Falling For The Wrong Billionaire Brother

My husband, Ryder Vale, was glowing on the red carpet tonight.

Camera flashes went off like fireworks. Paparazzi screamed his name.

Next to him, practically glued to his side, was Isla, the hockey team’s cheerleader. Who’s my step-sister.

Her left hand slid around my Ryder’s waist. Her fingers trailed lightly down his back, like she owned him.

And from the way he smiled, she might as well have.

Pathetic.

Isla leaned in close and whispered something into his ear, and he threw his head back, laughing.

He looked at her like she was the funniest person in the world.

Tch…

I haven’t seen him this happy in years.

Not since high school.

Back then, his eyes sparkled when he looked at me. Now, the light in them has grown dimmer; they’re shining for someone else.

I wish I’d stopped it all—if only I’d had the chance to explain.

If only Ryder had given me a chance to prove I wasn’t the one in those orchestrated clips.

I’d be the one standing in Isla’s place tonight. But things had to happen.

Sigh…

Until my last breath, the bonfire will forever be my worst, most regretful moment ever.

I will never forgive Helena for making my life this miserable—not now, not ever.

Around me, everyone was laughing.

I didn’t get what was so funny. I whispered to myself, rolling my eyes, unable to hide the fury and hurt twisting my face.

Wait… could they be laughing at me? Of course they were. They had to be. They were watching the wife of the famous hockey player, standing frozen while her husband practically groped her step-sister in public—for the world to see.

I could practically hear the whispers, see the sneers.

Ryder has never stopped humiliating me since that incident years ago. The last time was during the finale match… and now this.

He should have taken the PR manager, or anyone else, to walk with him on the red carpet.

But no—he knew it would hurt me even more to see him with my step-sister, because I knew all too well she was more than just a co-worker.

The whispers behind me were getting louder.

“Do you think they’d be fucking tonight?” someone whispers behind me.

“Most definitely. Bet Ice King would shift her uterus,” someone else replies, and they both chuckle.

I don’t move. I don’t speak.

The knot in my stomach tightens with every breath.

I glance around, desperate for a distraction. Coffee… maybe if I grab a cup, I can disappear for a moment.

I weave through the crowd, careful not to draw attention, when I nearly bump into someone.

“Careful there,” a familiar voice purrs. I glance up to see Zara leaning against the counter, her eyes glinting with amusement.

“How’s the show treating you, Mrs. Vale?” she says, sidling up beside me with a drink in her hand and a smirk on her lips.

Zara, Vice President of Team Relations. Her position had always been just below mine—before Ryder turned me into a full-time housewife. In the movies, housewives were queens; in my case… not so much.

She always dressed to kill, always watching, always talking. She was the mouth of the hockey world. And right now, that mouth was mocking me.

I glanced at her, keeping my smile tight and bright.

“Oh, it’s fantastic,” I said, voice steady but thin. “I’m thrilled to see my husband’s hard work paying off. And being rewarded with such an… honor.”

The word tasted bitter, but I forced it out anyway.

She blinked, and her lips twitched like she was holding back a laugh.

Our attention shifts to the stage, where Ryder and Isla sway together, answering questions, sharing a mic—laughing like they’re on some private date.

The crowd claps, giving them both a standing ovation.

I guess they’re done with their little show.

No one seems to care that Ryder is still married.

Not the league.

Not the fans.

Not even the people who were supposed to have my back.

Zara gave me a long look, her tone softening like she’d just remembered I was human.

“Well… um.” She shifted awkwardly, eyes darting back to the stage. “I should… head out. Catch you later, yeah?”

She didn’t wait for a response.

She excused herself.

I stood alone, clapping along with everyone else.

Pretending.

They were just about to step down from the stage when the crowd got louder.

A few fans screamed Ryder’s name, waving phones and jerseys high.

Someone yelled, too close to the mic,

“Ice King!”—his stage name.

“You make a perfect match with Queen Bee, rather than that old hag of yours.”

A few people laughed.

I was the “old hag” the motherfucker was talking about.

Ryder didn’t flinch. He didn’t even glance in my direction.

He just smirked. Isla giggled beside him, covering her mouth as if she were shy—but the look in her eyes said otherwise.

That’s it… I can’t take this bullshit any longer.

I push myself up, aggressive, my pulse pounding in my ears. The moment I move, the media swarm me like vultures.

“Mrs. Vale! Mrs. Vale!”

“How do you feel seeing your sister with your husband?”

“Is it true Isla had Ryder first, then you came in to steal him?”

“The tweet says you’re a ghost in your marriage—making you a corpse bride?”

“Is it true, Mrs. Vale?”

The questions hit all at once. Flashbulbs blind me. The crowd presses in; I can barely move.

Microphones shove into my face. Phones record every second.

I push forward, my hands up, trying to escape.

My blood roars. I just… need… to… get out.

I finally got out. The door shut behind me, and I let out a shaky breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.

I ran to my car, my hands trembling as I fumbled with the handle. The media was still there following me.

I yanked the door open just in time. I got inside before these monsters reached me.

I drove fast. No music. Just the sound of my shaky breath and thundering heartbeat.

The car ride was silent, heavy. I was shaking, and tears kept slipping down my cheeks, even though I tried to hold them back.

A few minutes later, I pulled into the driveway. I sat there for a moment, staring at the door, taking a deep, shuddering breath. Then I forced myself out of the car.

I headed straight to the kitchen.

“Good evening, Madam,” Tina, the house chef, said softly as I walked in.

“Hey… good evening,” I replied, my voice tired, my eyes red and swollen.

“Ma’am… are you… okay?” she asked, hesitating.

“Absolutely,” I said quickly, forcing a small smile. “I just need to eat something.”

Tina didn’t look convinced. She stood there, watching me, her hands stiff at her sides. I caught her staring, and she shivered before pretending to busy herself with something else.

I ignored her and opened the fridge.

“Argh… nothing in here entices me,” I muttered.

I closed the fridge and went straight upstairs to my room.

I slammed the door behind me and collapsed onto the bed.

I screamed as loud as I could, trying to let go of the pain clawing at me from the inside.

My head keeps replaying the whole red carpet incident. I sit upright, shoulders trembling.

The sobs start again, bigger this time, and I can’t stop them.

No… no, I’ve been through worse. I can’t cry over this.

The pain of this can’t even be compared to what I felt in prison—and even after I was bailed out by Luther.

I bite my lip, trying to think straight. What if… what if I prove myself to him? Maybe I could… wear something—lingerie, just for him?

No. No…

Crap!

Don’t even think to that extent.

The last time I tried… I can still remember it vividly. He said, “Get your irritating stretch marks away from my presence.”

Maybe I should just try now, right?

I mean—this is for the sake of marriage, my life.

I should take the risk. I should do anything to save my marriage.

The words slip out in a whisper as I push myself off the bed, inhaling sharply.

In the bathroom, the steam fogs up the mirror as I step under the hot shower.

I don’t just wash—I shave everything, every trace of hair, until my skin feels smooth, almost silk.

When I step out, droplets sliding down my body, I catch my reflection and pause, sitting in front of the mirror with a deep breath.

A quick skincare routine follows, my fingers moving faster than my thoughts.

I want to look perfect. If Ryder sees me tonight… if we have fuck tonight, I’ll get pregnant. And maybe then, just maybe, he’ll love me.

“Where the hell is that foundation?” I mutter, rummaging. My hand lands on the bottle. “Oh, here.” I squeeze the liquid foundation onto the sponge and blend it over my stretch marks, erasing them one by one.

I slip into the red lingerie, smooth oil over my skin until it glows, and let my hair fall loose around my shoulders.

The mirror doesn’t lie. I look at myself and force a smile.

“You look perfect,” I murmured. “Just hope Ryder sees this perception too.”