His Gentle Cruelty

Chapter 4 The Familiar Black Sedan

Like a drowning woman grasping at her last hope, Zoe scrambled forward on her knees. Her trembling hands clutched at Wesley's pant leg.

Her palms, still smeared with her mother's ashes, left gray streaks on his tailored trousers.

"Wesley, please," she begged, her voice cracking. "These are my mother's ashes. Please, just make them leave. I'm begging you."

He looked down at her, his lips curling into an open sneer.

"Zoe, do you really have to put on this act?" he asked.

He kicked her hand away, his expression filled with disgust.

"What's the point of this cheap performance with a fake urn?"

Behind him, Lyra sighed dramatically. Her voice dripped with fake sympathy.

"Ms. Shaw, I never thought you would stoop this low," she said. "Faking your own mother's death just to try and win Mr. Cirrus back. That's really desperate."

Zoe stared blankly at them both. She saw the ice in Wesley's eyes and the triumph twisting Lyra's smile. Her desperation, her grief, her pain—it was all just a ridiculous farce to them.

Arm in arm, they laughed together as they strolled into the home that had once held all of her happiness and dreams.

Alone on the pavement, Zoe knelt in the ashes that were now trampled into the dirt. The reporters' gazes bored into her from every direction. Some looked at her with pity, others with indifference, and a few with open gloating at her misery.

She barely remembered standing up. She barely remembered dragging her leaden legs toward the mansion door.

When the door swung open, the scene in the foyer stabbed her like a blade.

A man's dress shirt lay crumpled on the floor, its buttons ripped off and scattered across the marble. Beside it, a lace bra lay discarded.

A trail of clothes snaked toward the staircase, each piece telling a story of urgent haste.

Her breath hitched in her throat. The air inside reeked of their mingled perfumes, cloying and cruel.

In her mind's eye, she could see it clearly. Wesley pinning Lyra against the wall, tearing at her clothes with a hunger she had not seen in him for years.

Then the sounds drifted down from upstairs. Not words, just ragged breaths, the rustle of fabric, the lewd sounds of their bodies. Each noise pierced her heart like a thousand needles.

She squeezed her eyes shut, but the memories flooded in unbidden. This place had once been hers too.

Wesley used to fold her sweaters neatly on the sofa. He always left the porch light glowing gold for her when she worked late. He would slip his arms around her waist from behind and murmur, "Long day?" against her ear.

Back then, his eyes held galaxies when he looked at her. His hands had worshipped her, always terrified of leaving even a single bruise.

The living room had stayed spotless then. The stairs had been silent but for their whispered jokes as they climbed them together every night.

Now, the silence was deafening.

"Well, look who's here," a voice drawled from the staircase. "Our precious little starlet. What, did you crawl back home looking like that?"

Lyra sauntered downstairs barefoot. She was swimming in Wesley's dress shirt, which barely covered her thighs. The gaping collar revealed angry red love bites scattered across her neck. Her movements were slow and deliberate as her eyes swept over Zoe's filthy, ragged state with open contempt.

Zoe slowly opened her eyes. They were hollow, like ice over a frozen lake.

Stopping just inches away, Lyra threw her shoulders back. Her voice dripped with smug satisfaction.

"Wesley has been done with you for years," she said. "Why are you still hanging around here? Do you really think he would ever look your way again?"

She flicked her messy hair back with a sneer.

"Let's be real about this," she continued. "That Best Actress trophy was handed to you. It wasn't earned. You just got lucky by entering the industry first. Do you actually think talent kept you relevant all these years? If I had debuted earlier, you'd be flipping burgers at some fast food joint by now."

Zoe's voice was raw, but it cut through the air like broken glass.

"At least," she said quietly, "every role I have ever played, every bit of success I have ever clawed my way toward, came from my own hard work. It came from my own sweat. It didn't come from sleeping my way to the top."