Chapter 156 They Built This Hell Reese I don’t even know what’s crazier—the fact that Roman’s fiancée just accused me of plotting to murder my own brother, or the fact that she so casually implied I slept with Dahlia. Dahlia. My blood brother’s wife. I would have liked to pretend that I didn’t know how the hell she even arrived at that conclusion? How the fuck any of them did. But I do. I can already picture it—Father whispering his poison into Roman’s ear like he always does. He’s the one who first questioned my closeness with Dahlia years ago, planting those ugly little seeds of doubt. And when she died, he must’ve found it convenient to turn me into his scapegoat again. Because if there’s one thing the great General is good at, it’s rewriting history to keep his filthy hands clean. And Roman, like the dutiful son he’s always been, swallowed every word. Believed our father who lied through his front teeth. Roman’s hatred for me didn’t just happen overnight—it was carefully crafted. But I understood it. I didn’t fight it. He was grieving. He needed someone to blame, and I was right there—an easy target. Still, what he refuses to see, what Father will never admit, is that Dahlia’s death could’ve been avoided. Roman’s guilt is eating him alive, and instead of facing it, he lets it rot through everyone else. If he had just paid her attention. If he had just loved her like she wanted to be loved. If he had just been there for the woman he married, none of this would have happened. I prefer to believe Dahlia died alone in that mansion, surrounded by people who wanted to use her, break her, own her, drive her insane. And Roman was too obsessed with his career to notice. It all paid off when he finally climbed his way to the top, but by then, the woman who had waited for him—his quiet, loyal wife—was gone. It’s a secret that used to belong to three people: me, Dahlia, and our father. Now, it’s just two. Me and the God of War. And that’s why he won’t let me leave Blackwood Manor. That’s why every time I try to walk away from this godforsaken family, he reminds me of what I know. What I saw. What I could destroy him with if I opened my mouth to the wrong ears. But one day, he said he’d finally let me go if I got Savannah to attend the party with Roman. I was confused on why he was fixated on Roman's new girl—and honestly, I still am. What's so special about Savannah to get Reginald Blackwood's attention? And then I figured it out. She was feisty. I almost laughed in his face when he said it. Because for once, Roman found someone that Father can’t control. Savannah is everything Dahlia wasn’t—unapologetically loud, sharp-tongued, unafraid. She doesn’t bow, doesn’t yield. She’s the kind of woman Father despises the most. A woman who speaks her mind freely. And that alone makes me like her—just a little bit. Dahlia was the opposite. She was quiet. Too quiet. Docile to the point of being broken by anyone who screamed too loud. She’d whisper apologies for things that weren’t even her fault. Roman shouldn’t have brought her home. Blackwood Manor eats women like her alive. And I... I shouldn’t have fallen into bed with her twin sister. Penelope. That was the second worst mistake of my life. I don’t even know why I did it—loneliness, guilt, self-destruction, pick one. But it was wrong. So wrong that I couldn’t look at Penelope without seeing Dahlia. It was fucked up—seeing my sister-in-law’s face every time I fucked her twin. Every time I closed my eyes. It haunted me. They were night and day, those two. Dahlia was ice—soft-spoken, measured, painfully kind. Penelope was fire—sharp, bold, full of claws. Dahlia couldn’t raise her voice to save her life, while Penelope never shut up to save her life. Heck, she threatened to fuck Roman up, and that's the reason I'm here. And yet, somehow, it was Dahlia everyone blamed when things went south. When things went wrong. Savannah had said it like it was a fact—that Dahlia plotted to kill Roman. That she was unfaithful. That she was dangerous. And she said it with conviction. So where the hell did she hear that from? Roman. It has to be. And who did he hear it from? Father. Always Father. The Great fucking General. If the old man’s pinned his sins on me again, I swear to God—this time, I’ll burn his legacy down myself. I’ll go straight to Roman and tell him the truth—that the man who birthed him made Dahlia entertain his disgusting friends, forced her to smile and serve and play escort to dirty old politicians in his absence. That he drove her to depression and madness. I remember the night she told me she couldn’t take it anymore. She was painting—Dahlia was always painting whenever we were together. But that day, there was a red streak down the canvas that looked like blood, and she just said, quietly, “I’m done being their entertainment. They won't let me breathe.” That was two weeks before she died. She’d confided in me. Because who else could she trust? Her husband was never home. Her sister was too close to Roman to ever take her side. I was all she had in that house—a house that smelled like money and secrets. She used to paint in silence. Sometimes, she’d talk mid-brushstroke—whispering about escape like it was a bedtime story she told herself. I was the only one who listened in that death camp. And I swear on everything, I never touched her. Not once. I didn’t even think about it. Dahlia was... she was like a sister to me. I only wanted to protect her and give her as much comfort as I could provide. We bonded over art. Over the differences in our worlds. Over the kind of loneliness that settles in your bones. She’d paint, I’d sketch. Sometimes we’d talk. Sometimes we’d just sit in quiet understanding. She once showed me a half-finished portrait of Roman. It was the first time I saw her smile so brightly. So proud. She fucking loved him more than I've ever seen a woman love a man. She was a genius, really. Da Vinci with the IQ of Einstein, trapped in a gilded cage. But Roman never knew that side of her. I doubt he ever asked. Never cared to look. He loved her, sure. But love isn’t enough when it’s silent. Or when it's cold and absent. And that's why she resolved to walk away. Dahlia told me she wanted a divorce. She said it softly, like she was confessing a sin. I helped her find a lawyer—a really good one. She wanted freedom. She wanted to breathe again. But before she could even serve the papers, Roman accused her of cheating out of nowhere. And a day later, she was dead. They called it an accident. But I know what happened. I know who made it happen. The General. He took her out to protect his friends—to make sure her pain, her pregnancy, her truth never reached the papers. He silenced her to save them. And the worst part? He made me watch the disgusting tapes. Every single one of them. He told me to stand there and keep my mouth shut while they treated her like she was nothing. Like she wasn't his son's wife. She wasn’t nothing. She was everything that house had left that was still pure after mom's demise. And now, even in death, Dahlia can’t rest. Now Roman’s fiancée stands there, spewing rumors she doesn’t understand. She talks about Dahlia like she knew her. Like she has a fucking clue what that woman endured in that place. It’s cruel. It’s ignorant. It’s infuriating. And yet... I don’t hate Savannah. I can't bring myself to. I want to. I really do. But I can’t. Because she doesn’t know. She’s just repeating what she’s been told by the same man who killed Dahlia slowly. Still, accusing me of murder? That almost pushed me past the edge earlier. For a second, I saw red. I saw Father’s smirk, Roman’s glare, Dahlia’s terrified eyes—and I almost did something I’d regret. But then I remembered who I am. Reese. The black sheep. The screw-up. The son who never measures up. The brother who’s always the villain. I’m used to being the shadow in every room. Used to people talking shit when they see me. So what’s one more rumor? They’ve called me worse. They’ve believed worse. But talking about Dahlia, that’s where I draw the line. Because if they only knew. If Roman only knew. If he knew what his father made her do behind those doors. If he knew that Dahlia died not because she was unfaithful, but because she refused to be broken anymore—then maybe he’d finally look at that man and see the monster he truly is. And maybe he’d stop looking at me like I’m the one who put the brakes on that car. But I doubt that’ll ever happen. Roman’s too far gone. Father’s too powerful. And I’m way too tired. Sometimes I think about leaving anyway. About packing up, disappearing, letting them rot in their own lies. But every time I try, the General’s voice follows me, promising ruin if I ever open my mouth. He thinks fear keeps me here. He’s wrong. It’s guilt. Because as much as I hate him, I hate myself more for not saving her when I could have. For keeping quiet. For being complicit by doing nothing.I still see her sometimes in my dreams. Standing in her studio, covered in paint, smiling like she never got the chance to. She turns, and I swear, she says something—but I always wake up before I can hear it. And then I’m back in that house. That prison. Surrounded by ghosts and liars. Drowning my misery and guilt with a different woman every night. Savannah has no idea what she’s walking into. She thinks she’s just fighting Roman’s father but she doesn’t know she’s stepping into a war that started long before she arrived. Part of me hopes she burns it all down. The General. The lies. The bloodstained legacy. Everything Reginald Blackwood killed to build. Maybe then Dahlia can finally rest in peace. But until that day, I’ll keep being who they say I am. The traitor. The failure. The black sheep. After all, it’s the only role I’ve ever been allowed to play. And if their lies keep the truth buried, so be it. They built this hell. I just live in it.