My Sister Stole My Billionaire Fiancé The Night Before Our Wedding — She Didn’t Know He’d Destroy Her 5 Years Later

Part 2

Brian slowly lowered his expensive sunglasses, his storm-gray eyes locked onto Tyler’s identical stare.

The resemblance was not just undeniable; it was a devastating mirror reflecting a ghost from five years past.

Indeed, more than the eyes, it was the stance.

Tyler stood with his small shoulders squared, an innate aristocratic arrogance bleeding through his patched linen shirt as he held his toy boat like a shield.

I didn’t hesitate for a single second.

Survival instinct, honed over five brutal years of hiding, took over with violent speed.

I lunged out of the shop doorway, grabbed Tyler by the back of his shirt, and hauled him against my side.

I turned and fled back toward the dark interior of my haberdashery.

“Megan, wait!” Brian roared, the paralysis finally breaking as his deep voice shattered the quiet coastal afternoon.

He surged forward, his long strides eating up the cobblestones.

The bell above my shop door shrieked as he shoved his weight against the heavy timber.

I had managed to throw the deadbolt, but the wood of the doorframe splintered with a sickening crack under his desperate, unyielding strength.

He burst into the dim interior of the shop, his chest heaving, his immaculate charcoal suit completely out of place among the spools of cheap yarn.

I dragged a heavy oak cutting table across the threshold of the back room to barricade us in.

Tyler hid behind my skirts, his small hands clutching the fabric, his expression more angry than frightened.

Indeed, “megan, stop!” Brian commanded, his voice shaking with a terrifying mixture of authority and absolute fracture.

“Do not come another step closer to us,” I screamed, snatching a heavy iron fabric shear from the table and holding it out like a dagger.

Indeed, if you touch him, Brian, I swear before God I will bury this in your neck.

Brian stopped dead in his tracks.

Indeed, he looked at the woman he had mourned for five years, now standing in a faded apron, wielding shears to protect a child that wore his own face.

“He is mine,” Brian whispered, his voice cracking as the truth carved itself into the air between us.

“He is my son,” I snarled, my hazel eyes blazing with a feral, protective fire.

Indeed, he belongs to no one else, and his father died the night he wed Heather.

The name struck Brian like a physical blow, sending him staggering backward to grip the edge of a wooden display counter.

“You let me believe you were dead,” he rasped, his mind violently rearranging the history of his life.

“I saw you kissing my sister in the library,” I cried out, tears of suppressed agony finally spilling over my lashes.

Indeed, “i was drugged,” Brian roared, the sheer volume of his voice making the spools of yarn vibrate on the shelves.

He dropped to his knees on the dusty wooden floor, ignoring the ruin of his expensive trousers, and looked up at me with a face wrecked by grief.

He swore to me that Heather had poisoned his drink, stealing his title and costing him his life.

As I watched the most powerful, ruthless man in the city sob on the floor of my shop, the wall of ice around my heart began to crack.

But how could I possibly trust the man who had built his empire on the ashes of my ruined life?