Trapped By The Ruthless Billionaire Brother

The Hamptons flew past the tinted windows of the Bentley, a blur of manicured green and impossibly large houses. Avery Hopkins took a slow, deliberate breath, the kind she always took before the curtain went up.

She turned her gaze from the scenery to the man beside her. Joshua Stanley.

He sat perfectly straight, his attention locked on the stock market data scrolling across a tablet propped on his knees. It was as if she wasn't there. As if he was alone in the cool, leather-scented air of the car.

A small, private smile touched Avery's lips. The youngest Stanley son was even more tightly wound than she'd anticipated.

Showtime.

She shifted, letting her body lean into his space. The scent of her perfume, expensive and intentionally bold, cut through the sterile air he'd wrapped around himself.

Joshua's shoulder went rigid. His eyes didn't move from the screen.

The corner of Avery's mouth lifted. She crossed one leg over the other, the silk of her dress whispering as the hemline slid a few crucial inches up her thigh.

Her hand moved next. Her fingers, light as a spider's thread, brushed against a barely-there wrinkle on the sharp crease of his suit trousers. The movement was slow, deliberate, a question asked without words.

His entire body jolted, a sharp, involuntary tremor that was impossible to hide.

Finally, his head snapped up. His eyes, a startling ice-blue, were filled with a clear warning.

"What are you doing?"

Avery blinked, a picture of innocence. "Getting into character, Mr. Stanley. We're almost there. We should probably look like we're in love."

Her fingers didn't retreat. They moved, bolder now, inching upward until they rested lightly on his thigh.

Through the fine wool of his trousers, she felt the muscle underneath bunch into a knot of solid steel.

Joshua's breathing hitched. His Adam's apple bobbed in a single, sharp swallow. He tried to focus on the numbers on his screen, but her touch was a brand, a point of heat burning through the layers of fabric and composure.

"My character is the 'rebellious girlfriend'," Avery murmured, her voice low, her breath ghosting near his ear. "This seems like something she would do, don't you think?"

His hand shot out, clamping around her wrist. His grip was surprisingly strong, tight enough to make her wince.

"The agreement didn't say you could touch me." His voice was rough, a raw, frayed sound laced with a fury he was barely containing.

Avery's eyes drifted to the tips of his ears. They were bright red. And just like that, she found it. The crack in his perfect, icy facade. A flicker of an idea, a tantalizing possibility, sparked in her mind. Could it be that the heir was a virgin to this kind of game? She filed the thought away; a potential weakness to be exploited.

She didn't pull back. Instead, her free hand came up, her fingers tracing the silk of his tie, right over the spot where his heart was hammering against his ribs. A frantic, trapped rhythm.

"Oh? But if you're this stiff, anyone will be able to tell we're acting." She met his gaze, a direct challenge.

Joshua's eyes darkened. He looked from her defiant eyes to her lips, so close to his. For a second, his mind went completely blank. The control he prided himself on, the discipline that defined his entire life, was slipping.

He snatched his hand back from her wrist as if he'd been burned, shoving himself against the opposite door, creating as much distance as the backseat would allow.

"Keep your distance, Ms. Hopkins," he ordered, his voice a low growl, a desperate attempt to reclaim his authority.

Avery pulled her hands back, a slow smile spreading across her face. She had found his weakness.

She settled back into her seat, her tone light and easy. "Alright, whatever you say, boss. But don't blame me when your family sees right through you."

At the mention of his family, the storm clouds gathered in Joshua's eyes again.

The car slowed, gliding to a smooth stop before a set of magnificent iron gates.

Joshua straightened the tie Avery had disturbed, taking a deep, fortifying breath. He was ready for battle.

Avery turned to her reflection in the window, applying another layer of deep red lipstick, her eyes sharp and focused. The stage was set.

The gates of the Stanley estate swung open, and as the Bentley rolled onto the gravel driveway, Joshua's mind wasn't on the fight ahead. It was three nights ago, in the rain-slicked chaos of a Manhattan street.

He'd just left Elysium, the most exclusive private club in the city, his jaw tight with frustration. His family had, for the tenth time, dismissed the idea of him marrying Gwyneth Kent. She was perfect, they'd said. From the right family, with the right pedigree. Too perfect. Her flaw was her flawlessness. They called her "boring."

A taxi had cut him off, a flash of yellow in the deluge. Joshua had swerved, the tires of his car hissing on the wet asphalt as he spun out, the fender crunching against a guardrail.

That's when he saw her. A woman, caught in the splash, drenched to the bone. Her grocery bag had split, its contents rolling into the gutter.

Avery Hopkins.

She was wearing a red dress, so thin and soaked that it clung to every curve of her body. She didn't scream or cry. She just lifted her head, rain plastering strands of dark hair to her sculpted cheekbones, and stared at him with the furious eyes of a cornered wildcat.

He'd gotten out of the car, checkbook in hand, ready to buy his way out of the inconvenience. But her gaze stopped him. It wasn't just angry; it was defiant.

Then he noticed where she was standing. Just outside the service entrance of Elysium. A well-known spot for high-end escorts to discreetly meet their clients after hours.

And in that moment, a plan-a wild, reckless, brilliant plan-had bloomed in his mind. If his family found Gwyneth too "suitable," he would bring them the opposite. He would bring them her.

Avery Hopkins was the perfect weapon. Her raw, dangerous beauty was the antithesis of Gwyneth's classic, refined elegance.

He'd made the offer right there on the sidewalk, the rain dripping from his hair. "I need a fiancée. For an act. Fifty thousand dollars a day."

She had stared at him as if he were insane.

"Do I look like the kind of woman who says yes to anything for money?" she'd shot back, her voice dripping with an offended sarcasm that, to him, sounded like a negotiation tactic.

It only confirmed his assumption. She knew her value. She knew how to play the game.

He didn't answer. He simply took out his phone. "I don't need your permission, I need your account number," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Or we can stand here and wait for the police to sort out this little 'accident'. Your choice."

He watched her jaw clench, the fight in her eyes warring with the rain and the ruined groceries at her feet. After a tense silence, she recited the numbers, her voice clipped and cold. He got her payment information and transferred the first fifty thousand dollars. A deposit.

The notification pinged on her phone. The look on her face shifted from scorn to shock, then to a flicker of desperate conflict.

"You will play my rebellious girlfriend," he had stated, his tone cold and transactional. "The more you anger my family, the better. No physical contact is required. When the job is done, we part ways."

He'd added the "no physical contact" clause as a firewall for himself. He despised the thought of being close to any woman who wasn't Gwyneth.

Avery had been silent for a long time, her eyes on the ruined groceries in the gutter. Then, she'd looked at him and nodded once. She needed the money, she'd said. A lot of it.

A wave of contempt had washed over him then. He had her pegged. A woman who would sell anything, including her dignity, for the right price. He'd handed her a business card and a pre-drafted non-disclosure agreement.

The memory evaporated as the Bentley came to a stop in front of the main house. Joshua glanced at Avery. Her stunt in the car moments ago made him realize how naive his "no contact" rule had been. He thought he was in complete control, but she was an unpredictable variable.

He hardened his resolve. She was a tool. A means to an end. A dark, messy background to make Gwyneth's perfection shine even brighter. Any reaction he had to her was simply a malfunction of the tool, one that needed to be corrected.

A footman opened his door. Joshua stepped out, then, playing his part, turned and offered a hand to Avery. The mask of the doting boyfriend was back in place, cold and perfect.

Joshua's hand was cool and dry around hers as he led her up the stone steps of the portico. She could feel the faint, damp tremor in his palm, a tell-tale sign of the tension he was trying so hard to hide.

"Nervous?" she murmured, her voice too low for anyone else to hear. "Afraid I'll mess it up?"

"I'm just strategizing the most effective way to introduce you," he said, his eyes fixed on the massive oak doors ahead.

"So, my job is to act out, piss them off, and clear the way for your beloved Gwyneth. Got it."

His jaw tightened. He hated the way her name sounded coming from Avery's lips. "Just do what you're paid for."

Suddenly, a savage roar cut through the serene afternoon quiet. An engine, screaming in protest.

A black Aston Martin DB11 shot into the circular driveway, moving far too fast. It executed a perfect, tire-squealing drift, swinging its tail around to stop precisely in front of them, blocking their path.

The sheer arrogance of the arrival made Avery's brow furrow.

Joshua's face went dark. He muttered a curse under his breath. "What is he doing back?" The disgust in his voice was thick.

"Who?" Avery asked.

The driver's side door swung open and a long leg, encased in a perfectly tailored suit, emerged.

"My brother," Joshua said, his voice turning to ice. "Brodie. The Stanley family's professional disaster."

Avery's gaze traveled up from the expensive shoe to the tall, powerful frame of the man who now leaned against the car. He didn't get out right away. He took his time, pulling a cigarette from his jacket and lighting it with a lazy, dangerous grace.

Joshua instinctively pulled Avery a half-step behind him, a protective gesture that was purely for show. "Stay away from him," he warned in a low voice. "He's... volatile. Don't provoke him."

Avery was only half-listening, her attention fixed on the silhouette of the man by the car.

The word "volatile" barely scratched the surface. Joshua's tone held a deeper warning, a history of chaos he had no intention of sharing with a hired actress. But for Avery, a different set of words was echoing in her mind, a story she knew all too well.

Six months ago. The night before his birthday. Humiliated.

The words hit Avery like individual stones. A cold dread, sharp and sickening, shot up from the soles of her feet.

Her mind went white. The world tilted on its axis. She couldn't hear what Joshua was saying anymore.

The man by the car finally looked up, exhaling a plume of smoke into the twilight air. The fading sun carved his profile into sharp relief, all hard angles and shadows. That face...

Avery's breath caught in her throat. Her heart felt like it had been seized by an icy fist, squeezing until she couldn't breathe.

No. It can't be. It's impossible. The world isn't this small. It can't be this cruel.

Joshua felt her stiffen beside him. He glanced down. "What's wrong? You're white as a sheet."

She couldn't form a word. Her legs felt like they were about to give out from under her.

Brodie finally turned his gaze toward them. His eyes, dark and penetrating, swept over them with a look of bored disdain.

And Avery knew.

He was the man she had spent the last six months running from. The nightmare she thought she had escaped.

He was Brodie.