The Incest

Cora's POV I’ve seen mansions on TV, but nothing prepares you for stepping into one for real. Marble floors that shine like glass. A staircase wide enough for an entire marching band. Chandeliers dripping from the ceiling like they’re trying to outshine the sun. And me? I’m standing in the middle of it all with my thrift-store suitcase and sneakers that squeak every time I move. “Welcome home,” Mom says, smiling too brightly beside her new husband. Her hand is laced with his, and he looks like someone straight out of a billionaire catalogue. Perfect suit, perfect smile, perfect everything. Home. Yeah, right. I mutter something that sounds like “thanks” and try not to roll my eyes. That’s when I noticed him. Leaning against the bannister halfway up the stairs, like he owns gravity itself. Tall, broad shoulders under a black shirt, jaw sharp enough to cut glass. And eyes—dark, unreadable, locked right on me. Xavier. My new stepbrother. He doesn’t say hi. He doesn’t even pretend to be polite. He just watches me, and the corner of his mouth curves like he’s already figured me out. “Cora,” Mom says, her voice all nervous. “This is Xavier.” “I got that,” I mutter. Xavier tilts his head. “She speaks.” My teeth grind. “Wow, congratulations. You have ears.” For a second, his smirk deepens. Then he turns and disappears up the stairs without another word. Jeez. What a warm welcome. Mom gives me a look that screams be nice, but all I can do is shrug. Because seriously? If this is what the next chapter of my life looks like, I’m already over it. --- The left wing. Do you know how insane that sounds? Who even needs a wing in their house? Birds, maybe. Not people. I drag my suitcase down the long hallway, and yeah, it’s gorgeous, but it’s also creepy. Every wall is lined with oil paintings—men in dark suits, women in gowns, all staring down at me like I’m trespassing. The floors echo with each squeak of my suitcase wheels, like the house itself is tattling on me. Finally, I push open the double doors to what’s apparently my room. And holy s**t. It’s not a room. It’s a freaking apartment. Huge bed draped in silk sheets, floor-to-ceiling windows spilling sunlight across polished wood floors, a walk-in closet bigger than my entire bedroom back home. There’s even a sitting area with a fireplace. A fireplace. In my room. “Ugghhh,” I groan, dropping face-first onto the bed. It swallows me like a cloud made of money. I flip onto my back and stare up at the chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Yes. My bedroom has a chandelier. “f**k. This is unreal.” Part of me wants to hate it—no, I do hate it. Because it doesn’t feel like mine. It feels borrowed, fake, like at any second someone’s going to walk in and say, Sorry, you don’t belong here. Back to reality for you. There’s a knock on the door. I groan. “Yeah, come in, I guess.” The door swings open, and—of course. Because the universe hates me—it’s Xavier. He steps inside without asking, hands still shoved casually in his pockets. He scans the room, then looks at me sprawled on the bed. “Well,” he says, his voice dripping smug, “you’re settling in fast.” “Jeez, do you ever knock like a normal human?” I shoot back, sitting up. He smirks. “Do I look normal to you?” “Nope,” I mutter, “but I was trying to be polite.” He leans against the doorframe, tilts his head, and just stares at me. Like really stares. Long enough for the air to go heavy. “What?” I snap. “You look… out of place,” he says finally. “Well, congratulations, Sherlock. Gold star for observation.” His smirk deepens. “I didn’t mean it as an insult.” “Sure you didn’t.” He pushes off the doorframe and takes a slow step inside. My pulse jumps. I hate that it jumps. “Careful,” I warn, lifting my chin. “Cross this carpet and I start charging a toll.” That actually makes him laugh. A low, quiet sound that does something weird to my chest. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he says, then gestures vaguely around the room. “Dinner’s at eight. Don’t be late. My father hates waiting.” “Good to know,” I say flatly. He pauses at the door, hand on the frame. “You might hate it here, Cora. But you’ll get used to it.” I bite down on the first ten comebacks that want to fly out of my mouth. Instead, I just glare at him until he leaves, pulling the door shut behind him. The silence that follows feels louder than his voice. “f**k,” I whisper, collapsing back onto the bed. This is going to be hell.