My Husband Died, I Bedded His Brother

Chapter 5 His Woman

A sharp ache spread across my back. The rough surface of a pillar.

I jolted awake from memories of that nightmare in the penthouse and returned to reality.

At that moment, Davis still had me pinned against the pillar, less than three feet away from Jones's memorial portrait.

The chanting outside suddenly stopped.

High heels clicked against the floor. Then came the voice of Amy, Megan's trusted housekeeper.

"Madam, Rachel hasn't made a sound in ages. Could she already be dead?"

My scalp tingled.

Megan snorted. "Dead would be better. Shameless little tramp. She killed my son, then dared threaten me with the media."

"Lock her in there. If she stops breathing, toss her body to the dogs."

Their footsteps gradually faded.

The tension inside me finally snapped. My knees buckled.

Davis wrapped an arm around my waist and effortlessly pulled me back against his chest.

"Poor thing. My sweetie. Other than me, nobody in this world wants you anymore."

A surge of anger suddenly rose inside me.

"Happy now? You get to watch me humiliated in front of your brother's memorial. You treat me like some cheap mistress. Does that make you feel good?"

The smile disappeared from Davis's face. He gripped my chin.

"You think I'm taking revenge on Jones?"

For a split second, there was something almost wounded hidden in his eyes.

Then his voice turned mocking. "What? Feeling sorry for him? For that loser who used to beat you with a belt every damn day?"

I froze.

How did he know? I had never told anyone. Not even Megan. Everyone believed our marriage had been perfect.

"You... How do you know that?"

Davis didn't answer. Instead, he leaned down and kissed me.

The kiss carried the taste of tobacco and something metallic.

It was rough, demanding, overwhelming.

Just as I thought things were about to spiral completely out of control inside the mourning hall, he suddenly let me go.

Straightening his tie, he turned and walked away.

"Rachel. You'd better pray. Pray that you never find out the answer."

After that night, I became a canary hidden away in Davis's penthouse.

By day, I was the grieving widow who rarely left her room.

At night, whenever my phone received an anonymous text containing nothing but a period, I had to bathe, dress, and quietly cross half the estate to enter his apartment.

For two weeks, I lived as if dancing barefoot on a blade.

Megan's attitude toward me grew colder by the day. She froze my credit cards and constantly found excuses to punish me with exhausting chores.

If Davis hadn't secretly stationed people nearby to watch over me, I might have already disappeared into some psychiatric hospital.

Gradually, I noticed something strange about Davis. He was domineering and possessive, yet strangely restrained.

At times, he seemed desperate to claim ownership.

At others, he acted as though he was testing the limits of his own control.

Whenever I gathered the courage to ask him what he really wanted, his answer was always the same.

"You can't give it to me."

I thought life would continue like that.

A caretaker working in my courtyard suddenly disappeared.

Not long afterward, Amy stormed into my room with several bodyguards.

"Grab this shameless w***e!" Megan followed behind them, clutching a torn piece of fabric.

I recognized it instantly. A fragment of my red lace underwear. It had gone missing days ago.

Megan slapped me hard across the face.

"You disgusting slut! My son hasn't even been dead that long! And you've already been sneaking around with another man! Lynn confessed everything! She saw you taking the private elevator to the penthouse in the middle of the night!"

Lynn had been following me.

This wasn't about morality. Megan wanted to eliminate both Davis and me at once.

"Drag her outside! Strip her and break her legs! The Ward family will never tolerate a disgrace like this!"

The bodyguards rushed forward.

Just as they tore open my collar—

Boom!

The floor-to-ceiling window exploded inward. Glass shattered everywhere.

Davis strode inside wearing an impeccably tailored black suit. Behind him stood a row of men dressed in black, carrying batons, their expressions cold and intimidating.

His eyes landed on my torn collar and exposed shoulder. The temperature in the room seemed to plummet instantly.

His voice was icy. "Who gave you permission to touch my woman?"