His Cruel Love, My Broken Heart

Name: His Cruel Love, My Broken Heart
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Gavin

Billionaires | Completed

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For three years, I was Bradley Porter's bodyguard. And his substitute. Tonight, I took a bullet for him, the wound in my shoulder still fresh. But he didn't care. His assistant pulled me out of the hospital, my wound infected and feverish, because the woman I was a substitute for, Kylie Tyson, was back. At the private airport, he embraced her with a love I had never seen. Kylie looked me up and down with disdain. "Bradley, make her carry my luggage." He saw my pale face, the bandage peeking from my collar, but his voice was sharp. "What are you waiting for? Get the luggage." There were five large suitcases. Just moments before, Kylie had faked a sprained wrist, and he had examined it with panicked concern. When I took a bullet for him, he just glanced at me and told his men to "clean up the mess." That night, I went home and added another black stone to the glass jar on my dresser. I made a promise to myself: for every time he hurt me, I would add a stone. When the jar was full, I would leave him forever. Tonight was stone number three hundred and sixty-eight. The jar was almost half full.

Betrayal Revenge Bodyguard BE Substitute wife

Chapter 18

11-04 07:46

Chapter 1

For three years, I was Bradley Porter's bodyguard. And his substitute. Tonight, I took a bullet for him, the wound in my shoulder still fresh.

But he didn't care. His assistant pulled me out of the hospital, my wound infected and feverish, because the woman I was a substitute for, Kylie Tyson, was back.

At the private airport, he embraced her with a love I had never seen.

Kylie looked me up and down with disdain. "Bradley, make her carry my luggage."

He saw my pale face, the bandage peeking from my collar, but his voice was sharp. "What are you waiting for? Get the luggage."

There were five large suitcases.

Just moments before, Kylie had faked a sprained wrist, and he had examined it with panicked concern. When I took a bullet for him, he just glanced at me and told his men to "clean up the mess."

That night, I went home and added another black stone to the glass jar on my dresser.

I made a promise to myself: for every time he hurt me, I would add a stone.

When the jar was full, I would leave him forever.

Tonight was stone number three hundred and sixty-eight.

The jar was almost half full.

Chapter 1

For three years, one thousand and ninety-five days, I was Bradley Porter's bodyguard.

And his substitute.

He paid me an annual salary of two million dollars. My job was simple: protect him, and when he was drunk or in a bad mood, let him hold me and call me by another woman's name.

"Kylie."

His voice was always hoarse with desire when he pressed against me, his breath hot on my neck.

He never looked at my face in those moments.

He didn't need to. He just needed me to have a face that was seventy percent similar to hers.

Tonight was no different.

I had just taken a bullet for him during a hostile takeover negotiation, the wound in my shoulder still throbbing with fresh pain. The doctor said I needed at least a month of rest.

But Bradley Porter didn't care.

He ripped open his tie, his eyes clouded with alcohol. He stumbled toward me, his powerful presence filling my small apartment.

"Kylie," he whispered, his hands finding their way under my shirt, his fingers brushing against the bandage on my shoulder.

I flinched, a sharp pain shooting through me.

He paused for a fraction of a second, his brow furrowed not with concern, but with annoyance.

"Don't move," he commanded, his voice low and dangerous.

I froze. I was Kaci Holt, his most loyal shield. I was not allowed to feel pain. I was not allowed to refuse.

He pushed me onto the bed, his body covering mine. The weight on my shoulder was excruciating, and cold sweat beaded on my forehead.

Through the haze of pain, I stared at the ceiling.

He was thinking of her again.

The story was always the same. Kylie Tyson. The beautiful, spoiled socialite who had broken his heart and disappeared two years ago. She was the daughter of the Tyson family, a perfect match for him in status. They were childhood sweethearts, the golden couple in the eyes of the city.

But she left him.

And he found me.

A bodyguard who looked like her.

"Just a substitute," he had told his friend once at a party, his voice dripping with disdain. I was standing just a few feet away, invisible in my black suit.

Some drunk guest had tried to grope me, his greasy hands sliding down my back. I looked to Bradley for help, for a single glance of support.

He just swirled the wine in his glass, his eyes cold and empty.

"She's just a tool," he said, loud enough for me to hear. "A dog. You can play with her if you want."

My heart felt like it had been squeezed by an icy hand.

That was the night I found out my place in his world.

I was an orphan from the foster care system, with no past and no future. He found me on the streets, hungry and beaten. He gave me a home, a purpose. He never asked about the strange, crescent-shaped birthmark on my wrist, the only unique thing I owned. He didn't care.

He gave me a new name.

"You look a bit like her," he'd said, studying my face under the dim light of his study. "From now on, you are Kaci. My Kaci."

I thought it was a new beginning. A promise.

I was so naive.

I learned later that "Kaci" sounded like "Kylie." A phonetic replacement.

I dedicated my life to him. I endured brutal training, learned to fight, to shoot, to kill. I collected scars on my body like trophies, each one a testament to my loyalty.

The first night he came to my room, drunk and heartbroken, he held me tight and sobbed her name.

That was when our relationship changed.

I became his physical and emotional placeholder.

I thought if I was loyal enough, sacrificed enough, he would eventually see me. The real me.

I fell in love with him. Deeply, hopelessly.

Then, one day, I found a hidden box in his closet. It was filled with pictures of Kylie Tyson. In every photo, she wore a radiant smile, a stark contrast to my own guarded expression in the mirror.

In the box was also a diamond necklace, with a small "K" pendant.

It wasn't for Kaci. It was for Kylie.

He had bought it for their anniversary, the day before she left him.

He kept me around to fill the void she left, to wear clothes she might have worn, to let him pretend she was still there.

The love I felt was a joke. A cruel, one-sided fantasy.

But I couldn't leave. I loved him too much.

So I stayed, hoping for a miracle.

One night, I overheard him on the phone with his friend again.

"Kaci? She's just a shelter dog I picked up. Loyal, obedient. Knows how to sit and stay. What more can you ask for?"

His words echoed in my ears.

A dog.

That night, I went to a small shop and bought a simple glass jar and a bag of black stones.

I went home and placed one small, black stone inside.

It represented the first scar on my heart.

I made a promise to myself. For every time he hurt me, for every time he used me as a substitute, for every time he made me feel worthless, I would add a stone.

When the jar was full, I would leave him.

I would pay back the life he gave me, and then I would be free.

Tonight, as he used my body to remember another woman, I felt the wound on my shoulder tear open again.

Warm blood seeped through the bandage.

The pain was immense, but the pain in my heart was worse.

When I get back to my own place, I will add another stone to the jar. Number three hundred and sixty-eight.

The jar was almost half full.