Ruin Me Gently

Chapter 7

-Sable-

Rain danced across the Brinchfort estate's marble courtyard as if the skies knew what secrets were about to surface.

I stood by one of the upper balconies, peering down at the family I once admired from a distance—and now infiltrated from the inside. A war brewed beneath their polished smiles. And tonight, the Brinchfort mask cracked a little more.

The photo scandal had stirred the pot.But what I hadn't expected… was the file left open on Celeste Brinchfort's desk.

A thin manila folder, seemingly forgotten in the rush of a tense phone call.

My eyes flicked across the hallway. No one. I stepped in silently, each click of my heels muffled by the thick Persian rug.

The label read: "Waverly Case 1997".

My blood stilled.l knew that name.

Waverly was an ex-housekeeper who'd disappeared under suspicious circumstances nearly three decades ago—rumored to have had a child by one of the Brinchfort men. Brushed off as gossip. Buried.

But here it was. Proof.

Inside the folder—correspondence, payouts, a suppressed lawsuit. And a faded photo of a woman holding a toddler. The child's face scratched out with red ink.

I barely heard the creak of a door behind me.

"I wouldn't go snooping through my mother's things," said London, voice tight.

I turned slowly. "Wasn't snooping," I lied coolly. "Just… exploring."

He stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. "Exploring the past?"

"You mean the past your family keeps pretending never happened?"

His jaw flexed. "What do you think you found?"

"Proof," I said, holding up the file. "Of exactly what you people are."

He stared at me, that storm in his eyes returning full force. "Why are you here, really?"

I set the file down on the desk, calm. "Maybe I'm just another woman trying to figure out if you're worth the damage."

"Or maybe," he said, stepping closer, "you're the damage."

The air snapped tight between us. His voice dropped. "Who are you?"

My heart stuttered—but my smile didn't.

"Who do you want me to be?"

He reached out then—his fingers brushing my jaw, slow, like he could trace my identity through touch. "You feel… familiar," he murmured. "But your lies wear perfume."

And still, he didn't pull away.

I leaned in, lips grazing his cheek. "Maybe I'm exactly what you deserve."

**

Dinner that night was a Brinchfort performance—ornate candlelight, glinting silverware, and forced laughter. Sterling Brinchfort sat at the head of the table, eyes like ice, his voice rumbling low through stories that sounded too smooth.

I played my part. Silent. Smiling. Watching.

Celeste downed her wine faster than propriety allowed.

And London… he was restless, barely touching his plate.

That was when it happened.

Sterling, too drunk to filter, leaned back with a chuckle and said, "Waverly would've had a child the same age as London now—imagine the scandal if that bastard ever knocked on the door."

Silence fell like a guillotine.

Celeste's face went pale. London's head snapped up. And I—I didn't breathe.

Sterling laughed, unaware of the bomb he'd just dropped.

"Of course," he slurred, "the case was handled. Money talks."

Celeste hissed through her teeth. "Sterling—enough."

But I had heard what I needed.

So had London.

After dinner, I followed the tremors in the house. Voices behind closed doors. Arguments buried behind walls of old money and fear.

I heard Celeste shouting. "She's dangerous! I can feel it."

And Sterling, growling back, "So was Waverly—but we handled that, didn't we?"

The door slammed.

I backed away before anyone caught me.

Later, I stood in the Brinchfort greenhouse, tucked away behind glass and orchids—an Eden for those who didn't know better.

London found me there, soaked from the rain, tie loose, shirt half-unbuttoned like he'd stormed away from a nightmare.

"You heard it," he said.

I didn't pretend otherwise. "The Waverly child?"

He nodded. "There's more. There's always more."

I watched him carefully. "Do you think your father…?"

"I think my family is capable of anything," London whispered. "And I don't know if I'm afraid because of what they've done…"

He looked at me now.

"…or because I might be just like them."

I stepped closer. Too close.

"You're not," I said, but part of me wasn't sure.

He brushed his fingers over my wrist, then slid them up to my jaw, curling around the back of my neck.

"I want to trust you," he murmured, forehead against mine.

My throat tightened.

"Then do."

But I knew—if he ever found out who I really was… trust wouldn't survive.

Still, I let him kiss me.

Hard. Hungry.

As if the truth didn't hang between our lips.

I melted against him, the greenhouse glass fogging with heat as he pressed me against the wall of orchids. His mouth moved with a kind of desperation—searching for something real in a world built on lies.

My fingers tangled in his shirt, nails digging in, pulling him closer even though everything in me screamed to stop.

Because this wasn't love.

This was strategy collapsing.

This was revenge turning soft.

And if I wasn't careful, it would burn us both alive.

*****

That night, as London lay beside me in his room, still unaware he's falling for the girl his family destroyed…

I sat up, watching the rain streak down the windows.

The Brinchforts were unraveling.

But so was I.