delilah Starling’s modeling career is over.”
“So this is the kind of man Quentin Brooks is?”
“Disgusting. Both of them.”
Satisfied, I logged out and shut my laptop.
Slipping into my new outfit–simple jeans, a hoodie, and sneakers–I reached into my bag, pulling out my new passport and ID. I studied the unfamiliar name and face printed on them.
Lyra Bennett.
Iris Keaton was dead.
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Before heading to the port, I made one last stop.
The riverbank was still swarming with police and reporters. Yellow tape stretched across the scene, the air thick with urgency and speculation.
I stayed hidden, watching from a distance as Quentin stood at the edge, speaking with Delilah.
Her hand rested on his arm, her voice carrying over the chaos.
-It’s better this way. Now we can finally be together.
My fists clenched, nails biting into my palms.
Delilah tilted her head, a coy smile playing on her lips.
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-I regret choosing Gareth. You’ve always been the one, Quentin. Without Iris, nothing is stopping us now.
Then, she kissed him.
I turned away, my chest tightening with rage.
Even now, after everything, they stood there like nothing had happened–like my life, my pain, my death meant nothing.
I refused to let their betrayal consume me.
The port was quiet, the salty air cool against my skin.
My rented yacht waited at the far end of the dock. I boarded swiftly, my bag slung over my shoulder.
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Inside, the cabin was just as pristine as expected–modern, spacious, and utterly private. This would be my home for the next few days until I reached my destination.
I stepped inside, ready to drop my bag and breathe.
Then I saw him.
A man stood by the window, his back to me. He was completely naked, his toned body illuminated by the warm light streaming through the glass.
I froze, my heart slamming against my ribs.
-What the hell?!– My voice was sharp, cutting through the silence.
He turned, and my breath caught.
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That face–sharp jawline, piercing eyes, and an effortless confidence that made my pulse
stutter.
-What are you
He smirk here?– I demanded.
utterly unfazed–by me or his
own lack of clothing.
-That’s a hell of a way to say hello, Iris Keaton. He leaned casually against the wall, a knowing gleam in his eyes.
