Broken And Betrayed: A Billionaire's Regret

my sister's life by playing wife to a billionaire an

cution began when a deepfake porn video starring

lamed me. The boys I raised screamed that I was a monster. And my husband, Justin, believ

chose the lie. He

nths later, my ex-husband and stepsons found me in LA, crying and beg

mly. "I don't ne

pte

Benne

o days. That was the price of my sister' s life. To

of our cavernous kitchen. The paper looks small and insignificant in the

t even echo. This house was designed to swa

his thumb moving with a relentless, detached rhythm. The morning light fr

rumble of dismissal. "If this is about the Hamptons t

ers an inch closer to his phone. "Our contrac

annoyance. He sees the document, but his expression doesn't change. It' s the

ack against his stool, crossing his arms over a chest clad in a bespoke shir

existence is a logistical item on his long list of asse

reply, keeping my hands flat on t

r deal? A new car? Another piece of jewelry?" He gestures vaguely around the kitchen. "T

h no limit, and slides it toward me. It' s his solution for e

nt your mon

leans against the frame, a carton of orange juice in his hand. His hair is a s

m the carton. "You're a gold digger, Alex. Everyone knows it

nightmares, I taught him how to tie his shoes, I cheered the loudest at his

continues, his lip curled. "Mom's coming bac

hrowing stones into a void. There'

is phone from the charging station. He doesn't even look at me. He ducks his head and rus

s. Alex is actually leaving

Carolina Ortega's delighted, perfec

rtram says, his voice a conspiratorial hiss. "S

hey' ve stuck to me, taught to them by their biological mother, the famous, f

wipes down a spotless counter. "Ma'am," she says softly, her Spanish accent thick with concern. "

nd. Grateful for the penthouse, the private jets, the life of a real esta

r eyes on my back, a mixture of contempt and confusion. They expect me to cry, to scream, to make a sce

years in the Barlow family has tau

close the door. I retrieve my burner phone from the bottom of my jewelry box, hidden beneat

ngs t

ay, my voice b

on the other end. Then

held a shred of warmth for me. Golda Barlow. My

e, not as a question, but as a fact.

f Central Park, a sea of green I've look

I continue, the words feeling strange and form

h a tension I can feel humming through the ph

is pragmatic, as always, but there's a crack i

p to leave. He w

says, the words sha

r Beckham's bi

d, almost a sob. "You did yo

th pity, as if my best was never good enough. Carolina has said it, with a

n acknowledgment. A validation of the years I' ve lost, the jo

ppy, healthy life she never would have had without the cli

se I gave everything I had, leav

like li

," I whisper, and

ily event, and nearly collide with Beckham. He' s standing

. something. Panic? Guilt? It' s gone as quick

in the hallway?" he snaps, hi

" I say calmly. "

t. "Look, about the party ton

ear, my presence at any of their events has bee

"You and Bertram made it very cl

way from mine. "Dad wants it to look like we're a

stomps down the hall, leaving me with a cold

ing is

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