Stolen by My Ex’s Billionaire Brother

Elara  I left work an hour early so I could buy the perfect cake for a man who was already halfway out of love with me. I just didn’t know it yet. The bakery on 5th Street smelled like sugar and butter and all the things my childhood never had enough of. I stood there with my palms pressed against the cold glass, staring at rows of red velvet, lemon drizzle, and chocolate ganache, and told myself I wasn’t overdoing it. It was just a cake. Just a note. Just a quiet anniversary celebration. Six years. Six years of waking up with his name already sitting at the back of my tongue. Six years of celebrating his wins, picking him up after his losses, and pretending I didn’t notice when he started coming home later, smelling like a cologne I didn’t buy. “Miss?” I blinked and realized the girl behind the counter was waiting for me. “Oh. Right. Sorry.” I gave her a quick smile and pointed. “The chocolate one. The small round. Can you write on it? ‘To my almost-forever’?” Her brows lifted just a little, the way people’s do when they accidentally hear too much of your heart. “Sure.” While she wrote on the cake in neat white script, I pulled the small velvet box from my bag and opened it for the hundredth time. The bracelet caught the light, thin gold with a tiny infinity symbol in the center. I’d spent more on it than I should have. My savings were not built for impulsive romantic gestures. But Darien had been so tense lately, so distracted, snapping at me for small things and then apologizing without really looking at me. He’d forgotten our anniversary last year and I’d forced myself to laugh it off. This year, I refused to let the date slip past like it didn’t matter. This year will be different, I told myself. I paid, thanked the girl, and walked back out into the late-evening chill, hugging the cake box close to my chest like I was afraid the wind would rip it away from me. The city hummed around me, cars honking, someone laughing too loudly on the sidewalk, the smell of cigarettes and fried food. Somewhere above, the sky was turning indigo, but all I could see were reflections in glass and steel. My own face in passing windows looked too hopeful, too soft. I caught sight of myself and grimaced. “Don’t look so desperate,” I muttered under my breath. “It’s just dinner. Just you and Darien. Like always.” Except it hadn’t been “like always” in a long time. In the beginning, Darien used to text me every hour. Stupid jokes. Random selfies. Photos of the sky or his coffee with a caption that said, Thinking of you. Lately? My phone stayed quiet the whole day unless I texted first. And even then, I sometimes got no reply until hours later. Busy, babe. Later. With the guys. Swamped. Don’t wait up. He was working on a new project at Solace Corporation, he’d said. Bigger, more important. His chance to prove himself to his family. His chance to stop being the “weaker Solace brother.” His words, not mine. So I believed him. Of course I did. Believing in him was basically my full-time job. I shifted my grip on the cake and tucked the velvet box deeper into my tote. The handwritten note was already folded neatly beside it, the ink still slightly smudged from where my hand had trembled. To my almost-forever, No matter how stressful things get, no matter how crazy life becomes, I still choose you. Every day. Every time. – E Cheesy. Too much. Too sentimental. I’d rewritten it three times and still hated it, but I didn’t have time to write a fourth. By the time I reached Darien’s building, the sky was fully dark. The glass tower rose above me, twenty-five floors of money and arrogance and polished, perfect lies. The doorman gave me a familiar nod. “Evening, Miss Wynn.” “Hi, Henry.” I smiled, pretending my heart wasn’t pounding. “Is Darien in?” “He came in about an hour ago.” Henry’s eyes flicked to the cake box. “Special occasion?” My smile tightened. “Something like that.” The elevator ride to the penthouse felt longer than usual. I watched the numbers climb, my reflection staring back at me in the mirrored walls, dark curls pulled into a low bun, minimal makeup, the simple navy dress I’d worn to work. I smoothed the fabric over my hips and wondered if I should have gone home to change first. Something sexier. Something that screamed don’t forget I’m yours. Too late now. The doors slid open on the top floor with a quiet chime. The hallway was dim, the fancy kind of dim that meant “mood lighting” and “I cost more than your monthly rent.” When I reached Darien’s door, I pulled out my spare key, hesitated, then smiled to myself. Surprise him, Elara. He’ll love it. He used to love it. I slid the key in and turned the lock. The penthouse was dark except for the soft glow of the floor-to-ceiling windows and the faint flicker of something deeper inside. Music trickled through the air; low, sultry, the kind of playlist we used to turn on when we were alone together. My heart did a small, ridiculous flip. Maybe he did remember. Maybe he had planned something and I was just early. “Darien?” I called softly, nudging the door shut with my hip. “It’s me.” No answer. The living room was empty, but there were two wine glasses on the coffee table, one half full. A bottle of red sat open beside them, condensation on the neck. Okay. So he’d started drinking without me. Not unusual. I stepped out of my heels by the door and padded further inside, careful with the cake. From the hallway, I could see a warm orange glow spilling from the bedroom, dancing against the wall like candlelight. The music was louder here, the bass a slow throb under my bare feet. I could hear something else too. A soft, breathy sound. A laugh. I smiled. He did plan something. Of course he did. “Darien, if you started without me, I swear...” I turned the corner into the bedroom and the rest of the sentence died in my throat. For a second, my brain didn’t understand what I was seeing. The room glowed with dozens of candles, some nearly burned down, wax dripping onto polished surfaces. The air smelled like vanilla and something sharp beneath it, perfume that wasn’t mine. Darien’s bed, the bed where we’d spent hundreds of nights, was a tangle of white sheets and bare skin. Someone's bare skin. Seraphine. She had one leg hooked over his hip, her hair spilled over his pillow in dark waves, her lips parted on a breathless laugh as she leaned down to kiss him. His hands were on her waist, holding her there like he never wanted to let her go. My best friend. My lungs forgot how to work. The cake box slipped from my fingers and hit the floor with a dull thud that sounded weirdly distant. The lid flew open, chocolate and frosting smearing against the expensive rug. “To my almost-forever” stared up at me in broken, twisted letters. Seraphine froze first, her gaze sliding past Darien’s shoulder and locking onto mine. For one tiny, stupid second, I waited for horror to flash across her face. Shame. Panic. Something. Instead, she smiled. A slow, lazy, satisfied smile, like I’d just walked in on her winning a prize. “Oh,” she said. “You’re early.”