Broken

Chapter 44: Who did it?

Brandon sat on the floor of his dimly lit apartment, a glass of red wine in one hand, and a pile of scattered documents and files in front of him. The flicker of a nearby lamp cast a soft glow over the mess, highlighting his furrowed brow. He picked up one of the folders, skimming through the legal briefs and evidence, his mind racing with thoughts of his next move in the trial against Fatima.

His jaw clenched as his fingers traced the lines of the document. Revenge. That's what he wanted. He wanted to show her, to humiliate her in court, to make her regret ever firing him. It wasn't just about losing his job—it was about her choosing Zac, about her dismissing him, about her seeing him as less. Every decision she made chipped away at his pride, and now all he wanted was to get back at her. He took a long sip from his glass, feeling the warmth of the wine as it slid down his throat.

He leaned back, resting his head against the wall, his mind drifting to the sudden leak of Fatima's true identity. He didn't know who had exposed her, but he assumed it had to be Denzel. Who else had both the means and the knowledge? Denzel had as much to lose, if not more, than Fatima if her past came to light, but maybe the old man had finally slipped. Brandon smirked at the thought.

But then, his smirk faded, and he frowned, sitting up a little straighter. He muttered to himself, "Why would Denzel leak her identity?" It didn't make sense. Sure, Denzel was ruthless, but he wasn't careless. With all the secrets Fatima had on her father, would he really risk her wrath? Would he really be that dumb?

Brandon set his glass down and got up from the floor, pacing across the room. He stopped in front of the sofa and dropped onto it with a heavy sigh, running a hand through his hair. "No... it doesn't add up," he muttered. The gears in his mind were turning rapidly, trying to make sense of the situation. Denzel wouldn't play a game like this unless there was something bigger at stake.

Brandon's eyes narrowed. "What if it wasn't Denzel?" The thought lingered in the air, thick with possibilities.

He frowned again, the puzzle pieces slowly clicking into place. His mind shifted to Zac. Zac, who now stood by Fatima's side. Zac, who had replaced him. What if Zac was playing a long game? What if he was trying to tear Fatima down from within?

"Could it really be him?" Brandon whispered to himself, a slow grin creeping across his face. The thought of Zac being the one to betray Fatima was almost poetic.
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Brandon stepped into the grand lobby of the Preston Jubilee Hotel, his footsteps purposeful as he made his way directly to the elevator. Without hesitation, he pressed the button for his desired floor, leaning against the wall as the elevator quietly ascended. His mind was buzzing with questions, and he needed answers.

When the elevator doors slid open, Brandon walked briskly down the dimly lit passage, his polished shoes echoing softly against the marble floor. He stopped at room 56, taking a breath before knocking firmly. The door opened moments later, and standing there was the man he had come to see.

"Denzel Garcia," Brandon greeted with a curt nod, his tone sharp.

Denzel's eyes gleamed with amusement, his voice deep and smooth as he spoke. "Brandon Skye." He stepped aside, allowing Brandon to enter. Immediately, one of Denzel's men approached, patting him down.

"I have nothing on me," Brandon groaned, annoyed at the invasive gesture. When the man nodded in approval, Brandon walked further into the opulent room, the weight of the situation pressing heavily on him.

Denzel, unfazed, walked to a small bar, his hand expertly reaching for a bottle of SirDavis whiskey. "What brings you by?" he asked casually, pouring himself a glass. He turned slightly, the smirk on his face unmissable as he continued, "I heard Fatima fired you. All because of that imbecile, Zachary Taylor!" His voice dripped with disdain.