Married Your Girl Bestie as a Dare? Congrats You're Stuck with her now novel Chapter 89

Chapter 20

“What, I’m not allowed to say it? Can’t handle the truth now?”

“A husband who claimed to love me-yet let his wife get slapped by a room full of people? What a joke. You did it all for Vivienne, didn’t you? A murderer who deserves to rot in hell. And you? You’re no better. Just as

vile. You two deserve each other.”

Sloane’s words were sharp as blades, her voice cold and emotionless. Each syllable stabbed straight into

Declan’s heart.

She turned away, not sparing him another glance. “Don’t ever show your face again, Declan. If you’ve got

even a shred of dignity left.”

The window of the passenger seat slowly rolled up, and the car pulled away from the curb.

Declan collapsed, knees hitting the pavement. He buried his face in his hands, muffled sobs escaping

between his fingers.

In the rearview mirror, he shrank into a speck… then nothing.

Inside the car, it was silent. Sloane clutched her seatbelt, trying to steady her breath.

Oddly, she felt lighter-like a stone that had sat on her chest for years had finally shattered into dust.

But Devlin, behind the wheel, wore a much darker expression. Sloane’s words had hit him too-right in the

chest.

They weren’t even meant for him, yet they left him rattled, tense, and angry.

He slammed the brakes, pulling over on the coastal highway. Knuckles tight on the wheel, he glanced at her.

“Sloane, I…”

!

“You don’t have to say anything. No pity, no sympathy. I’m fine.”

Devlin’s throat bobbed, voice low and gentle.

“There’s something you should know. Those photos you mentioned? Someone in the States is trying to put

them up for auction.”

“But don’t worry. I’ll buy them-make sure those photos never see the light of day.”

Sloane paused for only a second, then offered a wry, indifferent smile. “No need. Someone will bid on them anyway. For some men, words alone don’t count as revenge. They need to bleed.”

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Far off, the sun was rising on the edge of the sea-same as always.

Sloane stared toward that unreachable horizon, imagining those first rays warming the waves.

Sure enough, Declan’s phone rang.

“Mr. Hawthorne, Mr. Clay is hosting a high-profile collector’s auction. He sent you a personal invite. Word is,

there’s a rare set of photos up for bid-starting at a billion. Oh, and apparently ninety percent of the proceeds

will go to charity.”

Declan’s heart dropped. “I don’t care what it costs. I want those photos. Book me the next flight home-now.”

That very night, he flew back to the States.

The auction was held online, broadcast live to the public. The moment Declan appeared on camera-haggard and frantic-the comments section erupted.

“OMG, it’s that guy. The one who practically drove his wife to her death just to protect a killer.”

“Rumor has it he let someone film explicit blackmail material of his wife just so he could buy Vivienne a stupid ring. This auction’s gotta be about that.”

“He’s disgusting. All this pathetic pining? Save it for someone who cares.”

Onscreen, the comment feed scrolled so fast it looked like static. Some snorted. Some laughed.

It was like a public execution-Declan, pale and trembling, tied to an invisible post of shame.

Eventually, the auction reached its final stage: the mysterious photo set. Comments flooded in.

“Wait, what the hell? Five billion? For pictures?”

But what stunned everyone more was Declan’s bidding frenzy. From the second the lot appeared, he went all

Most viewers were curious-but no one else was really prepared to throw billions at curiosity.

Except… someone else was bidding, too. An anonymous online user-silent and relentless-matched Declan bid for bid. And then some.

They pushed the price to twenty billion.

Twenty billion-more than the entire auction combined.

Declan didn’t even blink. He just kept raising his paddle.

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“Sir, you need to stop-we’re past fifty billion. That’s all the liquid funds we’ve got,” his assistant whispered

urgently.

But Declan didn’t so much as blink. The numbers surged past sixty.

And then-Bang. The gavel came down.

Declan broke into a cold sweat. But beneath it all, a fragile sense of relief.

No matter what it cost-even if it drained him completely-he wasn’t going to back down.

Because he already knew… That anonymous bidder?

Wasn’t anonymous at all.

Half a world away, Sloane closed out of the livestream, her face blank. The bidding account? It had been

hers all along.

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Chapter 2,1

Declan stayed in Riverstone for an entire week.

On the fourth night, the very man who had hosted the auction-Mr. Clay-was suddenly reported to the

authorities. Concrete evidence surfaced: he had coerced and filmed underage girls. That very night, he was

hauled into the station for questioning.

It was clear he wouldn’t be walking free again-most likely, he’d rot behind bars for the rest of his life.

When Declan stepped out of the isolation chamber, his assistant didn’t dare look directly at the mess that

was his arms.

“Mr. Hawthorne, we’ve confirmed it-it was Mr. Sharpe who got Mr. Clay taken down. Sir… should I call a car

to take you to the hospital?”

Declan’s figure swayed slightly, but he forced himself to remain upright. The pain and itching from the insect

bites were almost unbearable, but he endured.

“No need. Just book me the soonest flight back to Italy.”

Though his voice was weak, his eyes burned with determination. “And while you’re at it, get me some thorny

branches. And sandpaper-I’ll need it for carving.”

Two days later, Sloane stepped outside with a can of tuna in hand, planning to feed the stray cats. That’s

when she saw him-and saw him there, worn out and barely holding himself together.

In just one week, Declan had dropped significant weight.

His tailored suit pants looked baggy in the sea breeze, and his rolled-up sleeves revealed raw, red, swollen

skin.

Sloane recognized the wounds instantly. She knew exactly what kind of torment came from the confinement

room. The insects. The bites.

“Sloane… I brought the photos back.”

He stepped forward cautiously, handing her a brown envelope. Sloane didn’t reject it—she took it.

Declan exhaled, just a little. Then, he handed over something else: a thorn bracelet, stained with dried blood.

“I locked myself in the isolation chamber for three days. You said I’d never understand that kind of pain-but

now I do.”

“And this bracelet-I made it myself. I want to give it to you. I’m sorry.”