Surviving My Psycho Stepbrother

"All liquid assets, full operational control of the consortium, and the Vance clan's veto power are hereby transferred unconditionally to the eldest son, Bastien Vance."

The family attorney, Miller, let his voice ring out, shattering the heavy silence that hung over the Vance estate's grand dining hall.

Vivienne Sterling gripped the edges of her velvet armchair. The carved teak wood beneath her fingers was ice-cold—a sharp, grounding sting against the madness of her current reality.

Three weeks ago, she had woken up in a four-poster bed, her lungs burning with agony. The choking sensation of freezing rainwater mixed with the cloying stench of funeral lilies had been the first things to greet her in this foreign world.

In her past life, she had been an independent forensic accountant. That life ended abruptly on her office floor after drinking a poisoned cup of coffee—courtesy of a shadowy syndicate whose secret ledgers she had dared to tear apart.

Fate, however, had an even deadlier sense of humor.

When this body's memories merged with her own, Vivienne realized she had transmigrated into a dark crime novel titled Blood & Silk. Unfortunately, she wasn't the beloved female lead. She was Vivienne Sterling—the spoiled, greedy, shameless stepsister.

In the original plot, Vivienne was an insufferable parasite who squandered money and provoked the main family at every turn. Her story met a gruesome end in Chapter 30. Bastien Vance personally executed her and dumped her corpse into the northern ocean trench after she dared to demand company shares in public.

And today, that exact scene was unfolding right before her eyes.

"This will is invalid!"

A heavy fist slammed down onto the thirty-foot black marble dining table. Silverware clattered violently, bouncing off fine porcelain.

Uncle Gregory, the younger brother of the late Raymond Vance, shot to his feet, his face flushed scarlet. The veins in the middle-aged man's temples bulged as he pointed an accusing finger toward the head of the table.

"Raymond was in a coma when that document was signed! How could the entire family dynasty just be handed over to this bastard?!" Gregory bellowed, his breath ragged. "He doesn't even carry pure Vance blood! He's just a street rat dragged in from the gutter!"

The air in the room turned arctic.

Around the table, the relatives held their collective breath. No one dared to chime in; no one even dared to look up.

Vivienne caught her breath, stealing a glance at the man seated at the head of the table.

Bastien Vance.

He wore a charcoal-gray suit over a black dress shirt with the collar unbuttoned. His sharp features were completely unreadable, carved from stone, as if Gregory's outburst was nothing more than an annoying fly buzzing past his ear.

Bastien didn't bother responding to the insult. He didn't even raise his head to look at his uncle.

His left hand rested casually on the table, idly twisting the silver signet ring on his pinky. The soft click of metal against polished marble was the only rhythmic sound breaking the suffocating quiet.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Bastien lifted two fingers slightly from the table—a barely perceptible gesture.

From the shadows behind the pillars near the double doors, Silas Drake stepped forward. His heavy, measured footsteps sliced through the room.

Silas pulled a thick brown leather folder from inside his coat and tossed it squarely in front of Gregory. The folder flew open, spilling dozens of documents across the marble surface.

Vivienne glanced at the columns of numbers on the top sheet. Thanks to her accountant's instincts, she immediately recognized the layout: double-entry bookkeeping, shell company transactions in the Cayman Islands, and port tax evasion records.

"What... what is the meaning of this?!" Gregory's voice choked. His arrogant bluster vanished, replaced by a tremor of pure panic the moment he saw his own signature stamped across the pages.

"An audit of the past five years," Bastien said. His voice was low and flat, yet it carried a crushing resonance that pressed down on everyone's chest. "You sold three of the clan's shipping routes to outsiders just to settle your gambling debts in Macau."

"Bastien, listen to me—"

Before Gregory could finish, Silas was already behind him. Silas’s burly hand clamped onto the back of Gregory’s collar, yanking him backward with enough force to send the carved teak chair crashing to the floor.

Gregory cried out in shock, flailing wildly, but Silas pinned his arms behind his back with effortless precision. The older man was hauled out of the dining room like a sack of wet grain.

The double doors slammed shut.

A few seconds later, muffled curses echoed from the hallway outside, followed by the sickening thud of something blunt slamming against a marble wall.

Then, chilling silence.

Vivienne gripped her black dress, bunching the silk until it wrinkled. Her throat felt parched. The novel hadn't exaggerated in the slightest; Bastien Vance was a cold-blooded executioner who didn't need much of an excuse to erase anyone standing in his way.

Beside her, sharp nails suddenly dug into her wrist.

"Vivienne! Why are you just sitting there?" whispered Corinne Lamar, her mother, her tone a venomous hiss. The socialite's eyes flickered with a mix of frantic greed and panic. "Get up! Demand your father's shares! That twenty percent belongs to us—don't let that bastard take everything!"

In the original novel, this exact moment marked the beginning of Vivienne's downfall. The foolish girl was supposed to stand up, throw a hysterical tantrum at Bastien, and demand tens of millions in cash.

Vivienne turned her gaze to the end of the table.

Bastien was already staring at her.

His eyes—the color of gray obsidian—watched her every move with suffocating intensity. Resting his chin on interlaced fingers, he looked like a man patiently waiting for his stepsister’s customary temper tantrum.

Vivienne's heart pounded so hard her ears rang. Every survival instinct screamed inside her.

If she opened her mouth to demand money now, her head would roll before winter arrived.

Slowly but firmly, Vivienne pried her mother’s clinging fingers off her wrist. Taking a quiet breath, she pushed her chair back. The legs scraped lightly against the marble, cutting through the silence.

Every pair of eyes in the room locked onto her. Corinne flashed a smug, satisfied smirk, assuming her daughter was about to launch into an attack.

Instead of screaming or slamming her fists on the table, Vivienne stood up straight and bowed her head as low as she could. She folded her hands in front of her, hiding the subtle tremor in her fingertips.

"I'm not feeling well," Vivienne murmured, her voice soft, polite, and impeccably composed. "Excuse me while I return to my room, Mr. Vance."

An even heavier silence fell over the room.

Corinne stared in disbelief, her mouth hanging slightly open in shock. The other relatives exchanged bewildered glances.

At the head of the table, Bastien's casual tapping stopped dead. His eyes narrowed by a fraction. For the first time, a dangerous flicker of curiosity cut through the depths of his gaze. The arrogant girl who usually looked down on everyone wouldn't even lift her face.

Vivienne didn't waste a second. Before anyone could react, she turned on her heel and hurried away from that cursed dining table.

She practically power-walked past the towering stone pillars, feeling as if the barrel of a hunting rifle was aimed squarely at her spine. Only one plan raced through her mind: pack her identification and important papers, pawn whatever jewelry she had for cash, and get out of this city before Bastien caught on to her strange behavior.

Five steps to the exit.

Three steps.

One step.

Her cold fingers finally curled around the heavy brass handle. She pressed it down, ready to pull it open.

"Stop right there, Vivienne."

The calm, heavy baritone sliced through the air behind her.

Vivienne froze instantly, every muscle in her legs locking up.

The click of leather dress shoes against marble drew closer. The footsteps were slow, measured, and in complete control—the tread of a predator who knew with absolute certainty that his prey had nowhere left to run.

A towering shadow fell over her back, blotting out the light from the crystal chandeliers overhead. A chill seemed to seep directly from the man's coat.

Bastien’s hand, clad in a black leather glove, reached past her shoulder. With a firm, deliberate push, his palm slammed flat against the wooden door.

Click.

The deadbolt engaged. Her exit was completely cut off.

Bastien leaned down, closing the space between them until the rich scents of heavy tobacco and cedarwood clinging to his suit enveloped her senses. His lips hovered inches from her ear, his warm breath a stark, jarring contrast to the ice in his voice.

"In such a hurry, little sister? Aren't you usually the loudest one at the table demanding what's yours? Why is it that now... you're trembling like a rabbit waiting for slaughter?"