So that's it. Five years of bleeding myself dry—all a joke to him.
My health, my dignity, my life—sacrificed because Valerie felt insecure. In Jonathan's eyes, my living hell was just an "insignificant family matter."
A hysterical laugh choked in my throat. Hot tears blurred my vision.
Inside the room, a phone rang. Heavy footsteps approached the door. Panic spiked. I spun to flee, but my coordination failed.
I slammed into Miranda Cole, the club manager.
Crash.
Two bottles of vintage wine—tens of thousands each—shattered on the floor.
Miranda's face twisted. Her hand cracked across my face before I could speak, knocking me to the ground.
The private room door swung open. Jonathan strode out, ignoring the commotion completely, eyes fixed on Valerie fluttering toward him.
"Why did you travel alone?" he scolded gently, pulling her into his arms. "I told you I'd pick you up. I've arranged a medical team at home—full body care, everything."
"I missed you, big brother!" Valerie giggled into his chest. "I wanted to surprise you!"
I knelt less than a meter away, face hidden behind a cheap mask. My gaze locked on her shoes—encrusted with diamonds, glittering cruelly under the lights.