Spoiled By My Overprotective Brothers

The mahogany dining table in the Hayes manor had always felt less like a place for a shared meal and more like an altar for Liana’s endurance.

Eight velvet chairs sat unoccupied, swallowed by the heavy silence of the high-ceilinged room.

At the far end rested a single place setting: a porcelain plate holding a filet mignon long gone cold, its rich glaze congealed into a dark, dull film under the dim chandelier light.

Liana carefully adjusted her posture, smoothing her hands over her lap before resting her pale fingers against the stem of her crystal glass.

Her eyes remained fixed on the small, sputtering wick of a silver candleholder.

It was midnight. Exactly three years ago, she had stood in a modest lace gown, exchanging vows with Victor Hayes under the foolish belief that quiet devotion and gentle warmth could melt the glacial walls he built around himself.

For thirty-six months, she had swallowed the sharp, disparaging remarks of his high-society relatives.

She had endured the subtle, cruel snickers at corporate galas where Victor left her standing alone in shadowy corners, treated like an embarrassing charity case he was legally obligated to shelter.

She had cooked his favorite dishes, memorized his schedules, smoothed over his volatile evenings, and buried her pride deep beneath her ribs. She had convinced herself that love required sacrifice.

What a pathetic, tragic delusion.

The sudden, heavy chime of the foyer clock echoed through the manor. Liana closed her eyes, letting out a faint breath that shuddered against her teeth.

Her chest burned with a hollow, aching tightness—the brutal realization that another year of her youth had been burned down to ash for a man who didn't care enough to remember the date.

The front doors swung open with a muffled thud. Heavy footsteps echoed across the polished marble, accompanied by a sound that made Liana’s stomach coil into an icy knot: a woman’s melodic, breathy laugh, slick with expensive wine and shameless familiarity.

Liana rose slowly from her chair. Her knees felt stiff, her knuckles turning a stark, bloodless white as she gripped the edge of the table.

She drew a slow breath, forcing her head high to battle the wave of nausea rising in her throat.

Victor stepped into the arched frame of the dining room. Impeccably groomed in a charcoal Italian suit, his dark hair slicked back with razor-sharp precision, he possessed a commanding presence.

Yet there was no warmth in his dark eyes—only the familiar, patronizing detachment that always settled over his features whenever his gaze landed on his wife.

He wasn't alone.

Wrapped around his arm, her manicured fingers resting against his chest, was Miranda Monroe. Miranda was the darling of the city’s rising socialite circles—a woman who wore designer silk like armor and carried herself with the ruthless confidence of someone who had never heard the word "no." Her emerald dress clung to her frame, contrasting sharply with the wicked smirk painted across her glossy lips.

Liana’s breath caught. Her vision blurred for a brief instant before she forced her expression into a mask of rigid composure.

Victor didn't look at the dining table. He didn't notice the untouched anniversary dinner or the dying candle. He unbuttoned his suit jacket with a flick of his wrist, his posture oozing complete indifference.

"You’re still awake, Liana?" Victor’s voice was deep, smooth, and entirely devoid of guilt. It carried the casual authority of a master addressing an inconvenient domestic helper.

"Good. It saves me the trouble of having the butler wake you."

Liana’s lips parted, her voice coming out as a quiet, strained whisper. "Victor... do you even know what date it is today?"

Victor let out a short, dismissive breath, his shoulder brushing against Miranda’s as she let out a soft, mocking giggle.

"I don't waste mental energy obsessing over trivial dates, Liana," Victor said, his lip curling slightly. "I run a corporate empire. I don't have time for your domestic melodrama." He gestured toward the woman beside him.

"Besides, we have actual matters to settle tonight."

Miranda stepped forward, her heels clicking against the hardwood floor. She ran a long nail along Victor’s lapel, her eyes sliding over Liana with a mixture of amusement and deep disdain.

"Victor made a decision," Miranda purred, her tone dripping with artificial sweetness.

"Starting tonight, I’m moving into the manor."

Liana felt the temperature in the room drop to absolute zero.

"What did you just say?"

Victor met his wife’s stunned gaze without a flicker of hesitation.

"You heard her clearly. Miranda is moving in permanently. She will be taking over the master suite with me."

A suffocating silence descended over the room. Liana felt as if the air had been violently pulled from her lungs.

A tear threatened to break free, but she pinched the side of her thigh beneath her dress, using the sharp physical sting to lock her pride in place. She refused to crumble in front of them.

"The master suite?" Liana’s voice trembled, but a spark of defiance flickered in her eyes.

"Victor, I am your legal wife. This is our home. You bring a mistress under this roof and expect me to quietly accept this disrespect?"

"Wife?" Victor took a step closer, his eyes darkening with a clear warning.

"Don't delude yourself, Liana. You are a wife in name only. You came to me with nothing—no family, no background, no status, and not a single dollar to your name. I gave you a roof, security, and a respectable title. You should be thanking me for not throwing you out onto the street long ago."

Miranda stepped alongside Victor, her smile sharpening into an arrogant sneer as she looked down at Liana.

"Let’s be realistic, Liana," Miranda added, her tone laced with contempt.

"Victor needs a woman who can actually represent his brand at high-society galas, someone who elevates his stature—not a quiet, invisible ghost who hides in the house. Since Victor is generous enough to let you occupy the guest wing, the least you can do is accept your position."

Miranda extended her right hand, palm up, her crimson-painted fingers curling in a sharp, demanding gesture.

"Now," Miranda sneered, her gaze burning with cold arrogance, "hand over the keys to the master suite right now. I want to unpack."