His knees hit the concrete with a sickening thud.

I paused, stunned. I knew better than anyone how much Bradley Lawrence valued his image. If he were ever going to jump from a building, he’d pick the dead of night, when the streets were empty and no one was watching.

Around us, the crowd collectively sucked in a breath. Smartphones emerged from pockets, lenses zooming in, hungry for the spectacle.

Bradley shuffled forward on his knees. His jaw was clenched so tight it looked painful; his throat bobbed as he fought to speak.

"Madeline, I’m not asking for your forgiveness."

His voice sounded like sandpaper dragged over stone, yet he still clung to that practiced air of restraint. "I just need you to know that I love you. That was real."

Tears streamed down his rigid jaw. "The three nights I sat by your bed when you had a fever? That was real. Driving across half the city to find that specific dessert you craved? That was real, too."

He looked up at me, his eyes rimmed with red, his composure shattered like broken glass.

"But I’m tainted now."

The words sounded as if they were being ripped from his throat.

"I swear, it was just a fling. I never meant for... any of this." He let out a wet, ragged breath. "I’m garbage. I don't deserve you. But if you walk away now, there’s nothing left of me."

I stared down at him. The same Bradley Lawrence who once dismantled opposing counsel in the courtroom until they were trembling and mute was now groveling at my feet, his chin slick with tears.

Yet, I felt nothing. The sympathy had dried up weeks ago.

"Are you finished? Have you signed the divorce papers? Don't make me drag you back to court."

I stepped around him and headed for the elevator. Bradley stumbled to his feet, lunging forward to jam his hand between the closing doors. I didn't say a word. As the elevator reached the lobby and the doors slid open, Wesley Cole was standing right there. He froze when he saw the two of us.

Bradley locked eyes with him, his expression wild and bloodshot. He hissed, "When did you two get together?"

I froze. Wesley blinked, stunned by the accusation.

Bradley leaned in, his voice trembling—cold, sharp, and pathetic. "You were just waiting for this, weren't you? I thought you were my brother!"

*Crack.*

Wesley’s fist connected with Bradley’s jaw.

Bradley slammed against the elevator wall, blood instantly spraying from his nose.

"Are you out of your damn mind?" Wesley grabbed him by the collar, his knuckles white. "She nearly died in a war zone while you were busy playing around! I spent months warning you to stop, and now you’re trying to pin your failures on me?"

Wesley shoved him off and took a step back, his eyes filled with nothing but contempt.

"Bradley, it’s over. You’re done."

That night, the elevator security footage hit the internet.

The clip of a blood-streaked Bradley Lawrence gasping for air against the elevator wall went viral, captioned: *Top Attorney Cheats for Three Years, Ousts Wife, and Blames the Man Who Had His Back.*

The comment sections exploded. Lacey Rose’s accounts were dragged into the light, picked apart, and eviscerated. Her followers turned on her with vicious delight, and some even tracked down her address, pelting her front porch with trash.

Unable to handle the firestorm, Lacey fled to her hometown, looking for some unsuspecting fool to take her off the market.

Bradley’s firm website was bombarded with hate, his clients fled in droves, and his "Distinguished Attorney" title was officially stripped away.

The internet didn't hold back:

*He tried to play the martyr, but his wife didn't care, his mistress got exposed, his brother turned on him, and his career is in the gutter. Is this real life or a revenge drama?*

*Someone needs to film this. I’d title it: "How to Ruin Your Own Life."*

I closed the app.

I set aside my newly finalized divorce papers and looked out the window at the office tower across the street. A few more lights flickered off, leaving the building in darkness.

Tomorrow, everything starts fresh.