Claimed By My Ex's Ruthless Brother

The ride in the back of Garnet’s Bentley was suffocating. Giselle stared out the tinted window at the blur of New York, her knuckles white where she gripped the edge of the seat. The shame of last night clung to her like a second skin, but beneath it, the cold realization from the hotel penthouse still burned: he had known exactly who she was, what Kenneth had done, before she’d even woken up. This was no chance encounter. This was a trap she’d walked into with her eyes wide open. She was still wearing yesterday’s dress, the silk wrinkled and reeking of whiskey and sandalwood.

The car didn’t take her home. It pulled over on a quiet street in the West Village. The rear door opened, and Garnet slid in beside her. The space shrank. Giselle pressed herself against the opposite door.

"What do you want from me?"

Her voice was cold.

"Is this about money? Or are you trying to use me to get at Kenneth?"

Garnet watched the brownstones pass by.

"I want you," he said. A simple, unchangeable fact.

Giselle let out a humorless laugh. "That’s absurd. We met less than twelve hours ago. And I’m your brother’s fiancée."

He finally turned his head, his dark eyes pinning her in place.

"Not for long, are you?"

He raised his phone. On the screen, playing in silent, damning clarity, was the video she had taken—Kenneth’s face twisted with greed, Diandra’s bleached hair fanned across the pillows, the words Aethelgard formula clear as a bell in the audio. The breath hitched in her throat. Her blood ran cold. She checked her own phone. The video was still there, but the cloud sync icon spun frantically—he’d already backed it up to his own drive.

"While you were sleeping," he explained, his voice flat, "I used your fingerprint to unlock your phone. Sent myself a copy."

The violation sparked a fresh wave of rage.

"You had no right!"

He ignored her. "So now we have a situation. You have leverage over them. And I have leverage over you."

He leaned closer, his voice a conspiratorial whisper.

"But do you really think you, alone, can win against the heir to the Crawford fortune?"

The truth of his words settled in her stomach, cold and heavy. He was right. Kenneth would bury her. Her uncle would side with them. She was alone.

"Be my mistress," he said. A command and a temptation. "I’ll help you destroy them. We’ll turn their engagement party into the most humiliating spectacle this city has ever seen."

Garnet’s eyes flicked to her, sharp and assessing. “The Aethelgard formula. Your uncle’s data is useless without your biological key, isn’t it? Kenneth has no idea. Diandra certainly doesn’t. That’s your real leverage, Giselle. Not the video. The key.”

She didn’t flinch. She’d known that since the moment she pressed record in Kenneth’s hotel suite. “I’m aware. What’s your point?”

“My point is, I can protect that key. And use it to bury them both.”

Her mind raced. Her parents’ company. The formula. She could lose everything.

His hand covered hers on the leather seat. His skin was warm.

"You don’t have another choice."

She snatched her hand away. Flashes of the previous night surfaced—the heat of his skin, the strength in his hands.

She closed her eyes. When she opened them again, the fight was gone, replaced by a cold resolve. This wasn’t surrender. It was a strategic retreat.

She met his eyes, her voice steady, the same cold calm she’d used to hold the camera in Kenneth’s hotel suite. “Diandra. Her vanity is her weakness. If we leak those photos and the hotel receipts to Page Six the morning of the party, she’ll be desperate. She’ll make mistakes.”

A brief, sharp flash of approval in Garnet’s expression.

"Go on."

"I stage a shopping trip. Let her think I’m a fool. She’ll hand over her phone, and I’ll get everything we need. Then we pull the rug out in public."

A slow, triumphant smile spread across Garnet’s face.

"First," he said, "we use Diandra’s vanity against her. We’re going to make sure she’s publicly disgraced long before the party even starts."

He laid out the framework of a plan, a cruel, elegant piece of social sabotage. As she listened, a sliver of ice-cold respect joined the fear she felt for him.

The car pulled up in front of her Tribeca apartment. Garnet reached into his jacket and produced a new smartphone, still in its box, along with her old phone—screen lit up with the video thumbnail, the send receipt to his number already confirmed.

"Use this to contact me," he said, tossing the old phone onto the dashboard. "Your old phone is compromised. I’m keeping it—let Kenneth think you’re still frantic, sending him apologies for last night’s scene. Keeps him sloppy."

She took the new phone. It felt like a shackle, heavier than the Patek Philippe box she’d thrown in the hotel trash can that morning.

She moved to open the door, but he caught her arm, pulling her back. He leaned in and captured her lips. This was not the desperate kiss she had initiated. This was a kiss of ownership. A branding. It was deep, demanding, and left her breathless. She didn’t lean into it—she held herself rigid, letting him mark her the same way she’d let him take the video. This wasn’t intimacy. It was a tactical play.

He pulled back, his eyes dark with intent.

"Remember," he murmured against her lips. "You’re mine now."

She touched her lips after he let go, the taste of whiskey and sandalwood bitter on her tongue. Not a promise. A threat. She’d play his game, for now. But she still held the key.

She climbed the stairs to her apartment alone, the new phone burning a hole in her pocket. The silence of her home hit her first—no Kenneth’s voice, no Diandra’s laughter, just the ghost of Garnet’s kiss on her lips. She unboxed the phone, transferred only her contacts, and stared at the blank screen. Somewhere in the city, Kenneth was planning his next move. Diandra was picking out party dresses. And Garnet Crawford was watching them all.

She dialed Diandra’s number, her voice already sliding into the mask of the foolish, forgiving friend. The game had begun.