Chapter Five

Lucas POV

Before I could blink, the door flung open and my secretary rushed in.

“I’m really sorry, sir… I tried to—” she fumbled, her words stumbling over each other like a toddler learning to walk.

Her eyes darted between me and the figure behind her.

"Hello, brother," the uninvited guest said with a smile—one of those vicious, mocking smiles that always irked me.

I turned to my secretary, who stood trembling beside me. From the terror on her face, it was obvious—he forced his way in.

Brentford. Always bad news. Not even in my worst moments would I willingly let him linger in my sight.

"Oh, come on, Lucas... You shouldn't take it out on this pretty little thing," he said, eyes narrowing on Rita, who looked as if she were waiting to be sentenced.

Little thing? I nearly scoffed aloud. How the hell does he still suck at vocabulary?

I went speechless for a second, weighing my options.

If I let this slide, he’d think I backed down because of him. I would never want to be on the same page with Brentford.

But punishing Rita? That would be cruel. She didn’t deserve that.

Who lets fire into a room already burning? I questioned his timing. Right after the heated fight with the board members, now this?

If Brentford was here, then something was definitely wrong.

And mother had been calling nonstop, desperate for updates—but how could I answer when my mysterious bride still hadn’t been found?

"Don’t worry, Rita… just go," I said with a steady voice.

She didn’t wait for me to finish before blurting, "Thank you, sir," and bolting out like a bullet.

Then silence—until Brentford interrupted it, as always.

"You still haven’t changed, huh?" he asked, amusement laced in his voice.

I fought the urge to snap. Every second in the same room with this man was war.

But since he was here, I had to take control of the unplanned meeting. I moved to my seat.

"Since you’re here uninvited, don’t expect a warm welcome," I muttered as I sank into my chair.

I loved a chair with comfort. This was one.

It was the kind of chair that swung ever so slightly—just enough to help me think clearly without making me look uncertain. Padded in smooth black leather, it hugged my frame like an old friend. I loved a chair that understood silence and stress. This one always did. And today, it felt just right for the occasion.

Brentford didn’t flinch. Just that stupid grin. But I knew him too well—he had something up his sleeve.

"Very well. Make yourself comfortable," I slurred, smirking.

Now that was how to do it—remind him of his place.

Still, I couldn’t help but notice his outfit. Since when did he start dressing like that?

A light pink T-shirt paired with an onion-purple tailored suit. Black sparkling shoes. Damn. Who was his designer? I wondered, silently.

But of course, he couldn’t get everything right. His messy blond hair ruined the entire look.

He cleared his throat dramatically, like a newscaster about to read a major headline.

"As your older brother, I felt obligated to congratulate you on your wedding," he said, his face unreadable. "I wanted to come in person to—"

Brother? Again? He was just a damn cousin!

And how the hell did he know I was married? I specifically told them not to publish it.

Shit!

Mom! I flipped my finger in frustration. Will she ever stop?

If only she knew what a fraud this man was.

I remembered what he did to me when we were kids.

He’d come home with a group of boys. They played—maybe too much—and broke Mother’s cherished flask. When she came home, Brentford had the lamest excuse ready.

"Oh Mom! The bottom part of the flask came off when I held it and it broke."

Really? I argued about his lie. But then he went ahead to prove it.

Mother bought another similar flask few days later. It was placed at it usual spot.

He had intentionally loosened the base of the flask earlier, knowing I would be the one to pick it up for Mom that night.

The hot water inside spilled all over me, scarring my left foot for life.

That wasn’t just a prank—it was betrayal.

I glanced at my foot, still covered in shoes, still bearing the scar.

Then, Brentford said something worse.

"When will I get to meet your wife—the family's new daughter?"

That did it.

"Stay away from my wife!" I snapped, jumping to my feet.

He flinched—caught off guard. Good.

"Don’t ever mention her again," I warned through gritted teeth.

Why was I so protective over a woman I barely knew? I didn’t care—I just was.

"Lucas... I think you're overreacting," he said smoothly, too calmly for the Brentford I knew.

But I wasn’t. I knew him. If he was asking, he was definitely up to something.

"We’re done with this conversation." I gave him a sharp look.

He stood up, smirking, and walked toward the door. Just before stepping out, he paused.

"Now you’ve made me curious about this wife of yours," he said, voice laced with intent.