My Stepbrother’s Regret

My stepbrother, Byron, always hated me.

He said I was clingy, that my affection suffocated him.

Even at our most intimate moment, all he'd ever mutter was, Disgusting.

So, after ten years of being reborn, I never once tried to find him.

I changed my name. Settled in another city. And loved someone else.

I truly thought our paths would never cross again.

Until the day of my engagement.

"Byron, you're the last one of us still single."

My fianc, Xander, teased him lightly. "Don't give me that tired excuse about her again. What kind of brother stays single mourning a stepsister for a decade?"

"Hurry up, or my kids will be in preschool before you even find a date."

He didn't see the way Byron's knuckles whitened around his glass, his gaze turning icy

Byron stared at me for a long, disconcerting moment before finally lowering his eyes, a faint, humorless smile touching his lips. "Alright."

I truly thought I'd never see Byron again.

The crystal chandeliers bathed the grand hall in light. The plush carpet stretched from the entrance to where I stood.

Byron stood at the other end of that carpet.

Ten meters away. Impeccably dressed in a tailored suit, radiating that same confident aura I remembered.

The moment I heard his name, my body reacted before my mind could catch up.

I turned, looked down, fumbled with my slipping shawl, and hurried away.

But I was stopped almost instantly.

"Where are you off to, sweetheart?"

"She's a bit shy around new people," Xander said smoothly, pulling me close. "Yvette Sinclair, my fiance."

"Byron Thorne, my closest friend from college."

"Gotta call him Mr. Thorne now," Xander grinned. "He's a very busy man."

A cold dread seized me, freezing me in place.

I was terrified Byron would recognize me. But then I thought, Get over yourself, Yvette Sinclair.

It had been ten years since I died.

Ten whole years.

I lived in a new city, had a new name, loved someone else.

A completely different life.

Time had reshaped me, my features matured. At best, I bore only a passing resemblance to who I was.

Just a resemblance.

No one would believe in coming back from the dead.

Besides, Byron hated me so much back then.

How could he possibly remember my face?

Steeling myself, I managed a polite smile. "Hello."

"Hello."

Byron showed no sign of suspicion.

His expression was neutral as he raised his glass, my new name rolling off his tongue.

"Yvette Sinclair."

Yvette Sinclair.

That wasn't always my name.

Before my mother remarried, I was Ava Evans.

After, I became Ava Thorne.

At first, I hated the name. It sounded plain and awkward.

But later, I was grateful for it.

Ava Thorne. Byron Thorne.

At least when they found the tattoo, I could lie with a straight face. "Who says it has anything to do with Byron?"

"I tattooed my own name."

That lie worked on everyone else.

But not on Byron.

"Get it removed," he commanded, his voice cold. "It's disgusting."

The words were a dull ache in my chest.

But I kept my tone light, breezy. "Stop flattering yourself."

"It really isn't about you."

He was silent for a long moment before giving a derisive sneer. "Good."

He'd hated me for so long.

So long I'd forgotten that, in the beginning, he tried to be a good brother.

Byron was only two years older.

We went to the same high school. He walked me to and from school, saved me seats, fought for my lunch tray, even cleaned up the chair and my clothes when I got my period and made a mess.

We were teenagers then, and any interaction between boys and girls sparked gossip.

"Is she really your sister, or your girlfriend?"

His friends hooted and teased him. Byron never got angry. He'd just see me approaching from afar and quickly stub out his cigarette.

"Knock it off."

He was always like that.

Painstakingly kind to me. When people joked about us, he'd just say, quietly, "Enough."

"She's shy. Cut it out."

He was tall for his age, with clear, handsome features.

I'd blush furiously, biting my lip.

Too afraid to look up at him.

As if that could hide the frantic pounding of my heart.

I was naive then. I thought Byron cared because I was special to him.

But I learned later I was wrong.

When he said "enough," he meant it. He didn't want to hear it.

He found it disgusting.

"What kind of sister fantasizes about her brother like this?"

He found my diary, filled with adolescent longing.

He found the idea revolting.

That was the first time he called me "Disgusting."

The second time was when he caught me, his white shirt clutched in my hand, my body trembling as I whispered his name.

He looked at me with pure revulsion, turned, and walked away, throwing the same cruel word over his shoulder. "Disgusting."

After that, our relationship froze over completely.

Those "disgusting became a brand, seared into most of my youth.

Until my eighteenth birthday.

That day, things ended between us in the most humiliating way I could never have imagined.

The party was in full swing. Xander was still entertaining Byron.

As the most powerful, wealthiest, and undeniably handsome man in the room, Byron was the center of attention.

Everyone's eyes were drawn to him.

Everyone's except mine.

Every time I met his eyes, every time I heard his voice,

I felt transported back to eighteen, hearing that cold voice, feeling his breath ghost over my ear, and hearing the word that could cut deeper than any knife.

So I kept my distance, staying safely by the dessert table.

But I couldn't shake the feeling of being watched.

Whenever I looked around, I saw nothing.

The anxiety got the better of me.

I found Xander.

"Stomach ache? Oh darling, I'm sorry."

"Your period's due soon. Go upstairs and rest," Xander said, his voice full of genuine concern. He didn't suspect a thing.

"Don't worry, sweetheart. I've got this."

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Byron suddenly tightened his grip on his glass, his expression turning stormy.

A flicker of unease stirred, but I couldn't pinpoint why.

Doesn't matter. Escaping seemed the best option.

I pulled my gaze away and turned to leave.

Passing a pair of young women, I overheard their hushed whispers. "I'd heard Mr. Thorne was handsome, but wow... that raw sexual magnetism."

"Tch. I wonder who ever got lucky enough to land him."

My steps faltered.

An inappropriate memory flooded my mind.

A dark, stuffy room.

Snow melting outside, a different kind of heat inside.

My face flushed crimson, and I practically fled.

Back then, I really did want to have sex with Byron.

I was fascinated by the line of his throat.

The slight rasp in his voice.

The veins standing out on the back of his hands.

His long, elegant fingers, calloused at the tips.

Every night, I dreamed of falling into his lap, being pressed until it hurt, being teased until tears sprang to my eyes.

But I was all desire, no courage.

My real dad died young. My mother had finally found happiness. Mr. Thorne was good to her. I didn't want to ruin this family because of me.

Besides, Byron had already made his disgust perfectly clear.

He despised me. Had avoided me for ages.

So I never imagined that the secret, heated fantasy I nurtured would come true in such a humiliating way.

His calloused thumb found the damp silk between my legs, pressing hard.

I dissolved into a puddle of desire, collapsing against him.

Byron looked down at me, his voice icy. "This desperate, Ava? Willing to drug me just to get laid?"

I wanted to explain.

I hadn't.

Since realizing his disgust, I'd kept my distance.

I would never drug him on such an important day, my eighteenth birthday.

But he was relentless, his movements harsh and frantic.

By the end, the only sounds left in the room were my broken pleas and his cold, commanding voice. "Can't take it? Then endure it."

"Ava, you brought this on yourself."