The Sterling Scandal: Married To The Uncle

The room was spinning before I even finished the tea.

It wasn't a gentle sway. It was a violent, lurching tilt that made the crystal chandeliers of the Sterling estate blur into streaks of aggressive light. I gripped the edge of the high table, my knuckles turning white, trying to anchor myself to the floor.

"You look pale, dear."

Victoria Sterling's voice was smooth, like velvet wrapped around a jagged rock. My future mother-in-law stood too close, her hand resting on my shoulder with a weight that felt less like comfort and more like a restraint.

"I... I can't find Ryan," I managed to say. My tongue felt thick, heavy in my mouth. "He said he'd be right back."

"Ryan is busy with the investors, Elena. You know how important this merger is." Victoria smiled, but her eyes remained cold, calculating. She signaled a passing waiter with a sharp flick of her wrist. "Take Miss Miller to the guest suite. She needs to lie down. The tea was evidently too strong for her."

"No, I just need fresh air-" I tried to pull away, but my legs betrayed me. They felt like they were filled with lead.

The waiter, a man with a face as blank as a slate, took my arm. His grip was firm. "This way, Ma'am."

He didn't lead me toward the main staircase where the other guests were mingling. He steered me away from the warmth, down a corridor that grew quieter and colder with every step. The plush carpet swallowed the sound of our footsteps. The air changed, smelling less like expensive perfume and more like old cedar and rain.

We were in the West Wing. The part of the estate Ryan always told me to avoid.

"Wait," I slurred, dragging my feet. "This isn't..."

The waiter didn't answer. He stopped in front of a heavy oak door at the end of the hall. He opened it, the hinges groaning in protest, and practically shoved me inside.

I stumbled, my knees hitting the thick Persian rug with a thud.

"Ryan?" I called out into the darkness.

The click of the lock turning behind me was the loudest sound I had ever heard.

Panic flared in my chest, hot and sharp, cutting through the haze of the drug. I scrambled to my feet, swaying, and turned back to the door. I rattled the handle. Locked.

"Help!" I screamed, but my voice was weak, absorbed by the heavy tapestries on the walls.

A flash of lightning tore through the sky outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the room in a stark, blue-white burst.

That's when I saw him.

He was sitting in the corner, a silhouette carved from the shadows. He wasn't Ryan. This man was broader, darker. He was seated in a wheelchair, his hands resting motionless on the armrests.

Julian Sterling.

The Fallen Titan. The cripple. The man the family whispered about with a mixture of pity and disdain.

He didn't move. He didn't speak. He just watched me with eyes that glinted in the dark.

The drug surged again, a wave of heat that started in my stomach and clawed its way up my throat. It wasn't just heat; it was a disorienting vertigo that made the world tilt on its axis. I couldn't think. I couldn't breathe. I just needed safety. I needed Ryan. My confused brain superimposed Ryan's face onto the man in the shadows.

I stumbled toward him.

"Ryan," I whimpered, tears blurring my vision. "Please. It hurts."

I fell at his feet, my hands grasping his knees. The fabric of his trousers was cool against my burning palms. I could feel the rigid metal of his leg braces beneath the cloth, hard, cold, and unyielding against my touch.

Julian didn't flinch. He didn't kick me away, but he didn't help me either. He sat there like a statue, a king on a broken throne.

"You're in the wrong room, Elena," his voice was a low rumble, vibrating through the darkness. It wasn't the voice of a weak man. It was the growl of something dangerous that had been chained up for too long.

"Help me," I begged, the heat becoming unbearable. I tugged at the neckline of my dress, desperate for air. "So dizzy... please..."

I heard a sharp intake of breath from him.

"Silas," Julian said into the empty air, his voice dropping an octave.

A small earpiece I hadn't noticed blinked with a faint blue light. "Lock down the wing. No one enters until I say so. Victoria made her move."

I didn't understand what he was saying. My head fell onto his lap. The scent of him-sandalwood, tobacco, and something uniquely masculine-filled my senses, drowning out the cedar smell of the room.

His hand hovered over my head for a second, hesitant. Then, with a sigh that sounded like resignation, his fingers brushed against my hair. His touch was electric, sending a jolt through my numb body.

"Sleep," he commanded softly.

The last thing I remembered was the terrifying realization that the legs beneath my cheek felt as cold and lifeless as stone, encased in their metal prison.