Chapter 1
So—
a few hours ago, I was getting ready for my adopted brother’s engagement party.
Just the thought of it made my jaw clench.
I knew he wasn’t marrying for love. He doesn’t do love. For him, this was convenience—strategy dressed up as tradition. Bring a body home. Give it a room. Fulfill a role. Done.
He’s insufferable like that.
Always serious. Always controlled. Always right.
And no, I wasn’t happy either.
That girl? She was unworthy of him. A social climber with perfect teeth and empty eyes. The kind who licks whoever throws money first. I avoid women like her on instinct.
Not that I’m some saint.
I don’t even like girls—never really have. Society still calls me a playboy anyway. Equal opportunity disaster, that’s me. I throw money at desire because the one thing I’ve never lacked is money.
Which makes me unworthy too.
I was walking down the stairs, those thoughts gnawing at me—
Why am I even going?
Who is this alliance really for?
What happens after tonight?
That’s when my phone buzzed.
Noé.
Of course it was him.
He’s always orbiting my brother—eyes too bright, devotion too obvious. It embarrasses me by association. The kind of guy who’ll cheer you on loudly and disappear the second things turn sharp.
He was already at the party, drunk on jealousy, cursing the girl for winning the prize he never stood a chance at.
I knew he admired him. Everyone did.
Still—none of my concern.
Until he dared me.
Go down there.
Stand in the middle of the hall.
And say you’re in love with your adopted brother.
I felt sick.
Disgusted.
We’re siblings—at least on paper. He’s family. I may resent him, envy him, hate how perfect he is—but family is still family.
I was about to refuse.
Then I saw Noé’s face across the hall. The way he looked at me—like I was timid. Weak. Like I wouldn’t dare.
Something snapped.
I don’t know if it was anger or pride or some buried madness that finally clawed its way up—but I lost myself.
I walked down slowly.
Each step heavier than the last.
I stopped midway through the hall and froze.
I couldn’t move.
Couldn’t speak.
Couldn’t even look at him.
Dad was there—laughing with men who smelled like power and old money. The room glittered. The air suffocated.
I wanted to run.
My legs were shaking.
I grabbed a glass of wine and swallowed it in one go.
Nothing changed.
Another glass.
Then another.
Then another.
Five in total.
By then, my thoughts were slurry and reckless and loud.
And that’s when everything went wrong.
No—
wrong isn’t the word.
I didn’t make a mistake.
I destroyed myself—
slowly, deliberately, with my own hands.
And now—
Now I don’t know what I’ve done.
In that moment, I wasn’t myself anymore.
I swear—I didn’t decide anything. I didn’t choose.
My mind was screaming no while my body moved like it had been given new orders.
I just… walked.
As if someone else had taken the reins.
I picked up a glass on the way. My fingers knew what to do even when I didn’t. I walked straight toward them—Dad, the relatives, the guests, the cameras—and him. The star of the night. The groom-to-be.
I don’t remember deciding to do it.
I only remember the drink tipping.
Liquid splashing over his suit. Dark. Expensive. Ruined.
The room gasped.
And then I spoke.
My voice came out wrong—slurred, trembling, stretched thin like a wail or a cry. Anyone watching would think I was heartbroken.
I was just drunk.
“I love you,” I said.
Even now, watching the clip, I don’t believe that face is mine. If I didn’t know better, I’d believe it too—that I’d been secretly in love with him all along.
“I want to be with you,” I went on, words spilling like blood. “I know we can’t. I know we won’t. That’s why I never said anything. I just wanted you to be happy.”
I laughed. Or maybe I cried. It’s hard to tell.
“Do you understand? I just want you with someone you actually love. Someone you care about. Not this. Not like this.”
My hand lifted. Accusatory. Shaking.
“You’re hurting yourself. You always do. Are you some kind of saint? A superhero?”
My voice broke. “You’re not perfect. You just pretend to be. You’re a perfect businessman. A perfect heir. The epitome of perfect.”
I leaned closer.
“But the biggest imperfection in you is this—you never think about yourself. Always others. Always duty. Why is it so hard? Just follow your heart. Love whoever you want. Do whatever you want. Understood?”
My legs gave out.
I stumbled forward.
And to make it unforgivable—to make it worse—I kissed him.
I actually did it.
My adopted brother.
For one horrifying second, I remember thinking: Has my body been possessed by some perverted soul?
Because surely this wasn’t me. Surely I hadn’t crossed that line.
The regret hit instantly. Like acid.
I pulled back, ready to run. Ready to disappear. Ready to never breathe again.
And then—
He kissed me back.
Not rough.
Not angry.
Not confused.
Slow. Gentle. Deliberate.
The room vanished.
My head went light. My chest collapsed inward. Whatever was holding me together finally snapped.
And I fainted.
That’s what I’m watching now on the screen.
Frame by frame.
My ruin in high definition.
And the part that terrifies me the most?
Not the confession.
Not the kiss.
But the way he never once pushed me away.
Now it’s the present.
And I think I’m actually losing my mind.
Am I tired of living—or is this what panic feels like when it finally takes the wheel?
The favorite son.
The perfect heir.
The one everyone trusts.
He got dragged through dirt because of me.
That thought alone makes my chest cave in.
Everyone must be talking. Whispering. Laughing. Replaying it over and over like it’s entertainment. I didn’t just embarrass myself—I humiliated the Valtieri family. I stained a name that’s supposed to command silence.
Didn’t I?
God, I’m so stupid.
Who does something like that in front of everyone?
Not that doing it in private would be right—but at least then there wouldn’t be eyes. No cameras. No narratives being written without my consent.
I can already feel it—the attention.
It’s suffocating.
Eyes everywhere. Crawling over my skin. Watching. Measuring. Judging.
I’ve always hated this.
Crowds.
Media.
Socialites with fake smiles and sharper tongues.
I stayed away on purpose.
I kept my distance from journalists, from parties, from people who asked too many questions. Even with servants and maids, I drew lines. Polite. Distant. Controlled. I wanted to be invisible—low profile, unnamed, unremembered.
That was the deal I made with myself.
And now?
Everything’s off the track.
I won’t be forgotten after this.
I won’t be anonymous.
They’ll remember me.
They’ll laugh.
Or worse—they’ll speculate.
My stomach twists.
What if they turn this into something filthy?
What if they rewrite me into a joke?
What if they never let it go?
“Stop,” I whisper to myself.
I pinch my arm hard.
Pain shoots up. Sharp. Real.
Not a dream.
My head is splitting open, like something inside is trying to claw its way out. My temples throb. Light hurts. Sound hurts. Even my own breathing feels too loud.
I curl inward, knees drawn close, trying to make myself smaller.
Less visible.
If I could disappear into the floor, I would.
Crowds terrify me—not because they’re loud, but because they watch. Because they decide who you are without asking. Because once they see you, they never unsee you.
And now—
Now the whole world has seen me fall.
And I don’t know how to stand back up
without everyone watching me try.
Then the door swung open.
I was curled inward, trying to swallow myself whole—burying my face under the blanket, under darkness, under anything that could hide me. My fingers kept pinching my arm, my wrist, my thigh. I didn’t even know why. I just needed the pain to anchor me.
The clip was still playing on my phone.
Again.
And again.
I knew it.
Eshwar thought
I knew how much being watched destroyed him. Being commented on. Being reduced to spectacle. I had prepared for this. I had sealed everything. So how—how did this clip exist?
Who dared?
Footsteps. Slow. Silent. Careful.
Eshwar didn’t rush. Didn’t slam the door. He walked like someone approaching a wild animal—one wrong sound and it would bolt straight into self-destruction.
He stopped beside the bed.
From under the blanket, my voice cracked.
“Who is it…?”
A pause.
“What do you think?” he said quietly. “Who can enter your room except me?”
My grip tightened around the blanket like it was the last thing keeping me alive.
“I’m sorry,” I blurted out. “I’m really ashamed of myself. I’m— I’m really sorry for what I did.”
The words tumbled, tripping over each other.
“I mean—it wasn’t wrong to kiss you—no, it was wrong—I could’ve kissed anyone, anyone at all, the world is full of people and it’s not like I lack men—God, I’m useless—how do I fix this?”
My breathing went ragged.
“Dad—how is he? Is he getting criticized because of me? Do they think I’m disgusting? I’m really—”
The blanket was pulled away.
Light hit my eyes.
I was biting into my own arm, hard enough to leave marks. My nails had dug crescents into my skin. My eyes were squeezed shut, like if I didn’t see the world, it couldn’t see me back.
Eshwar’s hand came down gently on my hair.
“Calm down,” he said.
His voice didn’t waver.
“You’re not useless.”
A pause. Softer. “You’re my superhero. You know that?”
I froze.
“Last night,” he continued, “you protected me. I was about to do something I would’ve regretted for the rest of my life.”
His fingers moved slowly, grounding, steady.
“So calm down.”
Then—like it was the most normal thing in the world—
“How about I make you something to eat? The doctor said you need to rest. You drank too much without eating. Your stomach must be hurting.”
I looked up.
There was a spark in my eyes—small, embarrassed, childish. Like a kid being offered food after crying too hard.
“Esh…” I sat up properly. “You’re not angry?”
I swallowed.
“I mean—I saw what I did. It’s not like I committed a crime… or maybe it is. At least morally. Dad must be angry. You must be feeling something—”
He didn’t let me finish.
Eshwar pulled me into his chest and held me.
Firm. Protective. No hesitation.
“It’s okay,” he said into my hair. “Just eat something and rest here.”
Then, quieter—dangerously calm—
“As for that clip… I promise you, you won’t see it again.”
I pulled back slightly, searching his face.
“Can I really believe that?”
He met my eyes.
“Obviously,” he said. “I’m Eshwar. I can do this.”
Then, softer—
“So believe me. Okay?”
I hugged him like I was drowning.
“Thank you,” I whispered. “Thank you so much. I really don’t want them to talk about me. I really—really—”
“I know,” he cut in gently. “So stay here. Don’t leave the room.”
He stood, already turning back into control and command.
“I’ll come back in the evening. Eat. Rest.”
And just like that, the door closed—
leaving me wrapped in his promise,
and the world held back
by someone who never let it touch me first.
The door closed behind him.
The warmth vanished.
Eshwar’s expression didn’t change—it emptied.
Whatever gentleness had existed a moment ago folded away, precise and permanent. His shoulders straightened. His steps slowed. Each footfall down the staircase echoed like a verdict being prepared.
By the time he reached the hall, the man Virel knew no longer existed.
Only command remained.
“Find the person,” Eshwar said.
His voice was calm.
Which made it terrifying.
“The one who sent the clip. The one who contacted Virel after the party.”
A pause.
“I want to know who dared.”
A man in his thirties stepped forward—lean, sharp-eyed, trained to survive moods like this.
“Young Master,” he said carefully, “he didn’t contact anyone directly.”
Eshwar stopped walking.
Silence spread.
“But,” the man continued, swallowing, “his friend—Noé—sent the clips. To multiple contacts. Including Young Master Virel.”
The air dropped several degrees.
Eshwar turned his head slightly.
“Artheon,” he said.
Polite. Mocking. Deadly.
“Can you please explain to me who Noé is?”
He tilted his head.
“Do I know him?”
Artheon froze.
Do you know him?
You’ve seen him at dinners. At fundraisers. Lingering too long. Watching too closely.
He’s been circling Virel for years.
And you—of all people—missed the hunger in his eyes.
Artheon cleared his throat.
“Yes, sir,” he said evenly. “Noé Laurent. Twenty-six. Second son of the Laurent family—minor investors, social capital, no real power. He’s been close to Young Master Virel since university.”
Eshwar’s gaze didn’t waver.
“And?”
“He’s… attached,” Artheon continued. “To Virel. Loyal when it suits him. Reckless otherwise.”
A pause. Risky—but necessary.
“And to you, sir,” Artheon added. “Not obsessed. But curious. Admiring. He’s made comments before. He wanted—”
Artheon chose his words carefully.
“—to experience you.”
The corner of Eshwar’s mouth lifted.
Not a smile.
A mockery.
“How ambitious,” he said softly. “Sending private footage. Public humiliation. Using my Virel's phobia for entertainment.”
He resumed walking.
“Where is he now?”
“His residence,” Artheon replied immediately. “Security is minimal. He believes this is… amusing.”
Eshwar stopped at the center of the hall.
Turned.
His eyes were dark now—not angry. Decided.
“I’m going to visit him,” Eshwar said.
The man stiffened. Artheon didn’t move, but his jaw tightened.
“Sir,” Artheon ventured, “with respect—this can be handled quietly. Noé is insignificant. We can erase him without—”
Eshwar raised a hand.
Silence snapped into place.
“No,” he said. “He doesn’t get erased.”
A step closer.
“He gets educated.”
His voice dropped, venom-smooth.
“He touched what was mine to protect. He used my Virel's fear like currency.”
A pause.
“And he mistook my silence for absence.”
Eshwar adjusted his cufflinks—slow, deliberate.
“Prepare the car,” he said. “No weapons. No blood.”
Then, colder still—
“I want him awake when he understands what he’s done.”
Artheon bowed.
“Yes, Young Master.”
As Eshwar walked away, the hall felt smaller. Tighter. Like the building itself knew a line had been crossed.
Upstairs, Virel slept under protection.
Down here—
Ash was about to be remembered.
