Chapter 4Playing By His Cruel Rules

The emergency room smelled of antiseptic and ozone.

It was nearly four in the morning by the time my mother was stabilized in the intensive observation unit. When she finally opened her heavy, swollen eyelids, the first thing she did was reach for my hand.

"Laurel," she whispered, her voice raw and hoarse. "Don't marry him. We aren't having this wedding."

I collapsed against the side of the hospital bed, clutching her cold fingers to my cheek, sobbing so hard my chest tore. "Okay, Mom. I promise. I won't."

It wasn't until ten o'clock the following morning that Brandon finally sent a text:

"How is she?"

I didn't reply.

Twenty minutes later, the door to the waiting area swung open. Brandon stepped inside, dark circles under his eyes, his tie loosened.

"What are you doing here?" I asked, my voice completely hollowed out.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling heavily. "Laurel, I've been awake all night. I don't have the energy to fight with you."

I drew a slow, shuddering breath. "I want to end this. For real, Brandon. We're done."

"No," Brandon countered instantly, his voice snapping with reflex authority. "Stop throwing the word 'breakup' around every time you get emotional."

Before he could continue, his phone buzzed. He put it on speaker as he answered. Delilah’s tearful, trembling voice filled the corridor.

"Brandon? Did Laurel agree to post the statement? People online are being so cruel..."

Brandon looked at me, his gaze completely devoid of remorse. "She'll post it."

He hung up and looked down at me. "You need to log into Twitter and post a retraction. Tell everyone you were exhausted and asked Delilah to fill in for you as a personal favor."

I stared at him, stunned. "What?"

"The internet caught wind of the studio switch. They're calling Delilah an unqualified nepotism hire who stole your slot. She's getting eviscerated online. All you have to do is say it was your idea. You don't have the show anymore anyway, so your reputation doesn't matter. It won't hurt you."

I pulled out my phone.

Delilah’s name was currently trending across national entertainment boards: "#DelilahFairchildNepoBaby #PublicRadioInjustice."

The silence between us stretched, thick and poisonous.

"That's why you came down here?" I whispered. "To make me take the fall for her?"

"I'm not doing it."

Brandon’s face darkened, his jaw ticking. "Laurel. Don't make this uglier than it needs to be. Delilah just wanted to try something new. Why do you insist on making her pay such a high price for an innocent hobby?"

"An innocent hobby."

She played at my career like it was a toy, and when she broke it, I was expected to sweep up the glass.

Seeing my silence, Brandon took a step closer, his voice adopting that sickening, manipulative warmth he always used when he wanted me to bend. "Come on, Laurel. Be good. It’s just one tweet. My PR firm will handle the backlash. Once the dust settles, we'll get the wedding back on track."

I stepped backward, slipping out of his reach. "And if I say no, Brandon? What if I refuse to be her scapegoat?"

"Then Phoebe loses her placement at St. Jude's this afternoon."

I snapped my head up, pure shock ripping through me. "Brandon... she's a child. You're using my disabled sister as a bargaining chip?"

"To protect Delilah? I'll use whatever works."

He reached into his breast pocket and produced another small black box.

"If you won't do it willingly, then we'll let the game decide. Whatever number you pull, that's how many minutes Phoebe gets to stay enrolled."

My hands shook violently as I took the box. I flipped the lid.

A slip of paper: "30 Minutes."

Brandon held up his smartphone screen. It was a live feed of St. Jude's interior courtyard. Phoebe was sitting on a wooden bench, smiling softly as she painted a watercolor picture. Her aide stood beside her.

"In thirty minutes," Brandon said smoothly, "the administration will terminate her scholarship and escort her off the premises."

I stared at the small screen, my heart shattering into a thousand jagged pieces. Phoebe turned her painting toward the camera. It was a girl with long hair, and beneath it, written in clumsy, phonetic letters: "MY SISTER."

"Please," I choked out, the humiliation burning in my throat. "Just let her finish the semester. I'll pay the tuition myself. I'll take out a personal loan. Please, Brandon. Don't do this to her."

Brandon smiled—a triumphant, sickening curve of his lips. "There are no negotiations, Laurel. Choose."

I ground my teeth until my jaw popped. "I'll post it."

Brandon picked up his phone, dialed a number, and murmured a brief instruction. On the live screen, the administrator who had been approaching Phoebe stopped and turned away.

I opened the app with trembling fingers. I drafted the statement, taking full responsibility for the broadcast disaster, framing Delilah as a generous friend who had stepped in to cover for my sudden absence.

I knew what would happen the second I hit send. The digital mob would pivot, turning their pitchforks toward me, branding me an unprofessional, manipulative bully.

I didn't care anymore.

I pressed "Tweet".

The moment the upload confirmed, the last thread of strength holding me together snapped. Brandon didn't linger. He pocketed his phone and disappeared down the hospital corridor without another word.

Inside me, the grand, agonizing cathedral of love I had built for him over four years collapsed into dust.

My phone erupted with notifications—thousands of venomous comments, death threats, and insults calling me a toxic gatekeeper.

I locked the screen, turned my back on the noise, and walked back into my mother's room.

"Mom. Dad," I said, my voice quiet, steady, and free. "Let's pack our bags. We're going home."