17. Sterling
STERLING
O ne Week Later
Zara thought she was free, because our parents were breathing down our necks, after my mother walked in on us in the bathroom.
Like that was going to protect her from me.
They weren’t going to be in our way much longer.
She had school too, and mistakenly thought I would leave her be.
Thought she could slip away into lectures, and textbooks, and a quiet, normal life that no longer belonged to her.
Not without my name. Not without my ring.
I had been patient. I had let her return to her classes, let her think she could slip into routine. Let her have this final week of freedom, before I took it from her completely.
That patience ended today.
Frankie had already placed the order. It was handcrafted in Vienna.
Dark maple, gold-lined pegs, even her initials burned into the tailpiece.
It wasn’t just wood and strings. It was a resurrection, of the girl I’d broken, of the sound I used to hate, only because it made her unreachable.
I used to say I hated her music, but that was a lie.
I hated that it moved me. I hated that it made her something bigger than me.
Now? I wanted that sound back. Even if I had to drag it out of her fingers, one trembling note at a time. I wanted her to play only for me.
The violin was more than a gift. It was a confession I’d never say out loud.
I destroyed her music. Now I was giving it back. Not because I deserved forgiveness, but because she deserved the sound of herself again.
My car idled outside Saint Bipal’s grand administrative building, its towering stone pillars a facade of legacy and untouchable wealth.
I stepped out, adjusting the cuffs of my crisp black shirt, the sleeves rolled just enough to reveal the ink curling over my forearms. I didn’t bother buttoning my suit jacket. This wasn’t a negotiation.
Students milled around, their privileged little lives untouched by the world I ruled. They whispered as I passed, eyes flicking toward me, sensing danger, power. None of them mattered. Only one person in this entire university did.
Then I saw her.
Zara stood near the steps of the library, shifting awkwardly as she adjusted the hem of her uniform.
The Saint Bipal crest was embroidered neatly on the blazer she wore, but the buttons strained against the fullness of her chest, the pregnancy rounding her body in a way her tight skirt, and fitted shirt, could no longer hide.
Her pleated skirt, meant to be a modest length, rode scandalously high over her thick thighs, evidence that nothing in her closet fit her properly anymore.
She had tried to make adjustments, but the fabric clung to her like a second skin, leaving every curve on display.
Her hair was styled in waist-length, thick, tightly coiled curls, parted to the side, cascading down her back, like a halo of dark silk.
Even pinned at the crown with gold accents, a few stubborn ringlets framed her face, bouncing with every frustrated movement, as she attempted to discreetly pull the fabric of her shirt down.
I recognized the stubborn tilt of her head, the way her full lips pursed as she exhaled sharply, trying to make herself smaller, despite the attention she naturally commanded.
It didn’t work.
Zara had always been stunning, but now? She was impossible to ignore.
Her shoulders stiffened the moment she sensed me. She turned, her eyes locking onto mine, and I watched as realization dawned, followed by dread.
“No,” she whispered, clutching her book tighter. “Not here.”
A slow smile tugged at my lips. “Here. Now.”
She took a step back, eyes darting to the hallway, like she was weighing her odds. But it was too late. Before she could run, I closed the distance, my hand curling around her wrist. Her pulse fluttered wildly beneath my fingers.
“You’re coming with me,” I said, voice low and final.
“Sterling, I have class,” she yanked back, her voice low, panicked, desperate.
I tilted my head. “Not anymore. Your professor will understand.”
“What are you doing?” she asked, her voice suddenly shaking. “Why are you acting like-”
Her eyes locked onto mine, and I saw the moment it clicked.
Her breath caught. “Sterling… where are you taking me?”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to. The truth was already crawling up her spine.
“This is insane,” she hissed, digging her heels in, as I started pulling her toward the car. “You can’t just show up and-”
“No,” I leaned in, my lips brushing her ear. “No, my little hummingbird. This is fate.”
Her silence was thick with dread. She wasn’t confused anymore. She knew. She just didn’t know how to stop it.
The chapel was small, hidden, meant for secrets. The Kingsley Family Trust Pastor, Reverend Elijah Cross, stood at the altar, like he’d buried a hundred deals before this one. His presence was unshakable. Clean-cut suit. Sharp eyes. A man who knew how to keep his mouth shut for the right price.
We arrived together in silence. I drove, while she stared out the window, lips pressed tight, clutching her stomach, like it might save her from what waited ahead.
When we got there, Malachi was already waiting.
Isaiah wasn’t. He was still recovering from an incident last week.
Frankie said the bullet missed anything vital, but rest was non-negotiable.
I didn’t drag her in, like some barbarian.
I guided her, firm but careful, into the private dressing suite the team had prepared.
The room was warm, softly lit, a full vanity setup glittering with untouched brushes and shimmer palettes.
A floor-length mirror leaned against the wall, flanked by plush seating and a silver cart, stacked with glass bottles and finger foods.
The dress was already displayed on a mannequin. Her name, ZARA, embroidered in gold on a silk hanger. Frankie had pulled every string to make sure it was perfect.
Zara didn’t speak as they undid the buttons of her coat. Didn’t fight as they led her to the chair, gently tilting her chin, threading pins through her coils with reverence. It wasn’t a bridal suite.
It was a war tent. And she was the prize.
I watched it all from the doorway. Not because I doubted them, but because she needed to see me there. Watching. Owning it.
This wasn’t romance.
It was a message: I would give her the illusion of softness, so long as she never forgot who held the leash.
She didn’t know I had called in favors, the moment my mother barged into the bathroom last week, gasping like a woman betrayed.
That same night, I sent out orders to the tailor in Milan, the stylist from Brooklyn, and Frankie, who always knew how to spin luxury out of chaos.
I gave them forty-eight hours, and a blank check.
Zara wouldn’t have the kind of wedding she dreamed of, but she wouldn’t feel discarded either.
The dress wasn’t white by accident, it was ivory silk, hand-cut to stretch and mold around the swell of her stomach, corseted at the waist, with lace sourced from the same French mill that dressed Monaco’s elite.
The veil was soft tulle, with tiny pearls sewn into the edge, by women who didn’t blink at rush jobs when the Kingsleys called.
Her hair was pinned high in coils, her crown understated, but royal.
Even the perfume misted on her collarbones was intentional, the same scent she wore when we were kids, and she thought I didn’t notice.
She came out of the back suite a full fifteen minutes later, flanked by two of the stylists. She didn’t walk like a bride. She moved like she was headed to her own funeral. But she looked... breathtaking.
The ivory clung to her like devotion. Her lips had been tinted a dark wine, her lashes thick and curled.
Even the ring I placed on her finger before she saw it, a rare-cut sapphire framed by white diamonds, had been chosen because it matched the night sky the first time she looked at me like I wasn’t just her stepbrother.
I didn’t speak until we were alone, my voice slicing through the tension. “You keep looking for an exit, like someone’s coming to save you.”
Her jaw clenched. “They’ll talk.”
“Let them.”
“Our parents recently got married,” she hissed, voice low and cutting. “People will say-”
“That I married my stepsister?” I tilted my head, unbothered. “Good. Let them be jealous that I had the balls to take what I wanted, while they hide behind generational shame.”
She flinched, but stood her ground. “Sterling, please. Not yet. Just... not like this. Let the dust settle. Give them time to forget.”
I studied her. Lips trembling. Chest rising fast. Not from fear, but exhaustion.
“They’ll eat me alive,” she added, softer now. “They’ll say I slept my way into the name.”
I let her cling to etiquette while I did the real math.
Forty-six hours until the board votes on my expansion.
Forty-six hours to prove I’m not a liability but a dynasty.
So I softened my tone, even as plans slotted into place like bullets in a clip; hush money for the pastor, a Cayman registrar, a honeymoon no paparazzo could track.
“Fine,” I lied, thumb circling the sapphire on her hand, “we’ll let the dust settle.” She’d call it mercy. I called it containment.
Her relief was instant, but not complete, as she nodded her consent.
I stepped closer, lowering my voice. “But make no mistake, Zara. You still belong to me. I don’t need the world to clap when I claim what’s already mine.”
She stiffened. “You don’t own me.”
“Oh, baby,” I murmured, brushing her curls back from her temple. “Every inch of you was bought and paid for, the moment you let that trust fund baby put his hands on you. I’m just the one writing the final check.”
“You’re disgusting.”
“No. I’m necessary.” I leaned in. “Men like me don’t beg. We build. We protect. We take. And we don’t apologize for preserving our bloodline. For keeping our empire tight. You’re not some wild flower I plucked for joy, Zara. You’re a resource.”
She recoiled like I’d slapped her.
“Don’t act surprised. You knew the game when you stepped onto the board.”
“I never had a choice.”
“You had one.” My voice dropped to a whisper. “You just didn’t make the right one.”
The pastor cleared his throat. “Shall we proceed?”
She didn’t move.
I took the pen, held it out.
She looked at it. Then at me.
“Why?” she whispered. “Why make it legal?”
I stepped in close. “Because the Kingsley Family Trust needs proof of your purity. They want signatures. Legalities. A compliant vessel for the next generation. They don’t care if you’re happy.
They care that your womb is under contract.
” My mouth curved, but there was no softness in it.
“You thought I meant I’d spare you? No, Zara.
I only meant I wouldn’t announce it until it was done.
Until you were mine on paper. They can’t stop this. No one can.”
Her breath hitched.
“This isn’t about love, Zara. This is about order. Control. You’re not marrying me because of some storybook fantasy. You’re marrying me because I’m the only man who looked at your ruined name and saw a future.”
She didn’t cry. She didn’t scream. She just took the pen, with fingers that shook, like they remembered every bruise that got her here.
And signed.
I followed suit. Quick. Brutal.
“It’s done,” Reverend Cross announced.
I turned to her. “You’re a Kingsley now. They can’t touch you.”
“They already did,” she whispered.
I kissed her. Not soft. Not sweet. Final.
And she kissed me back.
Because in this world?
Survival always tasted like surrender.