Later that evening, Rosita met Brandon at one of the city's most exclusive rooftop restaurants. Surrounded by city lights and soft jazz in the background, they dined, laughed, and shared quiet moments. Over dessert, she learned more about his past—how he ended up in the orphanage, how he met his sister, and how hard he'd worked to become the man he was. Though still guarded, Rosita began to trust him. Quietly, behind the scenes, she did her research—and what he told her all checked out.
One year passed. Then one evening, under a quiet moon, Brandon asked her to be his. She hesitated, unsure. He simply smiled and said, "I'll wait."
A month later, Rosita said yes.
Another year passed. They grew inseparable. And on a calm spring afternoon, they walked hand-in-hand through a secluded garden on Ashford Estate. Rosita's eyes lit up when she spotted a group of musicians tuning their instruments and young flower girls preparing an aisle of petals.
"Huh… looks like someone's getting proposed to," she said, almost wistful. "I've always imagined something like this… nature, music, peace—it's beautiful."
Brandon smiled. "Wanna go watch it happen?"
"You think that's okay?"
"Sure. C'mon." He took her hand and led her closer.
They stood at the beginning of the aisle when Brandon leaned closer to her ear. "How about we walk down it—just for fun?"
She laughed nervously. "You're insane. What if someone sees us?"
"Then they'll just see two people walking through a dream." He squeezed her hand, and she couldn't resist.
As they reached the center of the aisle, surrounded by roses and soft melody, Brandon let go of her hand and dropped to one knee.
Rosita's breath caught. "Wait… what are you—"
Brandon looked up at her, eyes steady, voice unwavering. "From the first moment I saw you, I knew you were the piece of me I'd been missing.Not sure if you know this but when we first met I got so nervous I couldn't speak—because deep down, I already knew. You're the reason I believe in something bigger than myself. So with everything I am… from now until my last breath…"
He opened a box, revealing a glowing diamond set in an intricate vine-like band. "Rosita Ashford, will you marry me?"
Tears fell before she could speak. Dropping to her knees, she wrapped her arms around him. "Yes. Yes, of course I will."
Just then, the music soared. Petals rained from above, a little girl stepped forward with middlemist red flowers—rare, beautiful—just like Rosita. Doves and butterflies were released into the sky.
Brandon slid the ring onto her finger.
Rosita wiped her tears, smiling through them. "Theo… when did you plan all this?"
He leaned in close, smirking. "Just when you weren't looking." She laughed—and he kissed her under a sky full of birds and falling petals.
A month later, they were married—no delays, no second-guessing. But in the quiet days leading up to the wedding, Rosita noticed something... off.
Brandon—no, Theodore—had changed.
He'd leave late at night, return just before dawn. His smiles were the same, his kisses just as warm—but his eyes… something lingered behind them. Shadows. Secrets. She knew in her gut it wasn't infidelity. It was something else. Something heavier.
Rosita didn't confront him. Not yet.
Instead, she turned to someone from her past—one of her father's old operatives, a man skilled in surveillance and silence. She didn't want to suspect her husband. But she couldn't afford blind faith. Not when the Ashford name carried enemies like shadows under the sun.
The wedding was elegant but fast. The world only saw love and gold. But underneath Rosita wore a guarded heart.
Their wedding night came. Their suite was lavish, petals scattered, candles lit. Brandon carried her through the door, his eyes never leaving hers. He laid her gently on the bed, kissing her slowly—intensely.
But then… he stopped.
"Theo?" she asked, breathless. "What's wrong?"
He looked at her. Calm, collected. Too calm.
"We're married now," he said quietly. "No more secrets. No more locked doors between us."
She tensed slightly, already knowing.
"You want the code to the safe," she said. A statement, not a question.
He didn't answer. He didn't have to.
Rosita sat up, heart steady. "Theo… I love you. I trust you. But I can't give you that. Not yet."
He looked into her eyes, then smiled… gently. "I understand."
He leaned in, kissed her softly—too softly. And for the first time, she didn't kiss back fully. Her mind was racing.
Why now? Why ask tonight?
He pulled her into his arms. "Don't overthink it. We're husband and wife now. That's all that matters."
Rosita smiled faintly. But her eyes narrowed as she thought:
No, Theodore. Something's going on—and I'll find out.
---
Days later, for their honeymoon, Brandon suggested seclusion. A private beach house. No staff. No distractions.
"Just us," he said, pulling her close, his hands sliding to her waist. "You know why."
She blushed. "You're bolder now."
"I've always been like this. Just behaved around you."
She giggled, but inside… she hesitated.
"I want Sofia to come."
Brandon's smile faltered slightly. "Come on… let her rest. She deserves time with her family."
"And I deserve to feel safe."
"You are safe… with me." His voice lowered, seductive, convincing. "Besides… there are things I've been waiting to do to you. Alone."
Her cheeks flushed, and reluctantly, she agreed.
They left for a secluded oceanfront villa—waves crashing, gulls singing, sun melting into the water. It was paradise.
At least… on the surface.
One evening, as the sky burned orange and violet, Rosita stood by the window, watching the tide. The breeze danced through the curtains. She felt peace—until her phone buzzed.
The name on the screen: Gideon —her father's trusted spy.
Her blood ran cold.
She answered quickly. "What did you find?"
There was a pause. Then his voice came through.
"You need to hear this in person. Right away. Your husband… isn't who he says he is."
Rosita's heart dropped as the waves crashed louder outside.
"What do you mean—explain yourself!" Rosita's voice cracked through the line like a whip.
Gideon's voice stayed steady, grim. "The luxury boutique he claims to own? It's not his. The real owner died three years ago. Her daughter—Julian Lucien—was set to inherit it, but she vanished two years ago. No trace. The shop was supposed to shut down... but somehow, it's still running—with him at the helm."
Rosita's breath caught. Her fingers trembled as she clutched the phone.
Two years ago… that's when Theo appeared.Her heart began pounding, wild and chaotic.
"What else?" she forced out.
"Those files. The ones bearing Sebastian Ashford's signature? They're fabricated. The documents are forged. The signature—real. But the forms they're attached to? Not part of any official donation."
Rosita's brows furrowed. "How is that possible…?"
"Because the day that signature was supposedly signed, I was with your father. We were handling a negotiation with the Devereaux clan. He got stabbed that very night. Barely survived. There's no way he drafted donation papers—none."
The color drained from Rosita's face.
"And your husband's so-called 'sister'? Arrested yesterday. She's into trafficking—meth, maybe worse. I paid her a visit. Told her her brother might be in danger. She laughed."
Rosita gripped the table to steady herself.
"She said she doesn't have a brother. Never lived in an orphanage. Both her parents are alive and well. The girl's a hired actress, Rosita. Just another pawn."
Then he said it.
"And this last part… brace yourself."
"...What is it?"
A pause. A breath.
"Theodore Blackwell is already dead."
"...What?"
"Dead, Rosita. For years now. His remains were uncovered in the northern woods during a separate investigation. Dental records confirm it—Theodore Blackwell died a long time ago. Which means..."
Her pulse thundered in her ears. She could barely think.
"...The man you're with—isn't him."
The line fell silent.
Then Gideon said, almost pleading:
"Listen to me. You need to leave. Quietly. Pretend you don't know. He's dangerous—Rosita, he's not who you think."
A quiet knock.
"Rosie?"
Her blood turned to ice.
She turned slowly. There he was—Brandon—standing in the doorway, head slightly tilted, eyes unreadable.
"Everything okay?" he asked, voice gentle… too gentle. "You look shaken."
Rosita snapped out of her daze, forcing a smile so tight it hurt. "I'm fine. Just… talking to Sofia. She was giving me updates about her family."
Brandon's smile didn't quite reach his eyes.
"That's strange."
Rosita blinked.
"I just got off the phone with Sofia five minutes ago." He took a step closer. "She didn't mention talking to you."
Her breath hitched. She couldn't move.
The mask was cracking. His smile remained, but the warmth in his eyes had vanished.
And just like that…
The honeymoon turned into a warzone.
Rosita's eyes widened, but she forced a shaky breath, trying to play it cool.
"Oh—did I say Sofia? I meant… one of my other friends, you know…"
Brandon's gaze sharpened. His voice dropped an octave.
"Rosie… you don't have any other friends."
His tone wasn't questioning—it was a quiet statement. Cold. Knowing. His eyes never left her. Like a predator watching prey squirm.
Rosita let out a weak laugh and turned her back to him, walking to the table.
"Don't be silly, of course I do… you just haven't met them."
She reached for the glass, but her hand was trembling. It slipped—
Crash.
The glass shattered across the floor.
"Haha… I guess I'm getting sloppy," she muttered, crouching to pick up the shards. Her heart was pounding so loud she could barely hear herself think.
Silence.
Then Brandon's voice came—low, calm… wrong.
"Rosie… Rosie… Rosie…"
He said it like a lullaby laced with poison.
"You really shouldn't have done that."
Rosita froze. Her fingers hovered just above the broken glass.
"I gave you every reason to trust me. Smiled when I needed to. Lied when I had to. I kept things clean, simple. You were supposed to stay out of it… let me do what I came here to do."
His footsteps echoed as he slowly approached.
Rosita stood, gripping the counter to steady herself.
"Theo… What are you saying?" she whispered, trying to sound steady, even though every fiber in her body screamed to run.
He stopped a few feet away, face unreadable. The warmth he once had? Gone.
"You found out… didn't you?"
She didn't answer.
He tilted his head.
"It's in your eyes. The way you're shaking. The fake smile. You know. You know I'm not Theodore Blackwell."
His voice darkened.
"And now I have to decide… what to do with you."
Rosita's blood turned to ice.
The man before her wasn't her husband.
He never was.
Brandon began walking toward her. Silent. Calm. His eyes no longer held the warmth she once fell for—only a glint of cold finality.
Rosita's breath quickened. She spotted a knife on the counter, lunged for it, and pointed it at him with trembling hands.
"Stay back," she warned, voice shaking. "I swear, I'll use it."
Brandon stopped… and grinned.
"Oh, Rosie…" he whispered darkly. "You really think you can stop me with that? Go ahead. Try."
Then, without hesitation, he stepped forward—right into the blade.
"Do it," he whispered again. "Put it through me. Let's see if you've got it in you."
She held the knife firm, its tip pressing against his chest—right over his heart. But her hands quivered. Her back hit the wall. Nowhere left to run. Brandon towered over her, one arm slamming beside her head, the other lifting her chin with ice-cold fingers.
"You never could hurt me," he murmured. "That's what made you so perfect."
Then—everything went black.
When she awoke, her wrists and ankles burned. She was tied to a chair. The room was dark, damp—like a basement. A single bulb swung above. Her head throbbed. And right across from her, Brandon sat—his smile gone. His eyes dead.
"Theo…" she rasped. "Or whoever the hell you are… just talk to me. I'm not your enemy."
A low, hollow laugh echoed through the room.
"Enemy?" he said, voice like steel. "No, Rosie. You were never my enemy… You were my disguise. The perfect puppet. Sebastian Ashford's precious daughter—do you know how many doors that name unlocked?"
She stared at him, sick to her stomach.
"You used me…"
His voice dropped.
"You trusted me. That's the part I enjoyed the most."
Tears welled in her eyes, but she blinked them back.
"So what now?" she whispered. "You going to kill me too?"
Brandon leaned in, face inches from hers.
"If I kill you, Rosie… who gives me the code?"
She froze.
He smirked. "Ah. There it is. That look. Now you get it."
"All of this… two years… the marriage… it was all for the safe?"
He tilted his head with eerie calm.
"Not for the gold. I couldn't care less about that."
He leaned closer—voice low, twisted.
"I want the Dante File."
Rosita's blood ran cold.
"You don't know what that is, do you?" he asked, studying her reaction. "Well… someone in that bloodline does. And you're my ticket to finding it."
She looked him dead in the eye.
"I'm not afraid of death. You want to kill me? Do it."
Brandon chuckled and slowly pulled out a sleek, black Russian Makarov pistol—letting it spin once in his hand before pointing it lazily at her head.
"Oh, Rosie," he whispered. "I'm not going to kill you. Yet. Fear is so much more… productive. You'd be surprised what people say when they're just about to break."
He clicked off the safety.
"And you're about to break, sweetheart."
Brandon loaded a single bullet into the chamber, spun it with a metallic click, and slammed it shut. The sound echoed like a death bell in the room. Then, slowly, he raised the gun to his temple.
"There's a little game the Italian Mafia likes to play," he said casually, as if discussing the weather. "They call it Mafia's Menace. One bullet. Five empty chambers. Truth has a funny way of showing up when your life's on a coin toss."
Click.
Blank.
He turned to Rosita and smiled—not with warmth, but with venomous amusement.
"Your turn."
Her breathing stuttered. Tears welled, but she clenched her teeth. Brandon pressed the cold muzzle against her temple and—
Click.
Another blank.
Her lungs emptied in relief.
"A draw," he whispered. "How thrilling."
He spun the chamber again and snapped it shut with a flick of his wrist.
"No, please—"
He didn't wait.
Click.
Another blank. Her scream caught in her throat.
"Damn," he muttered. "Lucky girl."
He turned the pistol on himself. Pulled the trigger without hesitation.
Click.
Then his grin faded. He stared at the gun like it offended him.
"This is getting dull Let's spice it up. Five bullets, one blank."
He opened the chamber, loaded five bullets, leaving only one slot empty. He locked it in place and turned the muzzle back to her.
"You go First."
He didn't wait.
"No… Theo, please, please—"
Her whole body tensed, ready for the end.
Click.
Silence.
Then—
"8!" she blurted out, tears spilling.
Brandon paused.
"What was that?"
Her lips quivered. "That's all you'll get from me."
He tilted his head slowly. Then, as if rewarding a pet, he patted her head.
"I knew you'd break. You should've held out longer though—I was starting to have fun."
He set the gun aside. Walked around behind her.
"Let's see how much pain you can wear before you stop being clever."
She didn't have time to brace before he grabbed her foot—and ripped off one of her toenails with pliers.
She shrieked, the sound bouncing off the walls like an animal being slaughtered.
"7!" she gasped.
But it wasn't enough.
He moved to her right hand. Blood dripped to the floor. The restraints dug into her skin as she writhed. He removed a finger.
Then another.
By the time he reached her left hand, she was sobbing.
"Theo… please… please stop. You're not the man I loved. You're not him anymore—"
"Oh, Rosie," he whispered with a tilt of his head. "You really think I ever was?"
She shook, helpless. He leaned in, his lips near her ear.
"If you beg a little more, maybe I'll leave you some bones intact."
Then—snap. Another finger.
She screamed, body limp from shock. Blood pooled beneath her.
Brandon stood, covered in red, examining his handiwork. "You're tougher than I expected. But we're not done."
He turned to walk away.
"…Theo…" she croaked.
He stopped.
"…Wait…"
He turned, slowly, face unreadable.
"I… I'm pregnant…"
Brandon blinked. Then—he smiled.
"I know."
Rosita's eyes widened.
"Then why?! Why are you doing this, when you know I'm carrying your child?!"
He stared at her. Long and cold.
"Would you like me to show you the child? I can cut her out right now—hold her in front of you."
Her soul shattered.
"You… You're a monster… You never loved me… did you?"
Brandon stepped forward, crouched beside her, smeared a bloodstained finger across her cheek.
"…Love?" he whispered. "Rosie… I don't even believe in it."
Brandon stood over her, shadows cutting across his face, eyes cold.
Rosita's broken body trembled, her eyes hollow but still burning with defiance.
"You're not human. You're a monster. A psychopath. I hope you rot in hell."
Brandon's jaw flexed, but he smiled — slow and cruel. "I've been living in hell long before you, Rosie. I just dragged you in with me."
He leaned in closer, whispering, "Now… let's crack the last lock."
Rosita stayed silent. Blood dripped from her fingers. Her breathing shallow.
"You know," Brandon continued, pacing slowly, "they say everyone breaks eventually. Even queens…"
Then, he grabbed her face, forcing her to look at him. "Now talk. Or I start carving."
Rosita's lip quivered. Her strength was gone.
"8… 3… 9… 2… 8…"
Brandon paused. Eyes narrowing.
He stepped back, pulled out his phone, and dialed.
A voice answered on the other end. Without hesitation, he said, "Eight. Three. Nine. Two. Eight."
The line went dead.
Silence.
Brandon stared at his phone for a second, then slowly turned toward Rosita, tucking it into his coat.
"…Thank you for your service," he said coldly. "My lady."
He gave her a mocking bow, the blood on his gloves dripping onto the floor.
Rosita closed her eyes, body slumped, the weight of betrayal heavier than the pain.
The man she once loved had finally shown his true face — and now, he was walking away with everything, Then he suddenly turned back.
"Wait… I can't just leave you like this, can I? Who knows—you might actually come after me," Brandon said with a low chuckle, turning back toward Rosita, tied and barely holding on.
"Please…" she breathed, her voice weak but steady. "Just let me and my baby go. I swear—I won't come after you. I won't say a word. Just… let us go."
Brandon tilted his head slowly, almost thoughtfully. His expression shifted—soft for a second—then twisted back into that cold, terrifying grin.
"See… that's the problem, Rosie," he said as he crouched in front of her, knife glinting under the low light. He pressed the tip gently against her stomach—not cutting, just enough for her to feel the weight of the threat. "This child… is dangerous. Just like me. A ticking time bomb in the wrong world. I can't let that loose. Not when I know exactly what I'm capable of."
He let out a soft laugh, dark and distant. "I mean, can you imagine it? Another me, out there… wandering around? What kind of monster would I be to let that happen?"
Rosita's eyes widened in fear, but she held back the scream in her throat.
Then, his voice dropped, low and spine-chilling. "I'm afraid this is where the story ends for you, Rosie. But don't worry—" he leaned in close, whispering coldly into her ear, "—I'll be a gentleman… and let you feel your child one last time… before the darkness takes you."
"Wait—what are you talking about?" Rosita gasped, eyes wide in horror.
But Brandon didn't hesitate.
With a chilling calm, he moved closer—and in one swift motion, pain ripped through her as his blade sank in.
Rosita screamed, her voice echoing off the walls, raw and full of agony.
Brandon's expression didn't flinch. His hands worked with cold precision, his eyes dark, focused—not on her, but on what lay beneath. Brandon kept clawing through the pain and darkness, desperate to find the child but Rosita had already slipped away.
Brandon continued the desperate search, until finally he found it—the fragile, tiny egg. Carefully, almost reverently, he lifted it up. "There you are, my son… or daughter. Daddy's got you now."
He turned to Rosita's lifeless form, voice low and raw. "Seems Mama's gone before you even had a chance to see the world. We'll face this together, little one. Though… it's a cruel twist I'll never know if you were meant to be a boy or a girl."