My Stepbrother Ruined my Wedding

The corset of my Vera Wang gown is so tight I can’t tell if my lightheadedness is from lack of oxygen or the sheer, soul-crushing realization that I’m actually doing this. I’m marrying Julian Du Pont. It’s the merger of the century. The Van Houten real estate empire shaking hands with the Du Pont banking dynasty.

My father’s face is a mask of triumphant pride in the front row. Julian stands across from me at the altar, looking like every girl’s wet dream. Golden-haired, blue-eyed, and smelling of expensive sandalwood and old money.

The old money is the important part. Only the best for the Van Houten’s sole heiress.

"If anyone here has just cause why these two should not be joined in holy matrimony," the priest intones, his voice echoing through the vaulted stone arches of the cathedral, "let them speak now, or forever hold their peace."

The silence is heavy. It’s a formality. A beat of breath before I’m legally bound to a man I’ve known for six months but loved for none of them.

Then, the heavy oak doors at the back of the cathedral explode open. Well, they don’t actually explode, but the sound ricochets like a gunshot.

Heads whip around. Julian’s hand, warm and clammy in mine, twitches. I turn, my veil snagging on the lace of my shoulder, and my heart doesn't just skip a beat, it suicide dives off a cliff.

Standing in the shaft of afternoon light is a ghost. A nightmare in a charcoal-gray suit that probably costs more than the average person's soul.

Beaumont Branson.

He looks different. The lanky, cruel teenager who used to hide my inhaler and call me "Little Bird" while he pinched my arms until they bruised is gone. In his place is a man built of sharp angles and predatory grace. His hair is darker, his shoulders broader, and his eyes—God, his eyes are still that same terrifying, stormy gray.

Right up until our parents got married, I thought having a brother sounded nice. Safe, even. A big brother to protect me. Then he spent years teaching me how cruel one person could be.

"Sorry I’m late," Beaumont says. His voice has deepened into a gravelly baritone that vibrates right in my marrow. "Did I miss the 'I do’s'?"

"Beaumont?" my father roars, standing up so fast his chair tips over. "What the hell are you doing here? You were banned from our estate and properties three years ago!"

Beaumont ignores him. He walks down the aisle with a slow, rhythmic arrogance that makes the guests shrink back. Every step he takes towards me feels like a thumb pressing into a fresh wound. He stops just feet away from the altar smelling of expensive bourbon.

"You look like a doll, Trinity," he whispers, his gaze traveling down my body in a way that feels like a physical violation. "A pretty, fragile little thing. It’s a shame you’re about to marry a fucking pig."

"Watch your mouth," Julian snaps, stepping in front of me. "Get out of here, Branson. You’re a goddamn stain on this family and everyone knows it."

Beaumont laughs. It’s a dry, humorless sound. "A stain? That’s rich coming from you, Julian. Tell me, does Trinity know about the penthouse in Midtown? The one you visit every Tuesday when you tell her you’re at the 'squash club'?"

My stomach drops. Julian’s face goes from indignant red to a sickly, pale grey.

"Don't listen to him, Trin," Julian stammers, grabbing my wrists. "He’s a sociopath. He’s just trying to fuck with us because he hates your father."

"I do hate your father," Beaumont says, stepping closer until he’s looming over both of us. He smells so dangerously familiar it makes my head swim. "But I’ve always had a soft spot for my little sister. And I hate seeing her things get played with by someone else."

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a sleek silver remote. He doesn't look at the crowd. He looks directly at me, a cruel, knowing smirk playing on his lips.

"Turn around, Little Bird," Beaumont purrs. "Look at the screen. I brought a wedding gift."

The massive projector screen behind the altar, meant to show a slideshow of our 'fairytale romance,' flickers to life.

It isn't a montage of us in Paris. It’s grainy, green-tinted security footage. It’s a bedroom. A bedroom I recognize. Julian’s private office. He’s there. But he’s not alone. He’s buried between the legs of a blonde woman I recognize as my head bridesmaid, Sarah. The audio is crisp. The wet, slapping sounds and Julian’s guttural moans fill the cathedral, amplified by the house speakers.

"Oh, God," someone in the third row gasps.

I feel the bile rise in my throat. The world tilts. I look at Julian, and the 'Golden Boy' is gone. There is only a sweating, panicked coward.

"Trinity, I can explain—it was once, I was drunk—"

I don't hear the rest. I turn to Beaumont. He’s watching me, not the screen. There’s no pity in his eyes. There’s triumph. There’s a dark, sick pleasure in watching my life disintegrate in front of five hundred people.

"You bastard," I whisper, my voice trembling. "You couldn't just tell me? You had to do this here?"

"I wanted everyone to see you realize it," Beaumont says, stepping into my personal space, his chest nearly brushing my lace bodice. He leans down, his lips brushing the shell of my ear, sending a sickening jolt of electricity through me. "I wanted you to see that nobody protects you but me. Not your father. Not this prick."

He turns to the crowd, his voice booming. "The wedding is over! Get the fuck out! Champagne’s on the Du Ponts, but the show is finished."

Panic erupts. My father is screaming at the security guards. Julian is trying to grab my hand, pleading, sobbing. I pull away, my heels catching in the hem of my dress. I’m suffocating. I need to get out.

I bolt. I run past the altar, through the vestry, and out the side door into the gardens. The heavy silk of the dress is like a lead weight, dragging me down. I tear at the veil, ripping it from my hair, sobbing as the cold air hits my face.

I reach the stone fountain at the edge of the hedge maze and collapse against the rim, gasping for air. The humiliation is a physical weight, a heat that makes my skin itch.

"Careful," a voice says from the shadows of the yew trees. "You’ll ruin the lace."

I freeze. Beaumont is standing there, lighting a cigarette. The orange cherry glows in the twilight. He looks at me like I’m a prize he just won at a carnival.

"Why?" I choke out, wiping tears from my cheeks. "Why now, Beaumont? You’ve been gone for years. You haven't sent a single text. Nothing. You just show up to burn my life down?"

He exhales a cloud of smoke, walking toward me slowly. The bully I remember from middle school is gone, replaced by something much more predatory. He stops inches away, reaching out to tuck a stray hair behind my ear. His fingers are ice cold.

"I didn't burn it down, Trinity," he says, his voice a low, dangerous caress. "I cleared the debris. You were never going to belong to him."

"I don't belong to anyone," I snap, trying to push past him.

He moves faster than I can blink, pinning me against the stone fountain. His hands are on either side of my waist, trapping me within the cage of his arms. The smell of him—smoke and skin—is overwhelming.

"That’s where you’re wrong, Little Bird," he whispers, his eyes darkening to the color of a stormy sea. "You’ve belonged to me since the day our parents swapped rings. You just forgot."

He leans in, his breath hot against my lips, and for a second, I think he’s going to kiss me. I should scream. I should slap him. But my heart is hammering against my ribs, and my body is betraying me, leaning into the heat of him.

"Trinity!" my father’s voice bellows from the distance. "Trinity, where are you?"

Beaumont doesn't flinch. He just smirks, his thumb brushing against the swell of my breast above the corset.

"Go to him," Beaumont says, stepping back abruptly, the cold air rushing between us like a slap. "Go play the grieving bride for the cameras. But tonight, when the house is quiet... I’m moving back into the East Wing."

My breath hitches. "You can't. My father won't let you."

"Your father owes me twelve billion dollars in gambling debts he can't pay," Beaumont says, his eyes glinting with a cruel light. "I own this house. I own the company. And as of today..."

He steps closer one last time, his voice a lethal whisper.

"I own you."