In His Stepbrother's Bed

My heart plummets. My fists clench at my sides, nails digging into my palms as I freeze, staring at the scene before me. The room reeks of sweat and sex. I tremble. And there he is. Dexter. My fiancé. The man I was supposed to marry.

He’s tangled in his own pants, fumbling to cover himself. His face is pale, hair messy, lips swollen from someone else’s kisses.

A woman—half-naked—scrambles away on the bed, silk sheets twisted around her. Her eyes lock on mine, wide with panic, before she bolts toward the bathroom and slams the door.

Dexter looks up, panic written across his face.

“Zenith—it’s not what it looks like.”

I laugh, cold, hollow. A laugh that feels too heavy for my body. I took a step closer. My heels click against the hardwood, but it feels distant, like I’m watching someone else act.

“Not what it looks like?” I say softly, tilting my head.

He feeds me the same excuse he always would. A cliché. A lump burns in my throat.

“Dexter,” I say, calm but shaking, “I just buried my father.”

Guilt flashes in his eyes. He searches for words, but none come.

“I came here because I needed you,” I whispered, my voice cracking. “And I find you like this?”

I gestured to our bed—where she had just been. The sheets I picked out. We chose the mattress together. The room that was supposed to be ours. Dexter pushes to his feet, pants still unbuttoned. I recoil.

“Please, I—”

“Don’t touch me.”

My voice is sharper than I mean. His hands on me now would make me sick.

“It was a mistake! I wasn’t thinking—” he pleads.

I crossed my arms over my chest. “Oh? Your dick just happened to slip into her?”

He flinches.

“Zenith—”

“Shut up.”

My breath is ragged. Vision blurs, but I refuse to cry. I refused to break down in front of him.

I should be screaming. Throwing things. Clawing at him. Making him feel even a fraction of the pain he’s put me through. But I can’t. I’m too numb. Too shattered. A stupid, pathetic part of me wants him to fight for me.

To drop to his knees. Beg. Convince me this isn’t real. That this is just a nightmare I’ll wake up from.

But I didn’t wake up. I just stand there, breathing in reality.

“You said you loved me.”

Dexter swallows hard. “I do.”

I laughed, bitter. “You have a funny way of showing it.”

Maybe the old me—yesterday me—would’ve screamed. Cursed him out. But not now. Not today. Half my world shattered this morning. I’m already exhausted.

I inhale sharply and turn my heel, my heart hammering against my ribs. I need to leave. Now.

“Zenith, wait!” Dexter grabs my wrist. His grip is desperate. I rip myself free. He stumbles back.

The love I had for him died at that moment. I don’t look back as I leave. Our apartment. Our life. I walk in a daze, my mind lost to mourning my step-father and the marriage that will never be.

The house is dark when I step inside. The funeral was this morning. It feels like a lifetime ago. Now it’s night. Everything feels different. Colder. Like the walls know what I’ve seen tonight. Like I’m no longer the same woman who left this house earlier.

I swallow the lump in my throat and walk deeper inside. Heels clicking against the wooden floor.

“Mom?” I call softly.

She must be sleeping. I left her resting in her bedroom when I went to see Dexter. God, I wish I hadn’t gone.

I wiped my eyes, barely aware of my shaking body. Exhaustion hits me like a freight train. One step, then another.

I reach the kitchen, fingers gripping the doorframe, ready to head upstairs—

Then I saw her. A choked gasp rips from my throat. My mother. She’s on the floor.

“Mom?” My voice trembles.

She doesn’t move. The room spins. My breath catches. No. No, no, no.

I stumbled forward, collapsing to my knees beside her. Hands shaking, I press my fingers into her neck, checking for breath, for warmth, for anything—

She’s burning. Her skin is clammy, forehead damp. And red splotches were marring her arm.

What happened?

“Mom!” I shook her hard. “Mom, wake up! Please!”

She doesn’t stir. The air leaves my lungs. No. Not her either. My pulse roars. My vision blurs. Tears sting. There’s no time to panic. I grab my phone, fingers fumbling, and dial.

The ringing drags. Then—

“911, what’s your emergency?”

I swallow a sob.

“My mother—she’s unconscious. Please. Please hurry.”

The operator starts speaking, but I can barely hear. I pressed my forehead towards hers, body trembling.

“Stay with me,” I whispered. “Please, Mom. Stay with me.”

The sterile white halls of the emergency ward felt like they were closing in. Antiseptic stung my nose. Fear hung thick in the air. My mother was wheeled in on a gurney. Nurses shouted clipped instructions to each other as the doors swung open and slammed shut, sealing her away from me.

I stood frozen in the hallway, pulse drumming in my chest. What do I do? What do I do? My hands shook as I pressed them into my face, trying to steady my breathing. She was fine this morning—weak, but alive. And now she was in there, fighting for her life.

A nurse approached, her expression gentle. “Miss Francia?”

I turned, throat too tight to speak.

“The doctor will speak with you shortly.”

I nodded numbly, nails digging into my palms. Minutes stretched into eternity. My body was tense, aching, and every second dragging. Then the doors swung open again, and a doctor stepped out, his face strained.

I rushed forward. “Is she okay?”

He exhaled. “Your mother suffered a severe cardiac episode because of prolonged stress and underlying conditions. We need to perform emergency bypass surgery to prevent further damage.”

My breath caught. “Okay,” I said too quickly. “Then… do it.”

His face hardened. “The procedure costs fifty-eight thousand dollars.”

The number hit me like a punch to the gut. Fifty-eight thousand dollars.

A sharp ringing filled my ears. I didn’t have that kind of money. I barely had enough for next month’s rent. We were already buried in debt.

“You’ll need to secure payment within twenty-four hours for us to proceed,” the doctor continued, oblivious to how my world was crumbling.

“Twenty-four hours?” My voice was hollow.

“Yes. Any delay could worsen her condition beyond what surgery can fix.”

I stared at him. Twenty-four hours. Fifty-eight thousand dollars.

“Do you have insurance?” he asked, impassive, like this was just another conversation.

“No.” My voice broke on the word.

“Family who can assist?”

I wanted to laugh. What family? He sighed, pushing his glasses up his nose. “I suggest you find a solution quickly. We’ll keep her stable for now, but time is critical.”

With that, he nodded and disappeared down the hallway, leaving me standing in the wreckage of my life.

I stumbled backward onto a plastic chair, vision swimming. I was alone. No one I could call. No one could ask. And for one horrifying second, my mind drifted to Dexter. Dexter Blake. My ex-fiancé. Rich. Powerful. The youngest son of a multimillionaire. He could write a check for fifty thousand dollars without blinking.

Would he help me? My stomach twisted at the thought.

I could see it now—his smug smirk, the tilt of his head, crossing his arms like I owed him something. No. If my mother found out I had lowered myself to beg him, she would never forgive me. And I’m not sure if I could survive asking him either.

Then who? My nails dug into my knees. My breath came in short, panicked gasps. What do I do? What do I do?

Then—

A familiar name echoed from a nearby TV. I lifted my head. The hospital’s mounted screen was tuned to a business channel. The anchor’s voice was crisp, professional.

“Blake Enterprises, owned by billionaire Helton James Blake, announced a record-breaking deal today—”

Helton James Blake.

The camera shifted to a man in his mid-thirties, dressed in a sharp black suit. His jawline was carved from stone. Dark brown hair gelled back perfectly. His eyes—cold, calculating—scanned the reporters. His smile hid something dangerous.

The most eligible bachelor in all of Alderidge. Helton James Blake. Dexter’s older stepbrother.

And the man who hated Dexter with every fiber of his being.

The memory surfaced before I could stop it—Dexter’s twenty-fifth birthday, six months ago.

A lavish party in a massive ballroom, full of people who didn’t belong in my world. I came from a lower-class family, attending college on a scholarship. Yet here I was, Dexter’s girlfriend for four years, introduced like some trophy. I was genuinely happy.

Because that was also the day Dexter proposed.

I had just left the restroom, smoothing my dress, when I nearly collided with Helton James Blake.

He leaned against the wall, one hand in his pocket, a cigarette between his fingers. His dark eyes swept over me slowly.

He exhaled a cloud of smoke. “My condolences.”

I frowned. “Excuse me?”

“Your mind is sharp,” he murmured, low and slurred from alcohol, “but your taste in men… tragic.”

I froze. Who says that about their own brother?

That’s when I realized—Helton James didn’t just dislike Dexter like most siblings. He despised him.

“You have such a smart little mind,” he continued, “but it’s wasted on a man like him.”

I scoffed. “And what makes you say that?”

He took another drag, exhaling slowly as he looked out the floor-to-ceiling windows. “He isn’t exactly husband material.”

I laughed sharply. “Oh? And what do you think makes a man's husband material?”

It was funny—he was lecturing me on husband material. But I didn’t defend Dexter. The venom in Helton James’s tone told me it would be useless. I didn’t want to pick a fight with him either.

His gaze darkened, piercing straight through me.

“He sucks at cooking.”

My brows lifted. “Seriously?”

“You laugh, but a man who can’t take care of himself can’t take care of you either.”

I rolled my eyes. “It’s fine. I can cook. I’m used to taking care of myself.”

Helton James’s lips curved into a slow, knowing smirk.

“He’s terrible with money. Spends it like water.”

“He’s rich. Why does it matter?”

His eyes sharpened. “Are you marrying him for money, then?”

I met his stare and tilted my head. “What if I am?”

Of course, I wasn’t. I hadn’t taken a dime from Dexter. Not that I minded being treated like a princess—it just made my skin crawl to be indebted to anyone. But instead of looking offended, Helton James seemed… satisfied. He straightened, flicking ash from his cigarette.

“Good,” he said.

That’s it? I frowned.

He studied me for a long moment, then murmured, “I’m richer than him, you know.”

I blinked. “What does that have to do with me?”

Helton James shrugged and walked away.

Only later did I realize what he meant. I had brushed it off assuming he was testing me for his little brother. That memory burned in my mind as I stared at his face on the TV. Helton James Blake was richer than Dexter. More powerful. More ruthless. And he hated his stepbrother.

I sucked in a sharp breath. An idea took shape—insane, desperate, but my only option.

I needed money. I wanted power. And there was a man who had both.

I needed Helton James Blake.