Seducing My Ex's Billionaire Brother

Chapter 3

FREYA SINCLAIR

The hotel lobby was warm , too warm, after the cold bite of rain outside. The second I stepped in, the sudden shift in temperature made the coat feel suffocating. Or maybe that was just me , dripping rainwater on a marble floor, still wearing heels that had rubbed raw against the backs of my feet.

I looked like a mess.

No. I was a mess.

But I didn’t care anymore.

The receptionist didn’t ask questions when I handed over my card. She just glanced at me once ,mascara smeared under my eyes, hair clinging to my cheeks, Rowan’s coat hanging off my shoulders , then quietly tapped into her computer. I was gaining stares from other guest as well.

“I’d like something on a higher floor,” I said, my voice hollow. “Something quiet.”

“Of course, ma’am,” she replied politely. “A deluxe corner suite is available—”

“Are you following me?”

The voice cut clean through the low murmur of the lobby.

Sharp. Controlled.

Familiar.

I turned around slowly, already knowing who I’d see.

Rowan Thorne stood a few feet behind me, dressed in a charcoal-gray suit that looked like it cost more than my rent. His hair was damp from the rain, but slicked back like it hadn’t dared to ruin him. He looked exactly the way I remembered from the bridge, only now… more put together. Colder.

I stared at him for a moment, not speaking. Still tired. Still raw.

“Excuse me?” I asked quietly.

His head tilted a fraction. “You were on the bridge. I didn't mention where I was staying. Are you following me?”

I felt my back straighten.

“I didn’t know this was your hotel, and honestly I don't care. I am here just to spend my time.” I said, voice flat.

He studied me like he was waiting for me to crack. His eyes dark as he studied me.

“Coincidence, then?” he asked, clearly not believing me.

“Yes,” I snapped. “A deeply inconvenient one.” I replied.

His expression didn’t change. He didn’t look angry, or particularly surprised. Just… slightly annoyed that I’d interrupted the neat lines of his evening.

I turned back to the desk. “Can you please just finish the check-in?” I asked , my words came out more rude than I had intended to.

The receptionist nodded, clearly uncomfortable with the tension between us. She quickly began to type on her computer, clearly wanting us gone.

“Room 1803,” she said, handing me the keycard.

I reached for it, but Rowan spoke again , low, calm. I was not aware that he was still waiting.

“Whatever it is you’re looking for, Miss…”

“Sinclair,” I said without looking at him. “Freya Sinclair.”

“Miss Sinclair,” he repeated. “You won’t find it here.” he folded his arms over his chest.

I closed my eyes for a beat before turning to face him. He is testing my limits clearly.

“I’m not looking for anything, so stop being a creepy old man.” I said, practically stopping myself from grinning at his shocked face. “I’m just trying to sleep tonight and not be bothered by annoying strangers.” I said even before I could stop myself.

His gaze flickered. The tiniest shift in his expression.

“Then we have that in common.” I don't know what he meant. “ I hope that I don't have to call security on you tonight, Miss Sinclair.” He said.

And just like that, he turned and walked away. No goodbye. No apology. Just quiet footsteps across polished marble and the echo of his presence left behind.

I stood there frozen, his coat still clutched around me, his words lingering longer than they should have.

Then we have that in common.

…

The hotel room door clicked shut behind me with a soft finality.

I stood in the center of the room for a long moment, frozen, my fingers still wrapped around the keycard. The silence was almost disorienting after everything , the rain, the streets, the tension in the lobby.

It was a corner suite, just like I’d asked. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked a city drowning in night and storm, the lights below blurry with rain. The bed was too big, the air too still. Everything smelled like luxury and distance.

I dropped Rowan’s coat on the couch not caring that it was wet, the weight of it lingering on my shoulders like a memory. Then I moved slowly to the bathroom, peeled off my wet clothes ,soaked down to my skin , and stepped into the shower.

The water was hot. Too hot. It scalded the cold right out of my bones, but I didn’t care. I stood there motionless, letting the steam blur the mirror and the noise in my head. My mascara bled down my cheeks before the water washed it away. My skin turned pink from the heat.

But I still didn’t feel clean.

I tilted my head back and closed my eyes.

Logan.

That smug look on his face when he saw me at the door.

The woman in his shirt.

The way he called me convenient.

It came in flashes, ugly and loud. His voice echoing inside me like poison.

I wanted to forget.

But I couldn’t.

I had given him six years.

Six years of believing in him. Loving him. Waiting for a future he never planned to give me. I made excuses when he was cold. Forgave things I shouldn’t have. I bent myself until I didn’t recognize who I was anymore.

And the truth was, I didn’t lose Logan tonight.

I lost the illusion of him.

The dream. The promise.

What I actually lost… was time.

And maybe a part of myself I’d never get back.

The water began to cool, but I stayed in it , until the ache in my chest dulled and my legs started to tremble. I forced myself out, wrapped a plush white towel around me, and stood in front of the fogged mirror.

I wiped a streak through the glass.

My reflection looked back, hollow-eyed, skin red from heat, hair clinging to my face. Not the girl I was this morning. Not the girl who had hope.

Something inside me had splintered clean through.

I opened my purse and pulled out the emergency outfit I always kept rolled tight at the bottom , black leggings and a fitted long-sleeve tee. Nothing fancy, but dry. Clean. Enough to remind me that I could still take care of myself, even now.

As I changed, I felt the shift. Small, but unmistakable.

The grief hadn’t left.

But now… there was something else rising up underneath it.

Anger.

I thought about Logan , the smirk, the casual cruelty in his voice.

I wanted him to feel this.

I wanted him to look at me and know he lost something he would never get back.

I wanted him humiliated. Exposed. Shattered.

And then…

Rowan.

That was the name he gave me.

The man on the bridge.

The man who asked if I was following him, like I was some desperate girl clinging to a stranger’s kindness.

He wasn’t wrong to assume it. I had looked like a wreck.

But there was something about him I couldn’t stop thinking about.

The way he looked at me. Not with pity. Not with curiosity.

But with silence. With steadiness. With control.

Rowan Carter

The search results exploded across the screen.

There were dozens of articles. Business magazines. Investor profiles. News clippings.

And every single one of them had the same man ,him , staring out in that impossibly expensive suit, always a little distant, always a little removed.

CEO of Carter International.

Harvard grad. Strategic genius. Wealth-management mogul. “The Iceman of Manhattan Finance.”

Rowan Carter. Thirty-five.

Private. Unreachable. Charismatic in that untouchable, dangerous kind of way.

And then, there it was , at the bottom of one article:

Elder half-brother of Logan Carter.

There were various articles comparing these two brothers and each article showed me why Logan hated Rowan.

“He gets everything handed to him. Perfect face, perfect job, perfect f*ing life.”

“You’d hate him, Freya. He’s cold. Arrogant. Doesn’t care about anyone but himself.”

Logan never said his name, not directly.

Just him. Just that bastard. Just my mother’s favorite.

I used to think it was bitterness. Now I knew better.

It was jealousy.

Rowan was the one he could never be.

The one he wasn’t even allowed to compete with.

Older. Smarter. Better-looking. More powerful.

Everything about Rowan screamed control, wealth, precision. He didn’t have Logan’s flashy charm or empty affection , he didn’t need it. Rowan didn’t perform for the world. He simply existed and made the world bend around him.

And now I had met him.

Not just met him , I had stood in front of him, broken and soaked and shaking, wearing his coat.

And he’d looked at me like I was some problem to be solved… then walked away like I wasn’t worth his time.

The humiliation twisted in my stomach. Again.

Logan cheated on me. Lied to me. Made me feel invisible. And tonight I looked like the definition of pathetic.

But something new was blooming inside me.

Slow. Cold.

Sharp as ice.

Logan hated Rowan. Feared him. Could never compete with him.

And I had just walked into the one person in this world who might actually make Logan squirm.

I stared at the photo of Rowan on my screen , hair slicked back, jaw clenched, suit perfect, eyes unreadable.

This wasn’t about using someone.

Not yet.

But it was about power. About control.

About making Logan choke on every cruel word he ever spoke to me.

And if Rowan Carters , Logan’s golden brother, the man he could never become ,happened to be the weapon that reminded him what he’d lost?