The temptation of my brother-in-law-Chapter 167 - One Hundred and Sixty-Seven

Chapter One Hundred and Sixty-Seven

Travis’ POV

I used to be different.

When I was a kid, I laughed more. Smiled more. I was the silly one. The one who made jokes at dinner and got in trouble for not taking things seriously enough. I’d put whoopee cushions on Pa’s chair and short-sheet Malachi’s bed and do impressions of the butler until everyone was laughing.

Pa would shake his head and tell me to be more like Malachi. Always Malachi.

Malachi who got perfect grades without even trying. Malachi who excelled at combat training. Malachi who could negotiate business deals before he was old enough to drive. Malachi who never put a foot wrong, never embarrassed the family, never gave Pa a reason to be disappointed.

I tried. God knows I tried. I studied until my eyes burned. Trained until my muscles screamed. Tried to be serious and focused and everything Pa wanted.

But no matter what I did, it was never enough. Never right. Pa would look at Malachi with pride shining in his eyes and look at me with that tight-lipped expression that meant he was trying not to say something cutting. Eventually, I stopped trying. Stopped caring.

What was the point when I’d already lost before I even started?

I became the family disappointment. The screwup. The one they didn’t talk about at business meetings or introduce to important contacts. I leaned into it. If I was going to be the failure anyway, I might as well enjoy it.

I drank. I gambled. I did everything I could to make Pa regret comparing me to Malachi.

But then Emily came into the picture.

Emily with her bright eyes that saw something in me no one else did. Emily with her easy laugh that made me feel like maybe I wasn’t completely worthless. Emily who looked at me like I was worth something. Like I mattered.

I loved her. From the first moment I saw her when she moved in with us after her father’s death, wearing a blue dress and talking about art like it actually meant something, I loved her. It wasn’t the kind of love people write songs about. It wasn’t gentle or sweet. It was desperate. Consuming. The kind that makes you stupid and reckless and willing to do anything.

She didn’t love me back. Not at first. Maybe not ever. But she let me be around her. Let me take her to dinners and galas. Let me pretend we had something real.

And then she got pregnant.

I still remember the day she told me. We were in the garden at the Silver Lake mansion. Spring. Everything was blooming. She looked terrified and beautiful and I felt this surge of something I’d never felt before.

Purpose.

This was my chance. My chance to do something right. To prove I could be the man everyone said I’d never be. To be a father. A husband. To have a family of my own.

I proposed immediately. She said yes, but there was hesitation in her eyes. Like she was agreeing to something she wasn’t sure about.

I told myself it didn’t matter. That she’d learn to love me. That once the baby came, we’d be a real family.

But I failed.

I failed so completely that I couldn’t even protect her when it mattered most.

The pregnancy was hard on her. She was sick constantly. Tired. In pain. And I didn’t know how to help. Didn’t know how to make it better. So I started drinking again. Just a little at first. Just to take the edge off the fear that I was going to screw this up too.

When she went into labor, I wasn’t there.

I was drunk. Passed out in some hotel room because I’d been at a poker game and lost more money than I should have and couldn’t face going home to tell her. Couldn’t face seeing the disappointment in her eyes.

It was Malachi who was there. Of course it was Malachi.

Malachi who got the call. Malachi who rushed to the hospital. Malachi who held her hand and told her everything would be okay.

Malachi who was with her when she took her last breath.

Even in death, I came second to him.

By the time I sobered up enough to realize what was happening, she was already gone. The baby survived for a few hours. Long enough for me to hold him. Long enough for me to see his tiny face and his mother’s eyes and know that I’d lost everything that mattered.

He died three weeks later. A fire at the hospital. A tragic accident, they said. Faulty wiring. The whole wing went up.

I knew better. I knew it was my fault. All of it. If I’d been there. If I’d been sober. If I’d been the man Emily deserved instead of the disaster I actually was.

I mourned her. Mourned her every single day for five years. Her grave became the only place I felt anything close to peace. I’d sit there for hours, talking to her, apologizing for things she couldn’t hear anymore.

I tried to fill the hole she left. Tried alcohol and gambling and anything else that would make me forget for even a few hours. When I married Alicia, I thought maybe I could start over. Maybe I could be better.

She looked nothing like Emily. That was what I told myself I wanted. Someone different. Someone who wouldn’t remind me of what I’d lost.

But I wasn’t better. I was worse.

I took out all my frustration and pain on her. Blamed her for not being Emily. For not making me feel the way Emily did. For existing in a space that should have belonged to someone else.

I drank more. Gambled more. Came home late or not at all. And when she’d try to talk to me, try to understand what was wrong, I’d lash out. Say things I didn’t mean. Things I couldn’t take back.

I watched her pull away. Watched her stop trying. Watched her become a ghost in her own house.

And I told myself I didn’t care.

But I did care. Somewhere deep down, beneath all the alcohol and self-loathing, I cared.

And now she was gone too. Run away with her sister. And Malachi was telling me Emily was alive.

Alive.

The word didn’t make sense. Couldn’t make sense.

I raised my head, ready to demand answers, ready to grab Malachi and shake him until he explained how this was possible, but he was gone. The study was empty except for me and the spilled whiskey pooling on the mahogany desk and the crushing weight of everything I’d lost.

Rain started to fall outside. I could hear it hitting the windows. Slow drops at first, then harder. Steadier. Like the sky was crying for me since I’d run out of tears years ago.

Except I hadn’t run out.

Tears streamed down my face. Hot and shameful and unstoppable.

Emily was alive. She’d been alive this whole time. While I sat at her grave apologizing to dirt and stone. While I drank myself into oblivion every night. While I destroyed my marriage to a woman who’d done nothing except try to love me.

Emily had been alive.

And she’d let me think she was dead.

The pain in my chest was physical. Sharp. Like something had cracked open inside me and was bleeding out.

Why? Why would she do that? Why would she let me suffer? Let me mourn?

Unless she hated me. Unless she blamed me for everything that happened. For not being there. For failing her when she needed me most.

I stood up. The room spun. I grabbed the edge of the desk to steady myself.

I needed to know. Needed to see for myself. Needed proof that Malachi wasn’t lying or that I wasn’t having some kind of breakdown.

I grabbed my keys from the desk drawer. Stumbled through the house to the garage. Found a spade hanging on the wall with the other tools.

The rain was coming down hard now. It soaked through my clothes before I even got to the car. I didn’t care. Didn’t feel it.

I drove to the cemetery on autopilot. The windshield wipers couldn’t keep up with the rain. Everything was blurred. I nearly ran a red light. Nearly hit another car. None of it registered.

The cemetery gates were closed but not locked. I pushed through them and walked to her grave. My feet knew the way. I’d walked this path hundreds of times.

Emily Blackwood. Beloved daughter, sister, friend.

The headstone was simple. Elegant. I’d chosen it myself. Spent hours picking out the right words. The right design. Trying to capture even a fraction of who she’d been.

I fell to my knees in the mud in front of it and started digging.

The ground was soft from the rain. The spade cut through it easily. I dug frantically, not caring about the mud splashing on my face or the rain in my eyes or the fact that this was insane.

I had to know.

Had to see who was in that casket. Had to see if Malachi was telling the truth or if this was all some cruel joke.

The hole got deeper. My arms burned. My shoulders screamed. My hands blistered. But I kept digging.

Deeper.

Deeper.

The rain poured down. Thunder rumbled overhead. Lightning lit up the cemetery in flashes of white.

Until finally, after what felt like hours, the spade hit something solid.

Wood.

The casket.

I dropped to my hands and knees and cleared away the remaining dirt with my bare hands. My fingers scraped against the rotted wood. The casket had decomposed over the years. The wood was soft. Splintered. Half-eaten by time and earth.

I found the edge of the lid and pulled.

It didn’t move.

I pulled harder. Put all my weight into it. Felt the wood crack under my hands.

The lid shifted. Just slightly.

I was about to pry it open, about to see whatever was inside, when a shadow fell over me.

I froze.

Someone was standing at the edge of the grave. Above me. Looking down.

I couldn’t see their face. The rain and darkness made them just a silhouette. A shape without features.

But I knew that voice before they even spoke.

Soft. Familiar. Haunting.

"I knew you’d come."