ELLA

My morning just went to hell.

Of course, it had to be him— bare-chested with chocolate-carved abs. I fold my arms, masking the fact that my knees are threatening to betray me.

“You,” I sigh, already annoyed. “Figures. Ever heard of clothes? What are you even doing here?”

He lifts a brow, stalking closer like he’s come to rip me off the spot. Every step shrinks the space between us until my back slams against an antique shelf I didn't even know existed.

“Stay there,” I snap, breathless. “I can hear you just fine from a distance.”

He doesn't stop. As expected. He smells like soap and sin, the same cologne from yesterday when he kissed me. Was he… going to kiss me again?

My face flushes. “Don't you dare,” I hiss, caught between the warmth of his skin permeating through the thin pajamas, and the shelf. “Yesterday’s kiss was one bad decision and that’s all you get!”

His smile is mocking. Then, anticlimatically, he dips, picking something from the shelf above my head.

A remote.

My face falls, red with embarrassment as he turns around, chuckling to himself like I’m a meme from a sitcom.

I clear my throat, trying to recover my dignity. “So you live here, under the same roof as the brother you constantly try to kill. Charming.”

He plops onto the leather couch and switches on the football. Yuck.

“Who owns the house anyway? You’re intruding. Your brother just got married, should you even be here?”

“Leave. I need space,” he says flatly.

I sit. “Galileo would take your order.”

Reluctantly, he faces me like talking is a death sentence. “This is my living room,” he explains, “Darren’s side of the mansion is over there. You'll love it. It broods just like him.”

“Adorable,” I deadpan, stealing a toast from his plate. I gesture to the TV. “Who’s playing?”

He levels me with a look. “Leave.”

“We don’t always get what we want.” I bite into the toast with an exaggerated crunch. “Besides, you ruined my wedding. Consider this rent.”

Before he can respond, heels click against the staircase. We both look up.

A half-naked blonde descends like she's auditioning for a bad reality show— nipples painted with blue icing and sprinkles.

My jaw drops and I squint. “Weird thing to be having for breakfast.”

Devlin is completely unfazed as if women lounging half naked in the living room is the most natural thing in the world. Which, for him, it probably is.

“Just showered,” she beams in some fake influencer voice. Her gaze flicks to me. “Our third?”

“I’d rather hump a cactus,” I cough out. Then I throw Devlin a judging look. “I didn’t take you for the hooker type. Good luck explaining that at your next STD screening.”

The blonde grins, unbothered. “Try red icing next time,” I tell her, “it might actually turn a man on.”

This place is a madhouse. And I am the only sane one left.

I take the nearest exit, hearing Devlin tell the hooker something before feeling his presence behind me.

“I don’t do threesomes,” I say, turning hesitantly.

“I don’t care.” The seriousness in his tone is almost frightening. “This wing is my turf, little princess. Stay out of it,” he warns.

My heart palpitates. Devlin scares me, but I am not ready to give him the satisfaction of it.

“Turf?” I snicker. “What are you, a mob boss from the 50s? Should I kiss your feet too? Will you pay me to leave your brother?”

He looks ready to strangle me. It’s official, he hates me, which means I have won.

A nearby sound calls both our attention. It’s Darren, donning a black suit with hair slickly gelled back, and a briefcase in his grip. He's likely headed to make a sequel to Men in Black.

“You’re awake.” He sounds surprised, addressing me like I am all he sees.

Devlin cracks into a baffling smile, like seeing Darren answer all his prayers. “Morning, brother. Lovely reunion.”

Darren ignores. “How’d you sleep?”

“Barely,” I lie, smoothly. “I need a new phone, by the way. Also, quick question. Whose ‘turf’ am I trespassing?”

Their eyes lock. The air cackles with tension. God, they should just arm-wrestle and get it over with.

“I’ll explain later,” Darren says, checking his wristwatch.

“That's becoming a mantra.”

“Urgent business.”

“More important than your own wife?” I play the guilt-trip card.

He checks me, “Yes, unfortunately. The cops pulled up with a search warrant to our branch in Manhattan, something about narcotics.’” He faces Devlin who grins proudly. “Sure this card has been played before.”

“Not this way,” Devlin bites back. “Good luck getting out of this one.”

These two crazed souls. “I’ll get your phone sorted, and we’ll talk by dinner.” Darren walks out the door, and when I look back, Devlin is gone, too.

I head back upstairs, through the right staircase this time. Apparently, there are two, and I’d taken the wrong one earlier, hence led me to hell.

The contrast is stark.

Unlike Devlin’s wing that screamed chaos, Darren’s screams money. Every vase looks like it could bankrupt me if I breathe too hard.

It’s also crawling with maids in here, waiting to take orders. In seconds, breakfast is in motion.

An older maid approaches me with a parcel after a while. “Welcome, Mrs Ford,” She greets in an accent I can’t quite place. Gift for you. From second Mr Ford.”

Not a native English speaker, I see.

“Second Mr Ford?” I open the parcel, and see that it’s the latest Apple iPhone. Darren sure works fast. “Thanks. What’s the WiFi password?”

“I go ask Second Mr Ford.” She gestures towards the left side of the mansion. I freeze.

It clicks. Second Mr Ford is… Devlin? I drop it. It's probably radioactive. Or it will explode soon.

It doesn't after moments pass, so I eat while setting up.

Agnes, the maid, fusses. “Prepare soft breakfast for Ms Beatrice,” she tells another.

The blonde from earlier? I choke. “The slut gets breakfast too?”

“Ms Beatrice is not slut,” She protests.

I snort. “Tell her nipples that.”

“You not yet meet Ms Beatrice?”

“All parts of her.”

“Ms Beatrice!” Agnes announces, looking past me.

I turn. And freeze when I see a child approaching.

A child? A little girl with chestnut brown hair in Barbie PJs. “Whose… offspring is that?”

“Mr Ford’s baby,” Agnes answers simply.

I notice she didn't say second Mr Ford.

HELL NO.

My face drains. Darren. Has. A. Daughter.