BRUSHSTROKES OF REVENGE

Mindy gasped as if she had been drowning, her lungs seizing violently. Her throat tore with a scream that never fully left her lips, trapped somewhere between her chest and the air. She expected the cold rush of wind, the weightless fall, the shattering impact that had ended her life.

The gunshot wound—she touched her chest frantically, her fingers searching for the hole where the bullet had torn through her. She remembered the helicopter noise, the blades cutting through the storm. Someone had been running toward her, their voice calling her name. She had been in pain—so much pain. She could still feel the warm blood flowing out of her, soaking through the white dress, pooling beneath her.

Her palm—she looked down, expecting to see the glass shard embedded in her skin, the blood dripping.

Nothing.

Her hands were smooth, unmarked, clean.

She was hurting—but instead of concrete and rain, she felt softness beneath her palms. Silk sheets, warm and smooth.

Light poured through tall windows, bright and golden. The ceiling above her was familiar: pale marble with the faint shimmer of gold leaf. The scent of cedar and faint cologne lingered in the air, expensive and cold.

She blinked, disoriented, her mind struggling to catch up. The last thing she remembered was rain lashing her face, the rooftop slick beneath her feet, the wind tearing at her hair, the gunshot echoing, the fall—

Her hands flew to her body, frantic. No bruises. No blood. No pain. She checked her hands, her chest, her legs—nothing. No wounds. No scars.

The white dress—the one torn and soaked in rain, stained with blood and grime—was gone. In its place, she wore a silk nightgown, ivory and delicate, the fabric soft against her skin.

Her heart pounded, her pulse roaring in her ears. She turned her head slowly, her breath shallow. The room was vast, elegant, cold. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the skyline, the city stretching endlessly below. The furniture gleamed with quiet wealth—minimalist, expensive, untouched.

The Knight Penthouse.

Her breath caught, her chest tightening.

This was the bedroom she had shared with Layton Knight—the man who had been her husband for two years, the man who had never once touched her, never once looked at her with warmth, never once made her feel like anything more than an obligation.

She stumbled out of bed, her bare feet hitting the polished floor, cold and smooth. She rushed to the mirror, her movements jerky, desperate.

The reflection staring back was young, unmarked, beautiful. No bruises. No hollow eyes. No despair etched into her features.

Her fingers trembled as she touched her cheek. Smooth. Warm. Alive.

She grabbed her phone from the nightstand, her hands shaking so badly she nearly dropped it. The screen lit up, bright and glaring.

The date stared back at her.

14th May 2017

Eight years ago.

Her knees gave out. She sank to the floor, the phone clattering beside her, the sound sharp in the silence.

”I’m alive,” she whispered, her voice cracking. ”How...”

I was supposed to be dead. I was... falling...

But how can I be alive?

”I’m back... eight years...”

Tears blurred her vision, hot and uncontrollable. She pressed her palms to her face, sobbing, her body shaking.

She had been shot. She had fallen. She had felt the wind, the rain, the freedom of falling. She had died.

And yet—here she was.

Alive.

Back in the past.

Married to Layton Knight for two years.

Missy had returned from overseas one year ago.

The world had rewound to the moment before everything began to crumble, before the betrayals, before the kidnapping, before the fall.

She sat on the floor for a long time, the morning light creeping across the carpet.

Memories came in waves—sharp, merciless.

The warehouse. The ransom call. The moment her father’s voice said, ”Missy... save Missy.”

The traffickers. The smell of rust and salt. The bruises. The mirror.

Missy’s face on the screen, smiling as she showed her engagement ring. Emily’s voice, smooth and venomous.

The rooftop. The rain. The gun shot. The fall.

Mindy pressed her hands to her ears, but the voices wouldn’t stop.

She cried for the girl who had jumped from that rooftop—broken, betrayed, alone.

She cried for the eight years she had spent loving a man who never loved her back.

She cried for the two years of marriage where he never touched her, never smiled at her, never looked at her as anything more than an obligation.

”I was his wife,” she whispered. ”And he treated me like a stranger.”

She remembered the day Missy returned from overseas—smiling, radiant, full of stories. The way Layton’s eyes had softened when he saw her. The warmth in his voice that Mindy had never heard directed at her.

Everything had changed after that.

She had watched her husband laugh for the first time in months—and it hadn’t been because of her.

She had watched her father’s affection shift, her brothers’ loyalty fade, her family’s love evaporate.

And when the kidnappers forced them to choose, they hadn’t hesitated.

They had chosen Missy.

”I died alone,” she said softly. ”Broken. Forgotten. And they were celebrating her engagement to my husband.”

Her sobs shook her shoulders until there were no tears left.

When she finally looked up, her reflection in the mirror stared back—eyes red, face pale, but alive.

”That girl is dead,” she whispered. ”She died falling from that rooftop in the rain.”

The grief burned itself out, leaving behind something colder, sharper.

Rage.

She rose slowly, gripping the edge of the dresser until her knuckles turned white.

Layton Knight.

Her husband. The man she had married two years ago.

”I was your wife,” she said, voice trembling. ”And you treated me like I didn’t exist.”

He had been cold, distant, polite. He had never raised his voice, but his silence had been worse than cruelty.

Then Missy had come back from overseas, and suddenly he could smile.

He had looked at her with warmth he had never shown his own wife.

”I begged you to love me,” she whispered. ”I humiliated myself for eight years.”

And when the kidnappers forced him to choose, he had said ”Missy” without hesitation.

He had married her while Mindy was being sold.

He had celebrated with her while Mindy was dying.

Her hands clenched tighter.

”Layton Knight,” she said through her teeth, ”you married me, vowed to be my husband, then threw me away for her. You will regret every cold look, every ignored plea, every moment you chose her over your wife.”

Raymond Hawthorne.

Her father.

He had once called her his little star. He had lifted her onto his shoulders, told her she was just like her mother.

Then Emily had come, and everything changed.

He had let that woman poison him, twist him, turn him against his own daughter.

When the kidnappers demanded a choice, he hadn’t even hesitated.

”Missy... save Missy.”

He had chosen the daughter who wasn’t his by blood over the one who was.

”He let Emily take Mother’s companies,” she said bitterly. ”He let her erase Maria Hawthorne’s name from everything she built. He’s not my father anymore.”

Drake and Jagger.

Her brothers.

They had once protected her, loved her, teased her.

Then Missy returned, and suddenly Mindy was the villain.

Every time Missy cried, they blamed her. Every time she tried to explain, they turned away.

When the kidnappers demanded a choice, they had said it together.

”Yes, Missy.”

”She’s older. Save her.”

”They chose her without a second thought,” Mindy whispered. ”They’re not my brothers. They’re her puppets.”

The rage pulsed through her veins, steady and cold.

She sat at the vanity, staring at her reflection. The woman in the mirror looked calm, but her eyes burned.

”I’m back eight years,” she said quietly. ”Married to Layton for two. Missy came back from overseas one year ago.”

She knew everything that would happen for the next eight years—every scheme, every betrayal, every tragedy.

”This time, I’m prepared.”

Emily Hawthorne.

The woman who had stolen her father, her mother’s companies, her family’s name. The woman who had orchestrated her destruction to avenge an old grudge.

”She wanted me to suffer worse than death,” Mindy murmured. ”She succeeded once. Never again.”

She would take everything back—Starlight, Rona Design, every company her mother had built. She would expose Emily for the fraud she was.

”She’ll lose everything she stole,” Mindy said. ”And she’ll watch me do it.”

Missy Hawthorne.

Her sister. Her betrayer.

Mindy whispered. ”She planned the kidnapping years in advance. She manipulated everyone into choosing her. She took my husband, my family, my life.”

Her reflection’s eyes hardened.

”I’ll destroy her piece by piece. Everything she wants, she’ll lose. Her perfect face, her beloved status, her happy ending—gone.”

She drew a slow breath.

”I’ll divorce Layton—he wants it anyway. I’ll take back Mother’s companies. I’ll expose Missy’s true face. I’ll make them all regret choosing her.”

Her voice dropped to a whisper. ”This time, I live for myself.”

She stood before the mirror, morning light spilling through the tall windows. The city stretched beyond the glass, glittering and cold.

Her reflection stared back—no longer soft, no longer pleading.

Cold. Determined.

”Mom,” she whispered, ”I failed you once. I let Emily take everything. I let them erase your name, your legacy. I was weak. I was blind.”

She touched the mirror, her fingers trembling.

”But I got a second chance—eight years back. This time, I’ll make you proud. I’ll take back your companies. I’ll destroy everyone who betrayed us. I’ll live for myself, not for people who’ll never love me.”

Her voice hardened. ”The old Mindy died on that rooftop. The new Mindy will make them all pay.”

She pressed her palm flat against the glass.

”They chose Missy,” she whispered. ”They’ll regret it forever.”

A smile curved her lips—cold, dangerous.

”Let the game begin.”

The sound of footsteps broke the silence. Slow, deliberate, echoing against the marble floor outside the bedroom. Her breath caught. She knew that rhythm, that measured pace.

Layton Knight.

The door opened with a soft click.

He stepped inside, immaculate as ever. His dark suit fit him perfectly, his tie knotted with precision. His hair was neatly combed, his expression unreadable. The faint scent of sandalwood grew stronger, wrapping around her like invisible chains.

For a moment, she couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

He looked exactly as she remembered him from that day—handsome, composed, and utterly cold. His gray eyes swept over her, assessing, detached. Once, those eyes had made her feel seen. Now, they made her feel small.

He didn’t speak at first. He didn’t need to. His silence filled the room, heavy and suffocating. The air seemed to thicken around him, pressing against her chest. Every second stretched, taut and unbearable.

He walked to the edge of the bed and placed a folder on the nightstand. The crisp sound of paper against wood cut through the silence like a blade.

”I’ve already signed my portion,” he said, his voice calm, businesslike. ”You can review it before signing.”

That was all. No explanation. No emotion. Just a statement, delivered with the same tone he used in board meetings.

Her gaze fell on the folder. White. Clean. Unmarked. The divorce papers.

Her stomach twisted.

He straightened, his expression impassive. The faintest flicker of something—displeasure, perhaps—crossed his eyes as he glanced at her. ”The incident yesterday,” he said quietly, ”was unacceptable.”

His tone was flat, almost mechanical. Then silence again. He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t accuse. He didn’t ask for her side. He didn’t need to. His silence said everything.

Mindy’s throat tightened. The words she wanted to say tangled inside her—I didn’t push her. I didn’t steal anything. I didn’t do what she said. But she didn’t speak. Not this time. The old Mindy would have begged, explained, cried. The new one only watched.

Layton’s gaze lingered on her for a moment longer, unreadable, then shifted away. He turned toward the door, his movements precise, controlled. The faint sound of his shoes against the marble echoed like a metronome.

He paused at the threshold, his back to her.

Their eyes met.

For a heartbeat, the world went still.

He had seen her eyes filled with tears before. He had seen them pleading, desperate, hopeful.

But this—this was different.

There was no sorrow in them now. No love. No desperation.

Only hate.

Cold, sharp, burning hate.

It hit him like a physical blow.

For a moment, he couldn’t move.

Mindy’s gaze didn’t waver. She didn’t cry. She didn’t beg. She simply looked at him, her expression calm, her eyes blazing with something he couldn’t name.

He had never seen her like this.

He almost didn’t recognize her.

For a heartbeat, she thought he might say something else. But he didn’t. He simply left.

The door closed behind him with a soft click.

Silence filled the room once more.

Mindy sat there for a long time, staring at the papers. The morning light shifted, creeping across the floor, illuminating the white sheets like a spotlight. They seemed to glow, pure and cold.

Her reflection in the glass window stared back at her—young, alive, and haunted.

She reached for the papers, her fingers trembling. The edges were sharp, cutting against her skin. She traced the lines of her name, the loops of the letters, the ink that bound her to a man who had already betrayed her.

Eight years ago, she had seen these papers as the end of her life. She had cried until her throat burned, begged him to listen, to believe her, to love her again. She had torn them apart, only for him to have another set delivered the next day.

But now, as she looked at them, she felt something shift inside her.

The fear that had once consumed her was gone. In its place was something quieter, steadier.

Resolve.

Her gaze drifted to the window. The city stretched beyond the glass, bathed in morning light. The sky was pale blue, streaked with white clouds. It looked like a painting—beautiful, distant, untouchable.

She remembered her mother’s words: ”Every painting begins with a blank canvas. But it’s the mistakes that make it real.”

Her fingers brushed the edge of the divorce papers again. The texture was smooth, almost silky. The ink on the top page gleamed faintly—her name, his name, the end of their marriage written in elegant black letters.

Once, she had seen these papers as a death sentence. Now, they looked different.

The white pages were not an ending. They were a beginning—a blank space waiting for her to write her own story.

She rose from the bed, the silk sheets pooling around her feet. The sunlight caught her hair, turning it to gold. The air smelled of sandalwood and rain, of endings and rebirth.

Her reflection in the window looked back at her, eyes steady, lips curved in quiet determination.

”This time,” she whispered, ”I’ll be the one holding the brush.”

The city outside shimmered in the morning light, alive with possibility.

And in the gray stillness of the Knight Penthouse, Mindy Hawthorne took her first breath as the woman she was meant to become.