All Chapters of He had always been mine : Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

BRANDON POV DREAM “You took advantage of me.” Killian stands in the middle of my old bedroom, shirt half-buttoned, hair a mess from sleep, eyes burning with something that looks a lot like betrayal. Morning light spills through the tall windows of the mansion, cold and unforgiving. He looks wrecked. Beautiful. Ruined. “You fucking touched me while I was drunk,” he spits, voice shaking. “You kissed me. You put your hand on me and kept going even when you should have stopped—” He cuts himself off, face twisting like the memory alone is enough to make him sick. “I was wasted, Brandon. I didn’t know what the hell I was doing. And you still… you still made me—” I try to speak, but my throat locks. I am eighteen again—raw, stupid, desperate. I take a step toward him and he recoils like I am the last person he wants near him. “Stay the fuck away from me,” he snarls. “Don’t call. Don’t text. Don’t come near me at school. Don’t even look at me. You took advantage of me when I could

BRANDON POV I arrived at the Hale Tower at 8:35 a.m. My father was already standing in the private lobby, checking his watch. He looked up when the car stopped and gave a short nod of approval at my punctuality. He wore a dark charcoal suit, the same cut he had preferred for as long as I could remember. I stepped out, adjusted my own jacket, and walked toward him. “You’re on time,” he said. “Good. The board and the division heads are already assembled. This is your formal introduction. Don’t waste it.” “I won’t.” We walked side by side through the quiet private entrance. Two security officers straightened and greeted us. My father acknowledged them with the smallest tilt of his head. I did the same. As we moved toward the executive elevator, four assistants fell into place behind us without being told two from my father’s long-time staff and two who had already been assigned to me. They carried slim folders, tablets, and the quiet tension of people who understood that every seco

BRANDON POVThe elevator doors opened onto the top floor with a soft chime.I stepped out and the two assistants who had been waiting immediately straightened. Remington was already holding the door to my office open. I walked past him without a word and the heavy glass door closed behind me with a quiet click.The office was exactly as I had left it that morning—vast, cold, and perfectly ordered. Dark oak floors. Floor-to-ceiling windows on three sides. The city stretched out below like something I already owned. And directly across from my desk, hanging where I would see it every time I looked up, was the painting.Killian’s painting.Two figures standing close in soft rain, faces turned away. I had bought it years ago through a private channel so he would never know. It was the only thing in the entire office that didn’t belong to the careful, expensive image I showed the rest of the world.I sat down behind the long black desk and loosened my tie just enough to breathe. The image

BRANDON POV I arrived at the Hale house at 7:26 p.m.The circular driveway was already occupied by two other cars—an understated grey Bentley and a dark blue Mercedes. The fountain in the center continued its soft, endless spill of water. I handed my keys to the waiting attendant and walked up the steps. The front doors opened before I reached them.My mother stood in the foyer in a deep green dress, pearls at her throat, eyes lighting up the moment she saw me.“You’re early,” she said, and pulled me into a brief, warm hug. “You look very handsome. Thank you for wearing a proper tie.”“You asked.”She smiled, smoothed an invisible wrinkle from my lapel, and linked her arm through mine.“They’re already in the living room. Claire came with her parents.”I let her guide me forward.The formal living room was softly lit. A fire burned low in the fireplace. My father stood near the mantel with a glass of whiskey, speaking to a tall man in his late fifties. Beside them stood a woman with

KILLIAN POVMy legs felt unsteady as I walked out onto the open floor.The lights were brighter than I expected. For a second the entire room seemed to tilt, rows of polished faces turning toward me, conversations dropping into a low, expectant hush. Mr. Lang’s last quiet instruction still rang in my ears—*Walk steady. Keep your face open. Do not look like you want to disappear.*I stopped beside the platform where my painting was being lifted into place.This was the biggest stage I had ever been given.Years of smaller shows. Years of polite rejections. Years of watching other people’s work sell while mine was described as “promising” and then quietly set aside. This gallery, this room, these collectors—this was the first time anything had felt real enough to change something. Maya’s voice from last night and my daughter’s voice from that morning sat in the back of my head like a thin shield, but the shield was already cracking under the weight of so many eyes.The painting settled