Do You Know How Long I’ve Been Waiting for This?

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

The wrought iron gates of the Jones estate loomed ahead of me, looking much more like the entrance to a high security prison than a childhood home. I paid the cab driver, grabbed my single suitcase from the trunk, and stood on the damp pavement, staring up at the sprawling, ivy covered brick mansion.

Two years. It had been two whole years since I packed a single bag in the dead of night and ran away to London.

I took a deep breath of the crisp evening air, trying to steady my racing heart. I was back. I didn't want to be, but the email from my father had been brief and urgent: Come home immediately. Family emergency.

When you belong to the Jones family, you don't ignore an order from the patriarch. But even as I dragged my suitcase up the long, sweeping driveway, my mind wasn't on my father. It was on him. Grayson. My older brother.

Growing up, Grayson was my entire world. With our parents constantly flying across the globe to expand the family’s real estate empire, Grayson was the one who raised me. He attended my school plays, he scared away the monsters under my bed, and he made sure I had everything I ever wanted. He was groomed from birth to be the ruthless "man of the family," inheriting everything—the business, the properties, and, as I eventually realized, me.

I never questioned his overbearing protectiveness when I was a kid. I thought it was normal for an older brother to want to know where I was at all times. I thought it was just sibling love. But then I turned eighteen. I got a job at the family company as a junior analyst, hoping to prove my own worth. A new intern, a sweet guy named Mark, asked me out for coffee. I smiled and said yes.

The next morning, Mark was fired. His desk was cleared out before 8:00 AM, and he was blacklisted from every major firm in the city.

At first, I thought it was a coincidence. But then it happened again. A guy from my university asked for my number; two days later, his family’s small business was hit with a massive, unexplainable lawsuit. A male friend from my study group offered to drive me home; his car was mysteriously totaled in a hit and run while parked.

Slowly, the terrifying reality set in. Grayson wasn't just protective. He was obsessed. He was a goddamn warden, and I was his favorite prisoner.

That was why I fled to London. I needed space. I needed to breathe without his dark, heavy gaze tracking my every move. But now, two years later, I was walking right back into the lion's den.

I pushed open the heavy front doors, bracing myself for the usual suffocating silence of the mansion. Instead, the first thing that hit my ears was the sound of a girl sobbing.

I froze in the grand foyer, my hand still resting on the handle of my suitcase. The crying was loud, desperate, and echoing from the formal living room down the hall. I kicked off my shoes, my bare feet sinking into the plush Persian rugs as I quietly made my way toward the noise.

When I stepped into the living room, the sight before me made my blood run cold.

My mother, Eleanor, was sitting rigidly on the edge of the armchair, dabbing her eyes with a silk handkerchief. My father, Arthur, was pacing back and forth in front of the massive stone fireplace, his jaw clenched so tight I could see the muscle ticking.

But it was the girl sitting on the sofa who drew my complete attention.

She looked to be exactly my age, twenty years old. But where I was dressed in a tailored trench coat and designer boots, she was wearing a faded, oversized hoodie and cheap, scuffed sneakers. Her dark hair was stringy, her face pale and tear stained. She was clutching a throw pillow to her chest, sobbing uncontrollably.

"Mom? Dad?" I spoke up, my voice cutting through the thick tension in the room.

All three heads snapped toward me. I expected my parents to stand up, to hug me, or at the very least, to scold me for running away two years ago. Instead, my mother lowered her handkerchief, and the look she gave me was one of pure disgust.

"Don't call me that," Eleanor snapped, her voice like cracking ice.

I flinched, taking a step back. "What? What's going on? Who is this?" I gestured to the crying girl, who was now glaring at me with a mixture of raw hatred and deep seated envy.

My father stopped pacing and turned to face me. He didn't look angry; he looked entirely empty, as if he were staring at a stranger. "Sit down, Belle. We have something to tell you."

"I'll stand," I replied, my fingers curling into fists at my sides. "Tell me what's happening. Why did you call me back here?"

Eleanor stood up, smoothing the front of her immaculate pencil skirt. She walked over to the crying girl and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder a gesture she had rarely ever given me.

"This is Iris," Eleanor said, her voice softening slightly as she looked down at the girl, before hardening into steel as she looked back at me. "She is our daughter. Our real daughter."

The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. The silence stretched for what felt like an eternity. I blinked, my brain struggling to process the string of syllables.

"I don't understand," I whispered. "I'm your daughter."

"You are a mistake," my father said bluntly, pulling a thick manila folder from the coffee table and tossing it toward me. It landed by my feet, sliding open to reveal a stack of medical documents with bright red CONFIDENTIAL stamps. "Twenty years ago, at the hospital, there was a mix up in the maternity ward. The nurses switched the bassinets. We brought you home, thinking you were a Jones. You are not. You are a fake."

I stared at the papers on the floor, my vision blurring. A mix up? A fake? My entire life, my identity, my memories everything was a lie?

"We hired private investigators after a discrepancy came up in a routine family medical screening," my father continued, his tone as casual as if he were discussing a dip in the stock market. "It took months, but we finally tracked down our biological child. Iris has been living in absolute poverty on the east side of the city.

Her... your biological parents passed away in a car crash five years ago. She has been surviving in foster care while you have been living a life of luxury that rightfully belonged to her."

I looked at Iris. The sobbing had stopped, replaced by a vicious, triumphant sneer. She looked me up and down, taking in my clothes, my manicured nails, my healthy skin. She hated me. And honestly? I couldn't blame her. I had stolen her life.

"I... I didn't know," I stammered, feeling a wave of nausea crash over me. "I'm so sorry. I swear to God, I had no idea."

"Of course you didn't," Eleanor sneered, dropping her hand from Iris's shoulder. "But that doesn't change the facts. You do not share our blood. You are not a Jones. You are nothing to us now. We only called you back here to officially sever ties and handle the legal paperwork. Iris will be taking her rightful place in this household immediately."

I stood there, the reality of the situation slamming into me like a freight train. I was an orphan. I had no family, no money, no home. I expected to feel devastated. I expected to fall to my knees and beg them to let me stay, to remember the last twenty years we spent together.

But as the initial shock wore off, a strange, creeping sensation began to spread through my chest.

Relief.

It was a small, fragile spark of hope, but it was there. If I wasn't a Jones... that meant I wasn't Grayson's sister. I didn't belong to this family, which meant his twisted, obsessive claim over me was null and void. I was free. I was finally, completely free. I could walk out of this house tonight, a nobody, and never have to look over my shoulder again.

I took a deep breath, squaring my shoulders. "Okay," I said, my voice surprisingly steady.

My mother blinked, clearly taken aback by my lack of hysterics. "Okay?"

"Yes. Okay," I repeated, bending down to pick up the manila folder. I placed it neatly on the coffee table. "I understand. I'll pack the rest of my things. I only brought one suitcase anyway. I'll be out of your hair in ten minutes. You won't ever have to see me again."

Iris's eyes widened in surprise, and even my father looked slightly thrown off balance. They had prepared for a fight, for tears, for begging. They hadn't prepared for me to just surrender.

"I'll leave right now," I said, turning on my heel.

I marched out of the living room, a genuine, breathless smile breaking across my face. I was free. I was poor, homeless, and totally alone, but I was goddamn free. I reached the grand foyer, grabbing the handle of my suitcase, ready to drag it right back out the front doors and into the night.

But as I looked up, front doors were closed. And leaning against them, effectively blocking my only exit, was him.

Grayson.

He was even more striking than I remembered. Tall, broad shouldered, and entirely too imposing, dressed in a sharp, dark charcoal custom suit that clung to his muscular frame. His jet black hair was perfectly styled, but his dark, piercing eyes were wild. They locked onto mine with a terrifying, predatory intensity that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

The temperature in the massive foyer seemed to drop ten degrees. The air grew impossibly thin. I couldn't breathe. I took a step back, my knuckles turning white around the handle of my suitcase.

He didn't move. He just watched me, his gaze dropping to my lips before slowly trailing down my body, taking in every single inch of me in a way that made my skin burn. It wasn't the look of a protective older brother. It was the look of a starving man who had just been handed a feast.

He pushed himself off the door, taking a slow, deliberate step toward me.

"Going somewhere, Belle?" his voice was a low, rough baritone that sent a shiver straight down my spine.

"Grayson," I breathed, my heart hammering against my ribs. "Did... did you hear? About the test? I'm not... we aren't..."

"Siblings," he finished for me, taking another slow step forward, trapping me between his massive frame and the staircase.

"Yes," I stammered, pressing my back against the wooden banister. "I'm not your sister. I'm leaving. Mom and Dad—"

"Arthur and Eleanor don't run this family anymore. I do," Grayson interrupted, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper as he closed the final gap between us. He leaned in, his face mere inches from mine. I could smell his cologne.

He reached out, tracing a single, calloused finger down the side of my cheek. I gasped, trembling under his touch.

A slow, terrifying smirk curved his lips.

"You aren't going anywhere," he murmured, his dark eyes blazing with a possessive fire that made my knees weak. "Do you know how long I have been waiting for this?"