The Incest

Chapter Three

Cora’s POV

Morning sunlight blasted through the floor-to-ceiling windows like it was personally out to ruin my life. I groaned, shoved the silk sheets off, and immediately regretted not sleeping in a hoodie. The stupid silk felt slippery, like my body had been wrestling with a snake all night.

I sat up, rubbing my eyes, and glanced around at my room—aka the luxury suite I still didn’t believe was mine. Chandeliers, gold accents, a fireplace no one had asked for. And me? In short pajamas that screamed Target clearance bin. Cute. Totally fitting.

My stomach growled. Loud. Right—dinner had been a disaster, and I’d spent most of it stabbing desserts instead of eating. So yeah, I was starving.

Sure, there were maids—probably an army of them who’d sprint at the bell if I even whispered “toast”—but that wasn’t me. I wasn’t about to clap my hands like Cruella de Vil and make some poor woman bring me scrambled eggs. Nope. If I wanted food, I’d get it my damn self.

So, short pajamas and all, I padded barefoot out of my room and down the endless hall.

The mansion was quieter in the morning, softer somehow, but still too big. Every step echoed. Every painting of some dead relative seemed to track me with its eyes. By the time I found the kitchen—after three wrong turns and one accidental walk-in on what might’ve been a library the size of Barnes & Noble—I was sweaty, annoyed, and very ready for carbs.

The kitchen, though? Holy s**t. It wasn’t a kitchen. It was a restaurant. Double fridges, counters that went on forever, copper pots hanging like ornaments. And yeah—maids. At least four of them, moving around like a well-oiled machine. Chopping, stirring, plating something fancy.

They all froze when they saw me. Like deer in headlights.

“Uh… hi?” I said, waving awkwardly. “Don’t mind me. I’m just here for… food. You know, that thing normal people eat.”

They glanced at each other like I’d spoken alien. One of them—older, tight bun, scary efficient—took a step forward. “Miss, we can prepare anything you like. Eggs Benedict? Crepes? A fresh fruit—”

“No, no, no.” I waved my hands. “Don’t Benedict my eggs, please. I can handle it. Just point me to the basics. Bread? Cereal? Ice cream?”

Yes, I said ice cream. Don’t judge me.

The maids looked scandalized. Ice cream for breakfast, in this palace? Blasphemy.

I ignored them and yanked open one of the massive fridges. Rows of perfectly labeled jars, glass bottles of water, and—score—fancy little tubs of gelato stacked in the corner. I grabbed one, found a spoon, and hopped onto a stool like I owned the place.

First bite: heaven. Second bite: better. Third bite—

The spoon slipped. Ice cream plopped straight onto my thigh. Cold. So cold.

“f**k!” I yelped, nearly knocking the whole tub onto the floor. I scrambled for a napkin, but nope—instinct won. I smeared it with my hand, which just spread the mess across my skin. Great. Perfect. Ice-cream-leg girl. Totally the image I wanted to project in this house.

And of course, because the universe hates me…

“Interesting breakfast choice.”

I froze.

That voice. Low, smooth, laced with smug.

I turned my head slowly, already dreading it, and yep. There he was.

Xavier.

Leaning in the doorway like it was a photo shoot, black T-shirt, messy hair that somehow looked intentional. His eyes flicked down—straight to where my hand was smearing chocolate gelato across my bare thigh—and one eyebrow arched.

Kill me. Kill me right now.

“Jesus Christ,” I muttered, snatching a napkin to cover myself. “Do you live to sneak up on me?”

He smirked. “Do you always make a mess out of breakfast?”

I glared. “Do you always act like an asshole before nine a.m.?”

He shrugged, sauntering inside like he owned the air. Which, honestly, he probably thought he did. “Depends on who I’m talking to.”

The maids? Gone. Vanished. Poof. Guess even they didn’t want to get caught in whatever this was.

I stuffed another bite of ice cream in my mouth just to avoid looking at him. My cheeks burned, and not from the cold.

Xavier crossed the kitchen slowly, picked an apple from a bowl, and leaned against the counter. He didn’t take a bite, just turned it in his hand, eyes still locked on me.

I hated it. Hated how he looked at me like he could see more than I wanted him to. Like I was a puzzle and he’d already found the edges.

I stabbed the spoon into the tub. “What? Do I have sprinkles on my face or something?”

His mouth curved. “No. Just ice cream on your leg.”

My face went nuclear.

I grabbed the napkin again, trying to wipe harder, but it just made things worse. My thigh was sticky now, and I probably looked like I’d lost a fight with a sundae.

“Need help?” he asked, and oh God, the way he said it—low, teasing, with just enough edge to make me picture his hand instead of the napkin—sent heat rushing straight to my ears.

“Nope,” I snapped, standing so fast my stool screeched against the floor. “I’m good. Perfect. Totally capable of handling frozen dairy disasters on my own, thanks.”

He chuckled, a sound that curled around my spine. “Suit yourself.”

I dumped the napkin in the trash, marched to the sink, and scrubbed my leg with cold water until my skin was practically numb. Behind me, I could feel his eyes. Watching. Waiting. Like always.

When I finally turned, he was still there, still leaning casual like gravity worked differently for him. The apple remained untouched in his hand.

“You know,” he said, “most people in this house don’t step foot in here. My father would consider it… beneath them.”

“Well, congrats to me.” I tossed the wet napkin into the trash. “Already failing rich-person etiquette on day two.”

His smirk deepened. “I didn’t say that was a bad thing.”

Something about the way he said it—like he meant it, like he liked that I didn’t play by their rules—sent my stomach flipping. Which pissed me off even more.

I slammed the gelato lid back on and shoved the tub into the fridge. “Shouldn’t you be brooding somewhere else? Don’t you have, like, a motorcycle to polish or a devil’s bargain to make?”

He finally bit into the apple, slow, deliberate. Juice glistened on his lip for a second before he licked it away. My eyes betrayed me, following the motion.

“Breakfast with the family,” he said casually. “Starts in five minutes.”

I blinked. “Family?”

“You know. Mom, Dad, step-siblings. The whole picture-perfect thing.” His gaze swept over my pajamas. “You might want to change first.”

My stomach dropped. f**k.

I barely had time to swap pajamas for ripped jeans and a hoodie before sliding into the dining room. It was less “breakfast table” and more “banquet hall.” A polished table that could seat fifty, sunlight pouring through tall windows, silverware so shiny I could see my panicked reflection.

Mom was already seated, glowing in a pastel blouse, eyes lighting up the second she saw me. Beside her sat him—Mr. Rich-as-Sin. Perfectly pressed suit, tie so tight it looked like it was strangling him, smile sharp enough to cut glass.

And Xavier? Of course, Xavier lounged like the chair was made for him, sleeves rolled to his elbows, wristwatch glinting. He looked at me once—just once—and smirked like he already knew I’d been eating ice cream in my pajamas thirty minutes ago.

“Cora, darling,” Mom said, patting the seat beside her. “Did you sleep well?”

“Like a rock,” I lied, dropping into the chair and yanking a napkin onto my lap.

Mr. Rich-as-Sin—aka Richard, though the name fit him almost too well—poured himself black coffee. “We keep breakfast light here. The chef will bring options.”

Light? On cue, a maid entered with trays of croissants, bowls of fruit that probably cost more than my entire thrift-store wardrobe, and little jars of jam.

I reached for a croissant. Xavier reached at the same time. Our hands brushed.

Static shot up my arm.

He didn’t flinch. Just looked at me, calm, steady, like he was daring me to be the one to pull away.

I snatched the croissant and bit into it like it had personally offended me.

“So, Cora,” Richard said smoothly. “How do you like the house?”

“It’s… big,” I muttered through crumbs.

“Big,” he repeated, smile not touching his eyes. “Yes, I suppose it is. You’ll grow used to it.”

Used to it. Like this was normal. Like silk sheets and chandeliers in bedrooms were just everyday stuff.

I didn’t answer. My throat was too busy choking on the idea that this was supposed to be home.

Xavier’s voice cut through the silence. “She’ll adjust. Eventually.”

It sounded neutral. But the way he glanced at me—the way his lips curved just slightly—made it feel like a challenge.

My grip on the croissant tightened.

The second breakfast ended, I bolted. No way was I sticking around for more fake smiles and Xavier’s slow-burn staring contest.

The halls were cooler, empty, my boots echoing as I made my way back toward my room. But halfway there, I froze.

Raised voices.

Male voices.

From the study, a door half-cracked open.

“…not ready yet,” one hissed.

Richard’s voice, sharp and controlled: “It has to be. Do you think the board will wait forever? If this doesn’t work—”

The rest blurred, muffled, but my skin prickled. Same tone as last night. Same not-business business.

I leaned closer, careful, careful—

The floor creaked.

Shit.

I spun and hurried down the hall, heart pounding, only to slam right into a wall of black fabric and solid muscle.

Xavier.

Again.

His hands caught my shoulders before I could topple backward. Strong. Warm. Too close.

“What the hell, Cora,” he murmured, low enough that goosebumps shot down my arms. “You really need a hobby that isn’t eavesdropping.”

My jaw clenched. “Maybe I wouldn’t snoop if people around here weren’t so shady.”

He smirked, but his eyes didn’t. They were dark, sharp, warning.

“Careful,” he said softly. “You might hear something you can’t un-hear.”

Then he let go, brushed past me, and disappeared into the study like he belonged there.

Leaving me frozen in the hall, breath shallow, stomach tight.

What the actual f**k was going on in this house?

And why did Xavier look like he was the only one who knew the answer?

Whatever.