My new stepbrother!

Liana’s POV

It looked more like a palace than a home. Not the kind of palace you read about in children’s books, adorned with cheerful turrets and vibrant flags. No, this was a fortress of wealth, a monument to a lineage that predated my very existence. Marble staircases spiraled upwards into what felt like an infinite sky of gilded ceilings, ivory columns stood sentinel, stretching to kiss the elaborate cornices, and endless windows, each pane gleaming like a polished mirror, reflected the setting sun in a blinding display. The Ashford estate, sprawling and impossibly grand, towered above me like it was a living entity, a stern judge in stone and glass, already assessing my worth, finding me wanting. It loomed, a silent, imposing sentinel, whispering that I didn’t belong here, that my small, fragile world had no place within its formidable embrace.

I clutched my worn sketchbook tighter, the rough cover digging into my palms, a desperate anchor in the turbulent sea of my unease. My mother, a vibrant splash of optimism in her new silk dress, practically glowed beside me. Her heels, expensive and new, clicked a cheerful rhythm against the cold, unforgiving stone driveway, a stark contrast to the oppressive silence emanating from the house. She beamed, her gaze sweeping up to her new husband’s mansion, a look of almost childish wonder on her face.

“Our new beginning, Liana,” she whispered, her voice laced with a breathless hope that felt utterly alien to me. She reached for my hand, her fingers warm and eager, but I couldn’t return the comforting squeeze. My gaze, wide with a mixture of apprehension and morbid fascination, was already locked onto the figure standing at the very top of the grand stairs, framed by the immense, dark oak front doors.

No, not boy.

Man.

Dante Ashford.

He was a silhouette against the fading light, a stark, commanding presence. Six-foot-something of coiled intensity, he was dressed in black, from the perfectly tailored trousers to the severe button-down shirt that seemed to absorb all light. He looked less like he was attending an event and more like he was mourning the very world around him. His face, even from this distance, was a study in sharp angles: prominent cheekbones that seemed carved from stone, a jawline that could cut glass, and eyes—even from here, I could feel their arctic chill, colder than any winter I had ever known. He didn’t smile. Didn’t blink. Just stared, a silent, unblinking assessment, his lips pressed into a line of disapproval so tight it looked like it might have sliced his mouth in two, leaving a permanent scar of disdain.

“That’s your new stepbrother,” Mom whispered, her voice a little too bright, a little too hopeful, trying to bridge the chasm of silence that separated us from him.

My throat tightened, a sudden, inexplicable constriction. The air grew heavy, thick with unspoken warnings. He looked like a warning label in human form. Everything about him screamed danger, an unspoken caution to stay away, to keep my distance, to not disturb the carefully constructed order of his world.

He didn’t make a move to descend the stairs, didn’t offer even the slightest gesture of welcome. Instead, with a slow, deliberate movement that felt weighted with contempt, he simply turned and walked inside, disappearing into the mansion’s cavernous depths. He left the immense double doors wide open behind him, a gaping maw that seemed to beckon us into an unknown, potentially hostile, interior. It was a silent, powerful dismissal, a clear indication that our arrival was, at best, an inconvenience, at worst, an invasion. My mother, however, seemed oblivious, already pulling me forward, her optimism a blinding shield against the subtle cruelty.

The first red flag should’ve been how quiet the mansion was.

An oppressive silence clung to the air, thick and suffocating. It wasn’t the cozy quiet of a home where conversations hummed softly in the background or the gentle creak of old floorboards told stories. No, this was a sterile, vacuum-sealed silence, a void devoid of the comforting sounds of life. There was no music drifting from an unseen speaker, no distant echo of laughter, no comforting murmur of voices. Just the rhythmic, almost ominous ticking of unseen clocks, a stark reminder of time passing in a place where it seemed to stand still for everything but the accumulation of wealth. The air, despite the mansion’s immense size, felt heavy, conditioned to a uniform coolness that offered no warmth, no comfort. It smelled faintly of expensive wood polish and something else—a faint, metallic tang, like old money and unspoken secrets. Lots and lots of money, pressing down on everything, suffocating any hint of genuine humanity.

Our few belongings—a couple of suitcases and my precious art supplies—were brought in by staff dressed in crisp, impersonal uniforms. They moved with a practiced efficiency that spoke of years of service, of blending into the background, of being seen and not heard. It was something I still hadn’t gotten used to, this invisible army of people who anticipated every need before it was voiced. I felt utterly out of place, a clumsy intruder in a meticulously organized machine. I didn’t know where to stand, where to put my hands, how to simply be in such an environment. The grand staircase, a magnificent sweep of marble and polished wood, curved upwards like something out of a fairytale, its elegant lines hinting at grandeur and romance. But the energy inside was pure ice, an unyielding chill that permeated every corner, every shadow.

“We’ll be like a real family now, Liana,” Mom said, her voice a little too high, a little too strained, as she hung up her coat with a flourish, her movement a conscious effort to inject some normalcy into the sterile grandeur. Her tone was dreamy, as if she were reciting a mantra she desperately wanted to believe. “You and Dante… well, give it time. He’s just… private.”

“Private?” I echoed, the word tasting like ash in my mouth. My voice was a whisper, lost in the echoing expanse of the grand foyer. “Mom, he didn’t even look at us.”

She waved a dismissive hand, her back to me as she adjusted a framed photograph on a nearby console table—a formal portrait of a stern-looking man who must have been Mr. Ashford’s father. “Oh, you know how boys are. He’s just shy. Give him a chance.”

Right.

Because the way he looked at me earlier? That sharp, assessing gaze that seemed to peel back my skin and peer into the very marrow of my bones? That wasn’t shyness. That wasn’t a look you gave family, a new stepsister, a stranger you were meant to welcome into your home.

That was hunger. A predatory glint in his dark eyes that made the hairs on my arms stand on end.

Or maybe hate. A deep, simmering resentment that felt utterly personal, even though we had never met.

Maybe both. The terrifying possibility settled like a cold stone in my stomach. A dangerous combination, a silent threat wrapped in an aura of undeniable power.