Her Stepbrother’s Desire, Her Husband’s Obsession
Betty Mayor · Ongoing · 77.9k Words
Introduction
Aston didn’t move away. No, he leaned in, the blade she held against his neck piercing through just enough to draw a thin line of red.
He smiled.
“Careful, my lady,” he murmured. “Your hands are shaking.”
Her grip tightened on the hilt.
“Now look at him,” Aston continued softly. “Look at your son… and tell me whose eyes he has.”
There was absolute silence.
“Your stepbrother’s?” His smile sharpened. “Or the man that claimed you that night?”
~
Five years ago, all Aria wanted was for her stepbrother, Liam, to say “take my hand” and defend her. Instead she woke up in his bed; drugged, disgraced, and left to carry the blame and the label of a ‘whore’.
Now she’s back with a child, but to regain her reputation, she has to marry Aston Beaumont, a ghost with a million layers, a murderer, and the man about to betray her grandfather.
It should have been simple.
Save her grandfather. Restore her reputation. Then leave. That is, until her stepbrother returns, not with guilt or shame, but with obsession, dangerously wanting her back like he never let her go.
And the more he pushes, the more dangerous Aston becomes.
Because Aston Beaumont doesn’t chase.
He takes.
Chapter 1
Aria’s heels clicked sharply against the marble floor of the study as she walked in, each step echoing like a reminder that she wasn’t just walking into a room, she was walking into the dragon’s den.
“Sit”. Arthur Griffin. His name had shaken tables and brought down million dollar companies. No one ever dared look him straight in the eye.
His white hair was slicked back and shiny, and the only other indications of his age were the creases around his mouth and eyes. It was clear that he was a handsome man, both old and in his youth.
The man sat behind a wide, shiny mahogany desk and made his seat look like a throne, his hawk eyes scanning her body like he was a Don making sure his subordinate didn’t betray him, instead of a man simply talking to his granddaughter.
She obeyed, sinking into the chair across from him. The leather was cold, so was the knot of dread forming in her stomach. “Grandfather”, she said evenly.
“I don’t want words”, he snapped, leaning back in his chair with his fingers steepled. “I want results. Five years you’ve been hiding in France, what has come of it?”, he asked.
Hiding.
That was the only word suitable for it.
Running abroad had been her salvation, her grandfather’s own way for her to escape the scandal that had haunted her since her twenty-first birthday.
“”I…I’ve been building my design portfolio”, she said carefully. “I have shows scheduled next season tha-”
“Shows?! Designs?!”, He slammed his hand down on the desk, rattling the griffin paperweight. “Do you think the world would care about your stupid little dresses when your name drags through the mud?!”
Aria’s stomach twisted. Her dresses were not stupid. “Grandfather I’ve learnt from my mista-”
“Mistakes?”, His eyes narrowed, piercing through her. “A mistake doesn’t ruin a family’s reputation. A scandal does. And you-” He leaned forward, his voice dropping into a dangerous growl. “You bear the Griffin name, you almost ruined it forever.”
Shame rose like bile in her throat. “It wasn’t intentional, grandfather,” she said, her voice raised an octave but it was still shaky in front of her grandfather’s rapidly hardening face.
“Intentional or not, you gave yourself to him like a common whore. My own grandchild, groveling in front of Rothschilds. Pah! What a horrible memory.”
Aria flinched. Whore. What an awful word. The memory was sharp and raw. The chaos of that party, the way she had foolishly fallen into Hartie’s plot, the way she had felt under her own stepbrother, the heat, the way her skin still prickled every time she remembered his touch, the shame.
They had both been plotted against that night, but only Aria took the fall for it.
“I can’t leave you alone with your affairs any longer. Hartie is gaining too much ground as a bloody Rothschild. You will fix what you have done wrong. You will marry.”
Aria blinked, the gears in her brain coming to an excruciatingly slow halt. “Marry?”
“Yes. Him”, he gestured to the doorway, where a man stepped in silently, his eyes cold and his lips pressed into a thin line. He was tall, handsome and impeccably dressed, exuding a controlled indifference so reminiscent of her grandfather that it made her shiver in fear.
“This is Aston Beaumont,” Arthur said. “He’s good enough to restore what you almost destroyed and you will do as required. I will inform the press tomorrow.”
“Hello, Miss Griffin”, the man, Aston, said simply, his voice flat but lilting with an accent and reverberating in her head, shooting a spark of something down her spine.
His gaze swept over her once, as though she were a detail in a painting rather than a person. Aria felt the heat rise to her cheeks, not from attraction, but from humiliation.
She clenched the hem of her shirt tightly in her hand and her breath quickened as she felt the heat boiling through her blood and off her skin. No. Her grandfather wasn’t serious. Not after she just came back from her exile. Not after she thought she could finally live a normal life.
“Grandfather you can’t do this-”
“I can do what I very well please!”, he interrupted angrily, “Your mother disobeyed me and married that idiot from the Rothschild family and I won’t let you do the same! Aston will take good care of you.”
Her chest squeezed tight, fury and fear twisting together. The words tore out before she could stop them.
“I’ve raised Asher alone for four years. I don’t need a husband.”
Silence.
She would take that win. She made Arthur Griffin speechless.
Aston’s gaze sharpened, the faintest flicker of interest breaking his composure.
Her grandfather’s eyes narrowed.
“Asher needs a father, and you need discipline. You obey, or your inheritance, your support, your future, everything - will be gone”.
His face was hard, but Aria could see the traces of worry in his gaze.
No matter how harsh he was, he was still her grandfather. He only wanted the best for her.
Aria recited a short mantra in her head and willed herself to calm down. She couldn’t lose her cool, not in front of the only person that had stood by her when the world threatened to condemn her.
She would retaliate against him in her own way. Later.
“Fine. Grandfather”, she said, gritting her teeth. “But Mr. Beaumont should leave the room.”
Arthur raised his hand as if to dismiss him but Aston spoke first.
“We have a meeting now, Arthur.”
Aria’s head snapped towards him sharply. Arthur. Not “Mr. Griffin.” Not deference. He had spoken her grandfather’s name like an equal. Who the hell was this man?
“Oh. Forgive this old man. Aria, bring Asher over when you’re settled in”.
That was a dismissal. He summoned her back home after five years to get her married and dismiss her. Tch.
She stood up, “Goodbye grandfather, Mr Beaumont”. Arthur’s face softened.
Aston didn’t even look back.
She took a deep breath and recited her mantra again. Asshole.
The study door shut behind her with a heavy click. Her grandfather’s booming voice still echoed in her head. “You will marry”.
Aria walked quickly, her pulse louder than her steps. The corridors stretched too long, until finally she reached the quiet outside air. Peaceful. So unlike her life.
Her phone vibrated. Once. Then again. Then it became a flood of alerts.
She frowned and unlocked it.
The news headline screamed at her.
“Breaking news; Aria Griffin reappears - But who is the child at her side?”
The photo filled her screen. The airport gates, her coat. A little boy’s hand tucked into hers. Both of them were masked, but she knew what she was wearing, she was still bloody wearing it.
What the fuck? The paparazzi shouldn’t have known, they couldn’t. But here was their evidence.
Her throat closed and her eye twitched, both in worry and in anger. Worry about her baby, and anger at whoever had tipped the paparazzi off.
She hadn’t even been back home for a full day yet and her enemies were already out to sink her.
“The identity of the child remains unknown”
For now.
Aria’s grip tightened on the phone until her knuckles whitened. The Rothschilds couldn’t see this. No one could.
If they did, Asher was gone.
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