So that's it. Five years of bleeding myself dry—all a joke to him.
My health, my dignity, my life—sacrificed because Valerie felt insecure. In Jonathan's eyes, my living hell was just an "insignificant family matter."
A hysterical laugh choked in my throat. Hot tears blurred my vision.
Inside the room, a phone rang. Heavy footsteps approached the door. Panic spiked. I spun to flee, but my coordination failed.
I slammed into Miranda Cole, the club manager.
Crash.
Two bottles of vintage wine—tens of thousands each—shattered on the floor.
Miranda's face twisted. Her hand cracked across my face before I could speak, knocking me to the ground.
The private room door swung open. Jonathan strode out, ignoring the commotion completely, eyes fixed on Valerie fluttering toward him.
"Why did you travel alone?" he scolded gently, pulling her into his arms. "I told you I'd pick you up. I've arranged a medical team at home—full body care, everything."
"I missed you, big brother!" Valerie giggled into his chest. "I wanted to surprise you!"
I knelt less than a meter away, face hidden behind a cheap mask. My gaze locked on her shoes—encrusted with diamonds, glittering cruelly under the lights.
One stone could pay for a year of Jonathan's imported medicine.
"Mr. James, I'm so sorry," Miranda hissed, bowing low. "This clumsy idiot destroyed your wine."
Polished black shoes stopped inches from my nose.
Miranda grabbed my arm, twisting viciously. "Forgive the interruption. This fool can't even hold a tray. I'll have fresh bottles brought immediately."
The pain was sharp, but it paled against the time creditors snapped my ribs. Still, nausea churned in my stomach.
"Enough." Jonathan sounded bored.
He gestured at the mess of glass and wine. "Since you broke it, clean it up. Pick every shard from the carpet. With your hands." His eyes were ice. "If my sister steps on a single piece, I'll make you swallow it."
The carpet was thick and plush. Jagged glass had buried itself deep in the fibers, invisible.
I had no choice. I crawled forward, pressing my palms into the wool, finding razor-sharp edges by feel.
Valerie studied my hunched form, then hooked her arm through Jonathan's. "Brother, I'm tired."
"You delicate thing." He lifted her. "I'll carry you out. Too dangerous to walk here."
As he pivoted, his heavy shoe came down on my hand—grinding the leather sole and the glass beneath it into my skin.