Bitter Echoes

Brandon's POV The fallout with Christine hit like a freight train derailing in slow motion, a disaster I watched unfold with a horrifying, detached clarity, yet felt powerless to stop. It started the morning after the party, a morning that should have been filled with the lingering warmth of a successful social triumph, not the chill of an impending storm. Her eyes, normally a vibrant hazel, were red-rimmed and puffy, her voice sharp as shattered glass, cutting through the pristine quiet of our penthouse kitchen.  "Who is she to you, Brandon? Really?" The sunlight, usually a welcome guest, now seemed to mock the tempest brewing between us, glinting off the polished marble counters. Christine waved her phone at me, the screen a cruel kaleidoscope of carefully selected moments: screenshots from society pages, candid shots—or perhaps, maliciously chosen shots—of me tapping Lucas's shoulder on the dance floor, and then, the image that had clearly ignited her fury: Lia's cool, elegant rejec