While My Husband Cheated I Married His Powerful Brother novel Chapter 89

Chapter 89: Chapter 89 Equal Ground

The bedroom was dark except for the thin slice of moonlight slipping through the balcony curtains.

Dorian lay on the sofa, one arm behind his head, the other resting on his chest. He had been staring at the ceiling for what felt like hours. Sleep would not come. His mind kept circling back to the meeting, to the glove incident, to the way Veyra had laughed when he asked about ulterior motives.

Across the room, Veyra shifted in bed. The sheets rustled. Then her lips parted.

“One day...” Her voice was barely there. A breath more than a word. “Same height... as you.”

Dorian turned his head toward the bed. He could see the outline of her body under the duvet, her dark hair spread across the pillow.

She rolled over. Her breathing deepened.

He smiled into the darkness.

Same height as you.

He repeated the words in his head. She wanted to stand where he stood. Not beside him as an equal, above him? No. Beside him. At the same level.

He chuckled softly.

Her ambitions were not small.

Most people in her position would have been satisfied with safety. A roof. Food. Money in the bank. She had all of that now. She could have stopped. She could have rested.

Instead, she trained until her hands bled. Studied medicine in every spare moment. Negotiated with gangsters. Planned a business.

Dorian closed his eyes.

He reached into his pocket. His fingers found the small brown bottle. The glass was warm from his body heat.

He had meant to leave it on the table. Instead, he had carried it with him all day.

He pulled out the dropper and squeezed. One drop landed on his wrist. He touched his wrists together, then brought them to his nose.

The scent was fresh. Herbal. Clean. Valerian root, he recognized that. Lavender and something slightly sweet. Chamomile, maybe.

He had not expected it to work.

He set the bottle on the floor beside the sofa. He closed his eyes.

The next thing he knew, sunlight was pouring through the balcony doors.

The curtains had been left open. The morning light slanted across the floor, warm and golden. Birds chirped somewhere outside. A lawnmower hummed in the distance.

Dorian blinked. His eyes focused on the ceiling. Then on the window. Then on his phone, which had fallen to the floor beside the sofa.

He sat up. His back cracked. His shoulders rolled.

He had slept. All night. Without waking once.

He could not remember the last time that had happened.

He picked up his phone.

8:47 AM.

He stared at the screen. The numbers did not change.

He was usually awake by six. Out of bed by six‑fifteen. In the office by seven‑thirty. Today, he had slept through his alarm. He had not even heard it.

Across the room, Veyra was folding the duvet. She moved quickly, efficiently. The sheets were already tucked tight at the corners. The pillows were fluffed and stacked.

She wore black leggings and a fitted tank top. Her hair was pulled back in a high ponytail. Small beads of sweat dotted her temples, she had already been awake for a while.

“Good morning,” she said. Her voice was bright. Clear.

Dorian ran a hand through his hair. “Good morning.”

He stood up. His head was clear. No dull ache behind his eyes. No pressure in his temples.

He looked at the small brown bottle on the floor. Then at Veyra.

The oil had worked.

She had given him something that actually worked.

“You look well rested,” she said. She tucked the last corner of the duvet under the mattress and smoothed the top.

“I am.”

“Good.”

She smiled. Then she grabbed a water bottle from the nightstand and tucked it into her small gym bag.

“No shooting range this morning?” he asked.

“Leon changed my schedule.” She zipped the bag and slung it over her shoulder. “Physical conditioning and equipment training in the morning. Marksmanship in the afternoon.”

“That’s new.”

“He said I need to build endurance. Core strength. Shooting alone won’t make me strong.”

Dorian nodded. He watched as she checked her bag again. Water bottle. Towel. Medical tape.

His eyes dropped to her hands.

The black gloves were on her fingers. The lizard skin scales caught the morning light. The metal knuckles gleamed. She had put them on before he even woke up.

The corners of his mouth curved upward.

She had kept them. After all her protests about value and damage and throwing them away, she had put them on.

“What?” she asked.

“Nothing.”

She tilted her head. She did not believe him. But she did not push.

“See you later,” she said.

She walked out the door. Her ponytail swung behind her.

Dorian stood in the empty bedroom.

He stretched his arms above his head. His shoulders rolled back. His joints cracked. His spine lengthened.

He felt light. Unusual. Unburdened.

He walked to the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face. He looked at himself in the mirror. The shadows under his eyes were lighter. The lines around his mouth were softer.

He dressed in a dark suit. White shirt. No tie.

He picked up the small brown bottle from the floor. He held it in his palm for a moment. Then he slipped it into his jacket pocket.

Downstairs, the living room was empty.

The family had already eaten breakfast. The table was cleared. The newspapers were folded.

Dorian walked to the window and looked out at the garden. The roses were in bloom. Red and pink and white. A gardener trimmed the hedges.

He thought about Veyra. About her sleep‑talking. About her ambition.

One day, same height as you.

He smiled.

Then he walked to the front door.

*

*

The estate gym was bright and white.

Fluorescent lights hummed overhead. Racks of dumbbells lined one wall. Kettlebells sat on a low shelf. A pull‑up bar hung in the doorway. A full‑length mirror covered the far wall.

Veyra stood in the center of the room, facing Leon.

“Marksmanship first,” Leon said. “Then strength.”

“What about reading?”

“After training. If you have energy left.”

She nodded. She did not have energy left. She was already tired. But she would not say that.

They started with dry firing.

Leon had her stand at the line, the Nightblade in her hands, the magazine empty. She practiced her stance. Her grip. Her sight alignment.

“Breathe,” Leon said. “In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Squeeze on the exhale.”

She squeezed.

The trigger clicked. The gun did not move.

“Better.” Leon walked around her, checking her posture. “Your shoulders are still too high. Relax them.”

She dropped her shoulders.

“Again.”

She squeezed. Click.

“Good. Reload.”

She loaded a fresh magazine and fired at the target. The bullet hit the outer ring. Not great. Not terrible.

“Again.”

She fired again. Closer to the center.

“Again.”

By the time they finished marksmanship, her arms were shaking.

Strength training was worse.

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