The Unpredictable Fate Of Love

The convoy of sleek G-Wagons pulled into the garage with a low hum, their engines idling as the doors slowly creaked shut behind them. One by one, the polished cars parked in their designated spaces. Some doors opened, and people started stepping out, adjusting their clothes, wiping their faces, or leaning against the vehicles for support, shaking off the exhaustion of the long drive.

In the second car, Deacon stepped out, his expression dark. His face was creased with tension, his jaw clenched, and his hands curled into tight fists. He had spent the entire ride trying to suppress the boiling anger inside him, but now, standing before the towering estate, it felt impossible to hold it in any longer. He exhaled slowly, trying to regain control, but the weight of what he had learned today—at the cemetery, from the whispers of the girls—had rattled him more than he could have anticipated.

It wasn't just the revelation about Brandon; it was the betrayal, the coldness of their own blood. Teresa, their mother, had been at the center of it all. She had orchestrated their uncle's death, all for the wealth that was now at stake. Deacon's heart burned with the need for justice, and yet, the truth was suffocating him.

He looked around as he took slow steps toward the entrance of the garage, his thoughts a whirlwind. That's when he saw her—the young woman who had been among the whispers at the cemetery, the one whose gaze had met his before she hurriedly turned away. She was stepping out of one of the cars, laughing softly with the others, talking as if nothing had happened, as if the dark secrets they'd all buried hadn't just been exposed.

Deacon's eyes narrowed, and the frustration within him deepened. But there was no time to dwell on her now.

He turned his attention toward Brandon, who was standing by another car, still in his usual, carefree manner. The anger inside Deacon surged again. This was the man responsible for dragging their uncle into this mess, the one who had likely contributed to his death. It was time to confront him.

Brandon looked up as Deacon approached, a brief flicker of surprise crossing his face before it was quickly replaced with that smirk Deacon had come to hate. He leaned casually against the car, clearly unaware of the storm that was about to hit.

Deacon reached him in two strides and grabbed him by the collar, yanking him off his feet. Brandon's eyes went wide as he sputtered, trying to break free.

"Deacon, what the hell is wrong with you?" Brandon shouted, his voice high with panic.

Deacon's grip tightened, his anger flaring up uncontrollably. "Don't think I don't know what you did to Uncle. You're one of the reasons he's dead."

Brandon froze, his face draining of color. Deacon's fury didn't relent, his voice colder, sharper. "When I first heard the truth, I didn't believe it. But now… seeing you, acting like nothing happened, like you didn't just destroy our family, explains everything."

Brandon's shoulders stiffened, but he still tried to wriggle free, his eyes darting around as if searching for an escape. "Let me go," he gritted out. "Or you won't see a penny of Uncle's wealth."

Deacon's jaw tightened, the truth sinking in. "So it's true…" he muttered under his breath.

Brandon nodded, his expression cool but strained. "Yes. I'm part of it. I'm part of his death."

Deacon's blood ran cold at the words. How could this be happening? His hands shook with rage, but he didn't release his grip. He pulled Brandon closer, voice low and dangerous. "You go back into that house, and you tell my mother I'm out of this. I don't want anything to do with this bloodstained wealth."

Brandon's face twisted with a mix of fear and defiance, but Deacon was beyond caring now. He shoved him away with all his might, sending Brandon stumbling back against the garage door, a small cry escaping his lips as he struggled to regain his balance.

Deacon stood over him, his breath coming in ragged bursts, his anger unchecked. "Tell Teresa I'm gone," he growled. "I'm not taking part in this charade anymore."

He turned on his heel, walking away from the confrontation, not sparing Brandon another glance. His mind was racing, but he didn't let the turmoil show. He had a decision to make, and it was already clear: he needed to get out, get away from all of this, from his family, from the lies, and from the toxic wealth they were all fighting over.

As he reached the G-Wagon, Deacon climbed into the driver's seat, his eyes narrowing with determination. He paused for a moment, looking back toward Brandon, still on the ground. For a fleeting moment, the weight of everything that had happened seemed unbearable, but he pushed it aside. He wasn't looking back anymore.

Before starting the car, he turned his gaze toward the front gates. The guard opened them without hesitation, and Deacon revved the engine, the sound of the car drowning out the chaos behind him. As he drove through the gates, he muttered to himself, "Already rich and still craving more…"

Brandon's angry shout followed him, but it faded quickly as Deacon sped off into the night, the weight of what was to come settling heavily on his shoulders.

After storming out of the Walters estate, Deacon sped off, his mind racing with anger and disappointment. Meanwhile, Brandon, still shaken from their confrontation, dusted himself off and glared at the retreating car. "You bastard! Were you planning to kill me?" he shouted, but Deacon was long gone.

On the other side of the city, Samson parked outside a luxurious hotel. His expression remained cold and unreadable as he stepped out of the car and strode toward the entrance. He walked straight to the reception, where a young, beautiful lady greeted him with a polite smile.

"Good evening, sir. How may I help you? Do you need a room?"

"No," Samson replied flatly. "I need to see James Wood. Which room is he staying in?"

The receptionist hesitated. "Mr. Wood is one of our esteemed clients. I can't disclose such information without his permission. Let me call him first."

Samson gave a small nod. "Tell him Samson Walters is looking for him."

The receptionist picked up the phone and dialed. After two rings, a cold voice answered. "What is it?"

"Mr. James, a young man named Samson Walters is here to see you."

There was silence on the other end. Then, the voice, now tinged with a hint of anxiety, responded, "Give him my room number."

The receptionist hung up and looked at Samson. "He's in Room 113, on the next floor. The elevator is just over there."

"Thank you," Samson said before walking toward the elevator. He pressed the button, stepped inside, and watched as the doors slid shut. Within seconds, he arrived at the second level. He walked down the hallway, his sharp eyes scanning the room numbers until he reached 113.

Inside, James Wood paced nervously, his mind racing with possibilities. The knock on the door made him stop abruptly. He rushed to open it.

"Greetings, young boss. Please, come in."

Samson stepped inside, his presence commanding. James quickly moved to pour him a glass of water, but Samson waved it off.

"I need your help," Samson stated.

James nodded. "Of course. What can I do for you?"

Samson explained everything in a calm yet firm tone, outlining his next steps. James listened attentively, his expression shifting from concern to understanding. When Samson finished, he stood up and gave one final instruction. "Meet me at the old Walters mansion."

Without waiting for a response, Samson exited the room, walked briskly to his car, and drove off into the night, his mind already on what was to come.