My 'Cruel' Breakup, His Lifelong Regret

Chapter 7

Teresa's screaming desperation only looked like another cheap stunt to Robb.

He marched into the elevator, ice in his voice. "Get her off the property. Now."

Once he was back in his office, he tried to focus on work. He couldn't.

Against his will, he pulled up a map on his computer and typed in the coordinates Teresa had yelled.

The screen loaded. A red dot blinked on the edge of Westown, surrounded by nothing but miles of barren, dust-brown wasteland.

Robb stared at that little dot, his fingers tightening around his mouse.

Finally, he slammed the laptop shut and tried to forget it.

He didn't get to forget for long.

His assistant burst through the door, panicked.

"Mr. Bramwell. The confrontation outside was caught on camera. It's everywhere."

Robb's head snapped up. "How?"

For a split second he wondered if I'd staged it—if this was another one of my tricks.

The assistant hesitated. "Press has been camped outside ever since the Sorrel gallery scandal broke."

Robb's jaw tightened.

"The public is flooding our official accounts. They're demanding we go expose the truth.

Sunlight Media reached out. They want to run the investigation with you, live on camera."

Robb knew Sunlight Media. They had a reputation for brutal honesty. They never took sides. They only printed facts.

Now there was no way out. If he backed down, the public would turn on Bramwell Group. Stock would tank.

He rubbed his temples, a bitter, sharp smile tugging at his lips.

Fine. If this was the game I wanted to play? He'd play it all the way to the end.

"Fine. Contact PR. Draft a statement. We're going."

That same afternoon, Bramwell Group's official account posted a pinned tweet:

Bramwell Group has partnered with Sunlight Media. We will travel to Westown tomorrow and broadcast the entire investigation live. The truth will be uncovered.

The internet exploded.

A: [Finally! Go expose her! We want the truth!]

B: [No way she gets to hide behind "being dead" forever!]

C: [Sunlight Media? This is gonna be real. No bias.]

My studio said nothing.

The livestream launched the next morning. It hit ten thousand viewers within seconds.

Comments flew across the screen so fast they were unreadable.

A: [Mr. Bramwell doesn't play around. Love how fast he moves.]

B: [A live investigation? This is insane. I'm hooked.]

Robb glanced at the chat once, then closed his eyes and said nothing.

Three days later, the convoy crossed the mountain range and picked up a local guide. They reached the edge of Westown by midday.

The cameraman panned the lens across the landscape: rutted dirt roads, crumbling adobe houses, nothing but dust and dry earth as far as the eye could see.

It was a world away from the glittering skyscrapers of New York.

Robb's throat tightened.

This wasn't the lavish, jet-setting lifestyle he'd imagined for me. This was nothing.

Then the reporter in the backseat leaned forward.

"Mr. Bramwell. I see a sign for the Sienna Foundation up ahead. Should we stop?"

Before Robb could answer, the guide turned around in his seat, surprised.

"You folks are looking for Ms. Sorrel? You came to the right place!

Every kid around here goes to school because of her. Every sick kid's still alive because of her.

No joke—everyone in this valley owes her something."

The guide's words pricked at Robb's chest, soft and sharp.

The chat blew up.

A: [She paid off a random local to shill for her? That's low.]

B: [Seriously? Any random guy off the street knows her name? This is so staged.]

Robb's voice was cold. "Drive to the foundation."

Minutes later, the car stopped. They followed the guide through the gate.

A handful of disabled kids in wheelchairs sat around a stone table, sunning themselves.

A little girl with one missing arm ran over, clutching a nearly dead crayon in her fist.

"Uncle Josh," she said to the guide, "are these people bringing us paper? Ms. Sorrel said if we had paper, we wouldn't have to draw in the dirt anymore."

For a second, everything went quiet. Robb, the reporters, everyone watching the livestream—no one said a word.

Then one comment drifted across the screen.

A: [If she's using these kids to make us feel bad… that's actually evil.]

The guide knelt and spoke softly to the girl, then turned back to Robb.

"If you're looking for Ms. Sorrel, she's up on the sand ridge, north of here. Go on."

Robb said nothing. The chat exploded into chaos.

B: [Finally! Go on, Mr. Bramwell! Make her show her face!]

C: [Using poor kids for clout? She deserves everything she gets.]

Robb glanced at the flying comments and said nothing. He turned and walked straight back to the car.

The wind in Westown howled at night, carrying sand that scratched at the windows like someone crying.

When they reached the spot the guide had described, there was nothing there. Just empty hills, silent and vast.

The chat filled with eye-rolling sarcasm.

A: [Uh-huh. And where is she? This is a scam, isn't it?]

B: [This place looks dangerous. No one lives out here.]

Robb frowned.

Then something glinted at the top of the ridge, catching the moonlight.

A cold, sick dread dropped straight into his stomach.

He started walking. Fast.

The cameraman stumbled after him, struggling up the sandy slope.

Sand poured over his ankles. The wind screamed louder the higher he climbed.

And then he reached the top.

It hit him all at once.

A small mound of earth, ringed with rough stones.

Crumbling children's drawings were stuck in the dirt all around it.

Old, rotted offerings lay at the base.

At the head of the grave, a weathered wooden stake stuck out of the ground.

Hanging from it, silver and glinting in the moonlight, was a ring.

Carved into the wood, worn almost smooth by wind and sand, were a few words:

Sienna Sorrel's Final Resting Place.

The wind howled across the ridge.

Robb froze. He couldn't breathe.

And in the livestream window, the comments detonated.