Seducing My Ex's Billionaire Brother

Chapter 7

FREYA SINCLAIR

The bathroom lights are too bright.

Rowan said nothing about tonight. But he didn’t say he wouldn’t come home either.

That thought clings to me as I shower. The water is hot, almost scalding, as if I can rinse the day off my skin—the signatures, the clauses, the way his voice stayed calm while my entire future tilted sideways. I scrub harder than necessary, grounding myself in the sting, in the steam, in the simple fact that I’m still here.

When I step out, the room beyond the bathroom is quiet. Too quiet. The city glows faintly through the windows, distant and indifferent.

I open the wardrobe Lisa showed me earlier. It’s already organized, space cleared on one side, hangers aligned perfectly. My things will arrive by morning, Rowan said though I don't know what he meant by that since I have not said him about where I lived. And I don't have anything worth keeping. For now, the shelves are empty, waiting.

I swallow and reach for the small bag I brought with me. The lingerie is black. Delicate. Completely impractical.

I hate it.

It feels like a costume one I didn’t choose because I wanted to, but because I’m supposed to. Because this marriage, this agreement, comes with expectations, and I need to look like I’m willing. Ready. Convincing.

I pull it on slowly, my movements hesitant. The fabric is cool against my skin, unfamiliar. I barely recognized the woman in the mirror afterward. She looks composed. Desirable. Like someone who knows what she’s doing.

She’s a liar.

I wrap a silk robe over it, tying it tight, as if that can protect me from the weight of my own choices.

I sit on the edge of the bed. Rowan’s bed.

The sheets are crisp and untouched, like they’re waiting for permission to wrinkle. I imagine him walking in coat shrugged off, tie loosened, that unreadable gaze flicking to me for just a second longer than necessary.

I tell myself I’m ready. I tell myself I can do this. Minutes stretch. Then an hour. The door doesn’t open.

I lie back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling, listening to the clock tick softly from somewhere I can’t see. Midnight passes. Then one. My body stays tense, as if it hasn’t received the message yet.

He doesn’t come.

When the morning came I was still alone. But I was served hot food almost immediately. I was alone throughout the day and so I took this chance to roam around this penthouse. It was big, way bigger that my ex’s penthouse.

The dress arrives an hour before Rowan does.

No note. No message. Just a long, matte-black box placed carefully on the bed like an offering. For a second, I only stare at it, my pulse picking up as if I already know what’s inside.

I open it slowly. Green.

Not soft, pretty green. Not safe green. It’s deep and dark, the kind that looks almost black until the light hits it just right. The dress itself felt like a royalty with soft fabric that felt like heaven between my fingers.

Silk, I think cool and heavy between my fingers. The gown is sleeveless,

backless, cut low enough to make a statement without begging for attention.

Of course he picked something like this. Of course it fits the image he wants the world to see standing beside him tonight. Demanding for attention and yet not begging for one.

When I step into it, the fabric slides over my skin like it knows exactly where to cling. It hugs my waist, my hips, my chest every curve outlined, every line intentional. I barely have to adjust it. It fits like it was made for me.

Like he measured me.

The thought sends a strange shiver through me.

I pin my hair up at first, then change my mind and let it fall in soft waves over my shoulders. Makeup is minimal clean skin, sharp liner, a muted lip. I don’t want to look like I’m trying too hard. I want to look… inevitable.

When I finally look at my reflection, I don’t see the girl who stood on a bridge soaked and shivering.

I see someone else. Someone who belongs in rooms like Rowan Carter’s world.

The sound of a car pulling up outside snaps me out of it. My heart stuttered. I glance at the clock. Right on time.

Of course.

I grab a small clutch Lisa handed me earlier and take one last breath before heading out. The elevator ride down feels longer than it should, every floor ticking by like a countdown.

When the doors open, Rowan’s car is already waiting.

And so is he.

He’s standing beside it, coat perfectly tailored, dark suit sharp enough to cut glass. His hair is neatly styled, his expression calm, unreadable like tonight is just another obligation on his schedule.

His eyes lift when he sees me. “Good evening, Freya,” he says evenly.

I nod, forcing myself not to fidget. “Good evening.”

He opens the door for me without a word, his hand steady, impersonal. When I pass him, I catch the faint scent of his cologne clean, expensive, restrained. Everything about him is restraint.

The car moves smoothly through the city, lights blurring past the windows. Rowan doesn’t speak at first. He checks something on his phone, then sets it aside, turning his attention to me fully.

Silence settles again, heavier this time.

“You didn't came home last night.” I said softly as if testing the water. Rowan turned to look at me for a second and I immediately looked out of the window.

“I don't usually come home.”

“But you should…” I muttered.

“Why ? Are you excited to be knocked up by me as soon as possible?” He asked , mocking me with a smirk. I turned to look at him with a gentle smile.

“Who wouldn't want to have your child?” I asked as I looked at him through my lashes to make even more effect.

In return his smug expression vanished, frown replacing I almost immediately. After that he said nothing after that and the car ride was filled with silence.

“My mother’s guests can be… inquisitive,” he continued after some time “You don’t need to explain anything. Just stick to our initial story. If they ask, we’re engaged. The rest is none of their business.”

I nod. “Understood.”

He glances at me again, eyes sharper now. “Tonight is about appearances. Stay close to me. If you feel uncomfortable, say so.”

There it is again that careful distance. That line he never crosses.

“I can handle it,” I say, though my hands are folded tightly in my lap.

“I know,” he replies. And somehow, that unsettles me more than doubt ever could.

The car slows as the estate comes into view grand, glowing, alive with music and light. Laughter drifts through the air even before we stop. Rowan steps out first, then offers me his hand. I hesitate only a second before placing mine in his.

As I step out beside him, cameras flash, voices rise, and the night swallows us whole. I square my shoulders, lift my chin, and remind myself why I’m here. Tonight, I’m not just Freya Sinclair. Tonight, I am Rowan Carter’s chosen woman.

And the world is about to believe it.