In My Brother-in-Law's Bed

Rhea’s POV

The air in the room was heavy, thick with the scent of expensive dark mahogany, aged whiskey, and a sharp, unfamiliar cologne that made my stomach churn.

My eyelids felt like lead. Every nerve in my body vibrated with a dull, sickening ache—the kind that didn’t come from sleep, but from a deliberate, chemical fog.

I dragged my eyes open. Dark blackout curtains blocked out the morning sun, casting long, bruised shadows across a king-sized bed I had never seen before.

I tried to sit up, but the silk sheets clung to my bare shoulders.

Bare.

Panic hit my chest like a violent, crushing weight. I shot up, ignoring the lethal throbbing behind my temples, and yanked the heavy duvet up to my collarbone. My clothes were scattered across the dark hardwood floor—my torn silk evening dress, my heels, my underwear.

Then I felt the shift in the mattress beside me.

I froze. My breath caught in my throat, burning like ice. Slowly, agonizingly, I turned my head.

Lying next to me, propped casually against a stack of black pillows with one arm behind his head, was Adrian Falcone.

He wasn’t asleep. His sharp, dark eyes were already fixed on me, steady and terrifyingly calm. Long, jagged tattoos snaked up his broad shoulder and down his chest, stark against the dark sheets.

“W-what...” My voice was a dry, broken whisper. “What did you do?”

“Morning, little bird,” Adrian said, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that grated against my raw nerves. He didn’t cover himself. He didn’t flinch. He just watched my panic with the same icy, detached amusement he had used to torment me for the last six years.

“No,” I gasped, scrambling backward until my spine slammed against the cold leather headboard. “No, no, no. Lorenzo... where is Lorenzo?”

“Downstairs, I imagine,” Adrian replied smoothly, leaning over to pick up a silver lighter from the nightstand. The metallic flick echoed like a gunshot in the quiet room. “Or perhaps looking for his missing fiancée.”

“You drugged me,” I choked out, tears finally breaking past my lashes. “You sick bastard, you finally did it—”

Before I could finish, the heavy oak doors of the master suite didn’t just open—they blew inward, crashing violently against the walls.

“Search every room!” a voice boomed.

The harsh, blinding glare of the hallway lights flooded the darkened bedroom, cutting through the shadows. Flashbulbs snapped—once, twice, a barrage of blinding white light—before security guards and syndicate men flooded the threshold.

Behind them stood the heads of both families. My father, Victor Vance, his face pale and contorted with rising fury, and Don Carmine Falcone, his expression unreadable.

And right between them stood Lorenzo.

Lorenzo, my fiancé. The man whose birthday we had been celebrating just hours ago.

My heart stopped. “Lorenzo... please,” I sobbed, holding the sheet tight against my chest, my knuckles turning stark white. “I don’t know what happened. Someone put something in my drink, I swear to God, I don’t—”

Lorenzo’s eyes dragged from my discarded dress on the floor to my bare shoulders, and finally to his older brother sitting beside me in bed. His face twisted into a grotesque mix of rage and absolute revulsion.

“You whore,” Lorenzo spat, the words cutting through the air like a blade. “With my brother?”

“Lorenzo, no!” I reached out a trembling hand, but the distance between us felt like a canyon. “It wasn’t me! I woke up here!”

“Enough,” my father growled, his voice trembling with sheer, unadulterated humiliation. The alliance, the millions in syndicate pacts, the blood oaths—ruined in a single night. “Rhea, get your clothes on. You’ve brought shame on this entire family.”

Throughout the entire storm of screaming, flashing cameras, and broken promises, Adrian didn’t move an inch to defend me. He didn’t hide. He didn’t even cover his chest.

Instead, with everyone watching in furious disbelief, Adrian calmly swung his bare legs over the side of the bed. Standing in just his boxers, completely unbothered by the eyes in the room, he picked up his dark suit trousers from the leather bench and pulled them on. Next, he grabbed his crisp white button-down shirt, sliding his arms into the sleeves and fastening the buttons with agonizing, deliberate slowness, leaving the top few undone.

“There’s no need for dramatic speeches,” Adrian said calmly, his dark eyes sweeping over the outraged faces in the room until they landed on his trembling younger brother.

Adrian took a step forward, towering over everyone, his posture radiating total, undisputed control.

“She belongs in this house,” Adrian stated, his voice dropping into a lethal, quiet register that silenced the entire room. “And as of this morning... she belongs to me.”

*

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