6: SICK

(Brandon's POV)

Alexia should have known better.

She should have known that I never lose.

And yet, she had the audacity to pull that stunt—going to the media, twisting the narrative, trying to humiliate Chloe.

Trying to make me look like the villain.

As if I care what the world thinks of me.

But what she failed to realize is that every action has a consequence.

And now, she's going to pay.

"Mr. Garcia, the press has been hounding for a statement all morning."

Linda's voice is composed, but I can hear the tension beneath it.

Good. She should be nervous.

I adjust the cuffs of my suit, glancing at the multiple articles flooding the internet.

> BILLIONAIRE HEIRESS CHLOE HARPER HUMILIATED BY WIFE OF BUSINESS TYCOON BRANDON GARCIA!

IS CHLOE REALLY THE OTHER WOMAN? OR IS ALEXIA JUST A JEALOUS WIFE?

THE BILLIONAIRE LOVE TRIANGLE – BRANDON GARCIA BREAKS HIS SILENCE SOON!

I smirk.

"Tell them I'll release an official statement at my birthday party on Saturday

Linda blinks. "But the investors will be

there."

I stare at her dead in her eyes, " l think that is my problem not yours. " she quickly nods then lives.

She wants to act like a rebellious wife? Then she can live like one.

By the time I get home that evening, the stage is already set.

Alexia is standing in the middle of the living room, arms crossed, glaring at me.

Her fiery eyes burn with defiance.

Perfect.

I close the door behind me, removing my jacket slowly.

"You've been quite the handful lately, haven't you, wife?"

She scoffs. "Oh, I'm sorry. Did I embarrass you in front of your little business buddies?"

I smile.

That annoys her.

"Not at all." I unbutton my cuffs, rolling up my sleeves. "But since you clearly have too much energy to stir up trouble, I figured you could put it to better use."

Her brows furrow. "What the hell are you talking about?"

I gesture around the massive mansion.

"Starting today, you're in charge of maintaining this house."

She blinks.

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me," I say smoothly, walking past her toward the bar. I pour myself a drink, savoring the way her posture stiffens.

"You want me to—what? Clean?"

"Yes." I take a slow sip of whiskey. "And cook. Since you clearly have so much free time."

Her mouth falls open.

Then, she laughs.

A short, disbelieving laugh.

"You're joking."

"Am I?"

I set my glass down, moving toward her.

She steps back.

"Brandon, this is ridiculous. We have maids. We have a chef—"

"Not anymore."

Her eyes widen.

"What did you do?"

"Gave them a few weeks off."

Her jaw tightens.

She's starting to understand.

"You're punishing me."

I smirk. "Call it a learning experience."

Her fists clench.

"You're a psychopath."

"And you're my wife," I murmur, stepping closer.

"So be a good little bride and get to work."

Her face flushes with rage.

She opens her mouth, ready to argue.

Then she stops.

Because she knows she can't win this fight.

Not yet.

Instead, she turns sharply on her heel and storms off.

Let the game begin.

At 7 PM sharp, I step into the dining room, expecting to find… a crime scene but instead the smell of lasagna fills the air.

Golden-brown cheese, perfectly layered pasta—it looks like something out of a high-end restaurant.

Alexia places the plate in front of me, watching me too closely.

Her lips curve into a smirk.

Suspicious.

"Bon appétit, husband," she purrs, sitting across from me.

I lift a brow.

She's too smug.

Too satisfied.

But I refuse to give her the reaction she's looking for.

So, I take the first bite.

The flavors hit my tongue—and immediately, something feels off.

There's a slow burn.

A creeping heat that starts small, then grows.

And grows.

And fucking grows.

I keep chewing, my expression completely unreadable.

Alexia's smirk widens.

She thinks she's won.

Thinks I'll break first.

Thinks I'll spit it out, cough, grab a glass of water like some weak idiot.

She forgot who she married.

So, I take another bite.

And another.

Her eyes widen slightly.

Then narrow.

She's confused.

"You're actually eating it?" she blurts out.

I meet her gaze.

I don't speak.

I just keep going.

Finishing the entire plate.

When I'm done, I set the fork down, wipe my mouth with a napkin, and lean back.

"Thanks for the delicious meal, honey."

Then, I get up and walk away.

Like nothing happened.

Like my mouth isn't currently on fire.

Like my insides aren't screaming.

But the second I step into my bedroom, I grab a bottle of water and down the entire thing.

The burn doesn't stop.

Jesus.

What the hell did she put in there?

An entire spice factory?!

But if she thinks this is over…

She's dead wrong.

....,.

At 3 AM, I jolt awake.

Sweat beads on my forehead.

My stomach twists violently.

A sharp pain shoots through me.

Then another.

And another.

Shit.

I barely make it to the bathroom before throwing up.

Again.

And again.

And again.

It feels never-ending.

Like my body is punishing me for my pride.

I should have never eaten that entire plate.

By the time I stagger out of the bathroom, I look like death.

I grab onto the doorframe, steadying myself, when I hear a small sound.

Laughter.

I turn—and there she is.

Alexia, standing at the door, arms crossed, eyes gleaming with pure, unfiltered amusement.

"You look… unwell," she says sweetly.

I glare at her.

"What did you do?" My voice is hoarse.

She bats her lashes. "Me? Nothing. I just followed your orders."

This woman.

I take a step forward—and my balance wavers.

She gasps.

Rushing forward.

"Brandon!"

She grabs my arm, steadying me.

I try to shake her off, but I'm too weak.

Fuck.

"I'm fine," I mutter, voice betraying me.

She rolls her eyes. "You can't even stand, you idiot."

She half-drags, half-carries me to the couch, muttering under her breath.

I hate this.

Hate that she's seeing me like this.

But when she presses her palm to my forehead, checking my temperature, I can't bring myself to move.

She's warm.

Soft.

Comforting.

And I hate that I want more.

"You're burning up," she whispers, brows furrowed. "We need to call a doctor."

I grunt. "No doctor."

"Brandon—"

"No."

Her lips press into a thin line, but she doesn't argue.

Instead, she lets out a small sigh.

"Bet you're enjoying this, huh?" I mutter.

She doesn't answer right away.

Then, softly—

"No."

I glance at her.

Her expression is… different.

Softer.

Like she's genuinely worried.

Why?

But before I can say anything, another wave of nausea hits.

I barely make it to the hallway before I throw up again.

Alexia is right behind me, rubbing my back, whispering, "It's okay. You'll feel better soon."

Her touch is gentle.

And for the first time in years, I let someone take care of me.

Because for now, I have no other choice.