Chapter 502

Chapter 502:
As he spoke, Myron stepped forward until he stood toe-to-toe with Brandon.
“I do want my family to succeed,” he said. “But that has nothing to do with me going out with Millie. I care about her. If I wanted to take you down, I have other ways. Trust me.”
Brandon looked at him like he’d just heard the world’s most absurd joke.
“You like her?” he scoffed. “Don’t make me laugh.”
“I do.” Myron’s smile turned cold. “It’s not a joke. I told you before. I’ve liked her for a long time. I think about her day and night. And you should know, you’re not the only man in this world, and you certainly don’t get to decide who’s worthy of her.”
He met Brandon’s eyes, clear and unwavering. “I like the way she thinks. The way she carries herself. I respect her, even the parts that aren’t perfect. I understand her better than you ever did. All you ever did was dismiss her.”
Brandon’s smile faded. He said nothing, just stared.
Myron didn’t break eye contact.
The silence stretched.
“Did she put you up to this?” Brandon finally asked.
Myron only laughed.
Something in that sound made the truth sink in. Brandon exhaled, jaw tight.
“She was with me for seven years,” Brandon said.
“I know.”
“We had a child.” Brandon clenched his fists.
“I know that too,” Myron replied, his voice steady.
Brandon’s chest rose and fell with each breath. He didn’t look away.
“You think you know her better than I do? I spent seven years beside her, not you!” he spat. “She’s mine. I’ve seen every side of her. I’ve held her through things you couldn’t begin to understand.” He kept talking, the words pouring out like venom.
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“When she cried in my arms, you were probably still out drifting on some yacht.”
Myron’s face darkened.
The glow from the sign above threw sharp shadows over his expression. He stepped forward, grabbed Brandon by the collar, and slammed him into the wall.
Brandon let out a breathless laugh. “That hit a nerve?” he whispered, bloodshot eyes full of fury. “She’s mine. And she always will be.”
Myron looked at him, then smiled. But his eyes were cold—ice cold.
Myron held Brandon against the wall with one hand. With the other, he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and shoved it roughly into Brandon’s mouth. He jammed it in again and again.
“Filthy mouth like yours,” he said. “Needs proper cleaning.”
Brandon struggled violently. The two were evenly matched, but he finally managed to free one arm. He ripped the handkerchief out and spat bloody saliva onto the floor. They locked eyes, breath heavy, tension thick between them. Then Brandon laughed.
.
.
.