Chapter 3
For the next five years, I played two entirely different roles in New York.
By day, I was the ruthless corporate partner. I used the shares Elias left me to crush his greedy uncles in the boardroom, securing the legacy he bled for.
By night, I was the strict, emotionless guardian to his younger brother, Lucas.
I built an impenetrable fortress around my heart, locking my grief and my guilt inside.
These days, Lucas had turned the estate’s dusty old warehouse into a makeshift studio for his final exhibition.
Every night, I would quietly leave a glass of hot milk and a high-protein meal at his door. No words. No lingering.
But that night, as I walked past the warehouse, I heard a deafening crash.
I pushed the heavy iron doors open. The studio was a disaster.
Lucas was hurled against the brick wall, his knuckles raw and bleeding. His centerpiece—a massive marble sculpture he had worked on for months—had cracked right down the middle. He grabbed a heavy steel hammer, raising it to smash the ruined piece to dust.
"Don't," I snapped, lunging forward and catching his wrist.
"Get out. You don't know shit about art. It's ruined!"
I didn't argue. I just let go of his arm and knelt in the white dust. Over the past few years, to keep him from getting expelled, I had audited countless of his sculpture classes.
But more than that, I had spent hours secretly watching him work, especially when he obsessively carved bust after bust of Elias. I had memorized the physics of the stone.
"The stress point is off," I murmured. "You miscalculated the center of gravity. But if we inject industrial epoxy here and brace the lateral angle with steel pins, it will hold."
Lucas froze.
For the next three hours, we sat shoulder to shoulder on the dirty floor. I guided his hands, showing him how to distribute the pressure. The storm raged outside, but inside, the only sound was our synchronized breathing.
When I finally wiped the marble dust from my forehead at 3:00 AM, I turned to look at him.
Lucas wasn't looking at the sculpture. He was staring at me.
His gray eyes were dark, burning, tracing the line of my jaw and the shadow of my eyelashes under the dim bulb.
The air between us suddenly grew dangerously thick. My heart gave a strange, violent flutter that terrified me.
I immediately stood up, brushing the dust off my tailored skirt. "Clean this up. Don't miss your deadline."
I walked out without looking back, refusing to acknowledge the heat in his gaze.
But I couldn't outrun today.
October 12th. Elias’s death anniversary.
I canceled all my meetings and spent the entire afternoon sitting by his gravestone.
"I secured the Scott merger, Eli," I whispered, tracing his engraved name with a trembling finger. "And Lucas... he's actually finishing his exhibition. He didn't drop out this time. He's growing up. He looks so much like you now. Sometimes, it terrifies me."
I cried until my lungs burned. I pressed my hand against my lower abdomen, right over the kidney he had secretly given me. My life was bought with his. Every beat of my heart was stolen time.
By the time I returned to the Scott mansion, I bypassed my bedroom and went straight to the wine cellar. I grabbed a bottle of 1982 Château Margaux—Elias’s favorite—and didn't bother with a glass.
The alcohol hit my empty stomach. The grand hallways of the mansion blurred and tilted.
I stumbled into the dark living room.
"Stella?"
A voice cut through the darkness.
I blinked through the haze of tears and heavy intoxication. A figure was sitting on the sofa, bathed in the blue glow of the TV screen.
Lucas had just returned from his final exhibition. He was wearing a tailored black suit, his tie loosened around his neck, a pair of blue-light glasses resting on his nose. He was holding a game controller.
My breath hitched.
The sharp suit. The glasses. The broad shoulders. The exact same profile.
Elias.
"You're back," I choked out, my knees giving way.
He dropped the controller and caught me before I hit the floor.
"Stella, you're wasted," he said.
"You're finally back," I sobbed, burying my face into his neck.
I reached up, my trembling fingers tangling in his dark hair, pulling his face down to mine.
"I missed you so much," I whispered frantically against his lips, my wine-soaked breath mingling with his. "I'm so tired."
He stiffened violently. "Stella, do you know what you're doing?"
"I know, I love you."
He froze. The years of repressed, forbidden tension between us—the longing he had hidden behind his rebellious sneers—brutally snapped.
His mouth crashed down on mine.
It was a ravenous, desperate claiming. His tongue swept past my parted lips, tasting of mint and raw, unrestrained male hunger, deeply invading my mouth.
He swept me off the floor with terrifying ease, his large hands gripping my bare thighs, carrying me up the staircase while never breaking the kiss.
He kicked my bedroom door shut, pressing me deep into the mattress.
"Stella..." he rasped.
He tore my trench coat away, his fingers impatiently ripping the buttons of my silk blouse.
The cool air hit my bare skin for only a second before his scorching mouth replaced it, trailing wet, biting kisses down my jaw, my neck, and the sensitive swell of my breasts......
