The Contract

Chapter 135-The Retribution

I clung to Kourtney like she was my lifeline, letting the tears fall unchecked. For a fleeting moment, I allowed myself to feel, to let the pain wash over me.

But even as I cried, I knew I'd have to pick up the pieces again, rebuild the armor he'd shattered. Because at the end of the day, I was Pearl—and weakness was never an option.

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TRAVIS'S P.O.V

My hands gripped the seat so tightly my knuckles turned white, the leather creaking under the strain. My foot tapped incessantly, a sharp, relentless rhythm that mirrored the chaos in my mind. Patience? Long gone. Reasoning? Buried under the storm brewing inside me. I wasn't just angry-I was volcanic.

The car slowed to a stop, and I looked up, my eyes narrowing on the towering building in front of me. He was here.

Without waiting for the driver, I shoved the door open and stepped out, straightening my suit with practiced precision. The fabric felt suffocating against my skin, but I needed the armor. This wasn't just a visit. This was war.

I turned to the security detail flanking me. "Wait here," I ordered, my voice sharp and commanding. They hesitated for a split second before nodding, their expressions a mix of unease and respect.

This wouldn't take long.

Inside, the receptionist froze the moment our eyes met. A look-a single, deadly glare-was all it took to silence him. He bowed slightly, a reflexive act of submission, and I brushed past without a word.

The elevator ride was torturously slow, each second stretching into eternity. My jaw clenched as I cracked my knuckles, the sharp sound echoing in the confined space. My reflection in the mirrored walls stared back at me: cold, unrelenting, dangerous.

When the elevator dinged and the doors slid open, I strode down the dimly lit hallway, my footsteps echoing like the drumbeat of impending doom. I stopped in front of the door, adjusting my leather gloves with deliberate care, each movement precise and controlled.

And then, without hesitation, I threw the doors open.

Chaos erupted.

The naked women on the sofa scrambled, shrieking as they fumbled to cover themselves, their screams piercing the air like a siren. The stench of cheap perfume mingled with the acrid tang of cocaine and stale cigarettes, assaulting my senses. My gaze swept the room: bottles toppled over, a table lined with powder, ashtrays overflowing with half-burnt cigarettes. The debauchery was sickening.

I kicked a bottle out of my way, the sound of shattering glass cutting through the chaos as I moved deeper into the room. My eyes flicked to the hallway leading to the bedrooms. And then I saw him.

He sauntered out, shirt unbuttoned, his hair disheveled, a smug smirk on his face. At first, he didn't notice me, but when he did, he froze, his eyes narrowing in disbelief.

"Shit," he muttered, chuckling darkly. "I must be so high."

The rage that simmered under my skin boiled over. I didn't think. I moved. My fist connected with his face, the satisfying crunch of bone meeting bone reverberating in the room. He stumbled back, clutching his jaw as the women screamed louder, fleeing the scene like rats abandoning a sinking ship.

He straightened, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, but his smirk remained intact. "I'm definitely high," he said, his voice laced with mockery.

"Not high enough," I spat, shrugging off my blazer and letting it fall to the floor.

He lunged at me, clumsy and erratic, but I sidestepped easily, my movements fluid and controlled. His laughter grated against my nerves, a sound that fueled my fury.

"What's this?" he jeered, spreading his arms wide. "Ambushing your own brother in his own house?"

"It's more than that," I replied coldly, swinging again. My fist met his ribs this time, and he doubled over, coughing and sputtering.

I spotted a golf club leaning against the wall and grabbed it without hesitation. He barely had time to register the movement before I brought it down on him, the metal connecting with a sickening thud.

He fell again, his body crumpling to the floor. But even as he groaned in pain, he had the audacity to laugh, his voice slurred and unhinged. The drugs had clearly scrambled his brain, but I didn't care. I raised the club again and again, my muscles burning with the effort.

The women were gone now, their absence leaving an eerie silence broken only by his labored breathing and my own ragged gasps.

He rolled onto his back, grinning up at me with blood-streaked teeth. "Is this my retribution?" he taunted.

I crouched down, my face inches from his. "It's more than your retribution," I growled, my voice low and menacing.

Grabbing him by the collar, I dragged him across the room, his body leaving a smear of blood on the pristine marble floor. He fought weakly, his struggles pitiful against my iron grip.

I hauled him onto the balcony, the cool night air biting against my heated skin. Sliding open the glass doors, I shoved him against the railings, holding him precariously over the edge.

Panic flashed across his face as he finally grasped the gravity of the situation. "Stop playing, Travis!" he shouted, his voice shaking.

"Does it look like I'm playing?" I retorted, a grim smile tugging at my lips.

His hands clawed at my arms, desperate and frantic. "You won't kill your brother," he challenged, his voice wavering.

"You're not my brother," I said flatly.

His laughter returned, a hollow, deranged sound. "You're fighting a losing battle," he sneered. "You know who you should be going up against!"

"It's you," I hissed. "You're my nemesis."

"You're not ruthless, Travis. You're not cold. Isn't that why Father always commended you?"

My grip tightened, and he screamed as I pushed him further over the edge.

"How could you betray your family?" I demanded, my voice trembling with fury.

"Family?" he spat, his laughter bitter. "Roman had to go."

My chest heaved as I stared at him, disbelief washing over me. "He was our father," I whispered.

"Your father!" he snapped. "You were his perfect son. He gave everything to you. I had no use for him. He had to go."

The words hit me like a freight train, the weight of his betrayal crushing me. My hands slackened, and he crumpled to the ground, coughing and gasping for air.

I stumbled back, my mind a whirlwind of anger, grief, and regret.

"You had your chance, Ferrari," he muttered, leaning against the wall.

I stared at him, my vision blurred. "First warning," I said, my voice ice-cold. "Don't ever go near her."

He smirked. "You mean your fake wife?"

My fists clenched, but I forced myself to turn away. "I won't play fair from now on," I promised, my tone deadly.

As I stepped into the elevator, I glanced down at my bruised, bloodied hands. This wasn't over.

The game had just begun.