Chapter three: Wrong door, Wrong person

_Ariana's POV_

I had just gotten to my apartment to find my mother home after a long while, then she broke it to me and just like that, without a chance to argue, I was boarding a plane to move all the way across the city.

My head was still pounding from last night, and nothing about this felt real.

We arrived at the airport where a car was waiting for us already. "Sweetie, we have dragged it long enough, it's time you meet your stepfather and stepbrother, you will love them both."

I can't believe all this was happening. One moment I caught my best friend and boyfriend cheating, the next I made up with a stranger and now I had flown all the way across the city to meet my supposedly wealthy stepfather and stepbrother who I knew nothing about but his name - Kian Mercer -.

The car stopped so abruptly my teeth clicked together.

We’d arrived at the mansion.

It wasn’t just big. It was obscene. Three stories of white stone and glass, ivy crawling up the columns like it had been growing there for decades. The driveway alone could fit ten cars, and the fountain in the middle had water catching the late afternoon light like liquid gold.

Right. Wealthy. Figured it’d look like this.

I stared around, taking it in, before my eyes landed on the man standing at the top of the steps.

My stepdad. Mercer.

Tall, silver at the temples, suit tailored like it cost more than my old apartment. I’d never met him before. I didn’t know what to expect.

A butler appeared at my side before I could say anything, taking my luggage with a silent nod.

“Welcome, dear. I’m so glad you’re here,” Mercer said, stepping forward.

The first awkwardness hit instantly.

I wanted to shake his hand. He wanted to hug me. We ended up in a half-hug that felt stiff and forced, his cologne too strong, my arms barely lifting to return it.

Then my mom walked closer, and just like that, he kissed her.

I rolled my eyes. “Welcome, love,” he murmured against her hair, then turned to her and said something low that made her face burn red.

I cleared my throat. Loud.

“Ohhh, yes,” Mercer said, pulling back like he’d just remembered I existed. “Let’s step inside.”

The inside was more than the outside. Gorgeous. Marble floors that probably cost more than a car, a chandelier hanging over the foyer like it belonged in a palace, and art on the walls that I was pretty sure was real. Everything smelled faintly of lemon polish and money.

The two of them kept talking beside me, voices low and warm, like I wasn’t there.

I wasn’t ready for this. For them.

“Which room?” I cut in.

“Oh, darling, it’s the one on the left,” my mom said, smiling like nothing was wrong.

With that, I was off.

I reached the top of the stairs, took a right, and pulled open the first door in front of me.

What I saw stopped me cold.

I heard it first—the low, ragged moans, skin slapping against skin in a rhythm that made my stomach twist. The girl was bent over the edge of the bed, on her hands and knees, hair hanging down as she got slammed into from behind.

Then she turned.

The dim light caught the curve of her body, her breasts squeezed in his grip as he shifted and thrust into her from the front. It was fast, rough, like he wasn’t even trying to be quiet.

I didn’t mean to look. But I did.

The guy was tall, broad shoulders cutting sharp against the shadows, muscles in his back flexing with every movement. Sweat slid down his spine. He moved with a kind of controlled power, like he was used to taking what he wanted and not being stopped.

And then it hit me.

Something about him felt oddly familiar.

The set of his shoulders. The way he held himself. I couldn’t place it, but my gut said I’d seen that posture before.

My breath caught, and the room tilted for a second.

Yeah, I’d love him, I thought, sarcastically, bitter and sharp, just like Mom said I would.

I pulled the door shut, but my hand slipped and it hit with a loud _thud_ that echoed down the hallway.

“Who’s there?”

His voice. Low, edged with annoyance and something darker. Familiar in a way that made my skin prickle.

I didn’t wait to answer or get caught.

I wasn’t supposed to be here. I wasn’t supposed to see this.

I realized I’d taken a wrong turn. This was the right side of the hallway.

Heart pounding, I hurried to the left, opened the first door I saw, slipped inside, and locked it behind me.

My hands were shaking.

Now this looked more right.

The room was…me.

Lilac walls with a subtle floral design that shimmered faintly in the light, soft cream bedding, and a walk-in closet so big I could’ve gotten lost in it. The dressing table had a marble top and gold handles, and there was even a reading nook by the window with a plush chair and a throw blanket folded over the arm.

This wasn’t random.

Mom.

She picked every detail. I could see it in the way the lilac matched the color she always said calmed me down, in the little touches that were too specific to be an interior designer’s guess. She was trying. Trying to make me feel at home before I’d even unpacked one box.

My luggage was already inside, sitting by the foot of the bed.

I dragged the box up, sat on the edge of the mattress, and started pulling things out. Clothes, books, the framed photo of me and Sophie from last summer.

For a second I almost reached for my phone.

You’d love this room, Soph. You have to see it._

The thought came fast, easy, like it always did.

And then it hit me—Sophie was the last person I should be calling right now.

I swallowed it down, shoved the photo face-down in the drawer, and carried my clothes to the closet. I hung them up one by one, arranging them by color, trying to focus on the sound of hangers sliding on the rail instead of the moans still echoing in my head.

It didn’t work.

The image of that room, of him, wouldn’t leave.

I needed water. Maybe something stronger.

I shut the closet door and headed out, making for the kitchen.

I opened my bedroom door a crack and checked the hallway.

Nothing. No voices, no footsteps.

When the coast was clear I slipped out, shut the door quietly, and headed for the stairs.

The kitchen was downstairs, and it was ridiculous.

Floor-to-ceiling cabinets in matte white, a marble island big enough to seat six, and appliances that looked like they’d never been used. The fridge alone was double-door and stainless, humming quietly. Every surface was clean, stocked. Fruits in a crystal bowl, imported water bottles lined up like a store display, shelves of snacks I’d only seen in duty-free shops.

Money didn’t hide here.

I grabbed a glass, filled it with cold water first, drank half of it in one go. Then I poured myself a glass of orange juice and snagged a bag of truffle chips from the pantry.

That was the plan—get out before anyone saw me.

I turned from the counter, glass in one hand, chips tucked under my arm, and walked straight into something solid.

The juice went everywhere.

“Shit—what the hell!”

Cold, sticky liquid splashed across my shirt and shorts, soaking through in seconds. I stepped back, swearing under my breath, glaring down at the stain spreading across my chest like a bad joke.

I opened my mouth to say something else, but stopped.

My eyes lifted.

And I froze.