10. Harrison
HARRISON
Three weeks.
Three weeks since I claimed Holly publicly in front of our parents, our peers, and half of the city's elite. Three weeks since Arthur disowned me and Frances delivered her ultimatum. Three weeks since Holly chose me over everything else.
The fallout has been manageable. My professional relationships have strained—whispers follow me at business meetings, certain colleagues have become suddenly distant—but my reputation and success carry enough weight that I haven't lost any major accounts.
The Vale name still opens doors, even if some of those doors open more slowly now.
Social invitations have dried up completely. The scandal is too fresh, too uncomfortable. A forty-nine-year-old man with his twenty-year-old stepsister? The gossip spreads like wildfire through our circles, and polite society doesn't know how to handle it yet.
Arthur won't take my calls. Complete estrangement. I've tried reaching out twice, received nothing but silence in return. Frances has contacted Holly a handful of times—brief, cold conversations that leave Holly withdrawn and sad for hours afterward.
I expected consequences. I'm handling them.
What matters is that Holly is here, with me, and she's mine.
She's withdrawn from Ashford Sterling temporarily, planning to return next semester when things have settled.
For now, she's living with me full-time in the penthouse, adjusting to this new reality with remarkable resilience.
She spends her days reading, exploring the city, learning to cook in my expensive kitchen. She's adapting.
But I see the sadness when she thinks I'm not looking. The longing in her eyes when she scrolls past family photos on her phone. The way her expression shutters when Frances's name appears on her screen.
I'm determined to give her a future worth the sacrifice.
The bedroom door opens, pulling me from my thoughts.
Holly emerges wearing one of my dress shirts, the white cotton hanging to mid-thigh, her black hair messy from sleep.
She's barefoot, her freckles visible without makeup, looking impossibly young and beautiful in the morning light streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
I'm already dressed—charcoal slacks, black cashmere sweater—standing in the kitchen with coffee brewing. The rich aroma fills the open-concept space.
"Morning," Holly says, her voice still rough with sleep.
I cross to her, pull her close, and kiss her thoroughly. My hand slides into her hair, tilting her head back to deepen the kiss. She melts against me, soft and pliant and mine.
"Morning, stepsister."
Holly smiles against my lips. "Are you ever going to stop calling me that?"
"No. It's part of who we are."
"We're living together. We're out in the open. The taboo is kind of moot."
I pull back enough to look at her, my hand still tangled in her hair. "The taboo is part of the appeal. You're my stepsister and I claimed you anyway. I like reminding us both."
Holly rolls her eyes but doesn't argue. She's learned when to push back and when to accept my possessive nature. This is the latter.
I pour her coffee—cream, no sugar, exactly how she likes it—and hand her the mug. She wraps both hands around it, inhaling the steam.
"Get dressed," I say. "I'm taking you somewhere today."
Holly looks up at me, curious. "Where?"
"It's a surprise."
"Harrison—"
"Trust me."
She searches my face, then nods. "Okay. Give me twenty minutes."
"Take your time."
I watch her walk back to the bedroom, the shirt riding up slightly with each step, revealing the curve of her ass. The possessive satisfaction that floods through me is visceral and absolute.
She's mine. And today, I'm going to make that official.
An hour later, I pull my Mercedes into a parking space outside Whitmore & Co., one of the city's most exclusive jewelry stores. The building is discreet—elegant stone facade, minimal signage—catering to clients who value privacy and quality over flashy displays.
Holly looks at the storefront, then at me. "Harrison, what are we doing here?"
"You'll see."
I guide her inside with a hand on the small of her back. The interior is sophisticated and hushed: plush carpet, soft lighting, glass cases displaying pieces that cost more than most people's cars. Classical music plays quietly in the background.
A sales associate approaches immediately. "Mr. Vale, welcome. We have the pieces you requested set aside."
"Excellent."
Holly's eyes widen. "Harrison?—"
"This way." I guide her toward a private viewing room at the back of the store.
The room is intimate—comfortable chairs, a polished table, more controlled lighting. The associate gestures for us to sit, then disappears briefly.
"What's going on?" Holly asks, her voice uncertain.
"Patience."
The associate returns carrying a velvet-lined tray. On it are six engagement rings, each one a masterpiece: different cuts, different settings, all clearly expensive and flawless. The diamonds catch the light, throwing rainbows across the table.
Holly's breath catches. "Harrison?—"
I take her hands, turn her to face me fully. Her brown eyes are wide, her freckled face flushed.
"Holly Pierce, I love you. You've sacrificed everything to be with me, and I want to give you a future that makes it worth it."
"What are you saying?" Her voice trembles.
"I'm saying I want to marry you. Legally, officially. I want you to be my wife, not just my stepsister I'm sleeping with."
Tears fill her eyes. "We've only been together a few months?—"
"I'm forty-nine years old. I know what I want, and I want you. Forever. Will you marry me?"
Holly doesn't hesitate. "Yes. Yes, of course."
Relief and satisfaction surge through me. I reach for the ring I selected in advance—an emerald-cut diamond, three carats, flawless clarity, set in platinum with smaller stones along the band. It's elegant and sophisticated, exactly right for her.
I slide it onto her finger. It fits perfectly.
Holly stares at it, her tears spilling over. "It's too much?—"
"Nothing is too much for you."
I kiss her deeply, possessively, right there in the jewelry store. She tastes like tears and coffee and everything I need. When I pull back, the associate is discreetly looking away, a small smile on his face.
"We'll take it," I say.
"Excellent choice, Mr. Vale."
Holly can't stop looking at the ring as we leave the store. She turns her hand in the sunlight, watching the diamond sparkle.
"I can't believe you did that," she says quietly.
"Believe it."
"It must have cost?—"
"Don't worry about the cost. That's my concern, not yours."
She looks up at me, her expression soft and overwhelmed. "I love you."
"I love you too." I open the car door for her. "Now we have one more stop."
The city registrar's office is significantly less elegant than the jewelry store—bureaucratic and functional, with fluorescent lighting and tired chairs. But it serves its purpose.
We approach the information desk, and I explain what we need. The clerk directs us to the marriage license section.
The clerk there is a middle-aged woman with reading glasses and a professional demeanor. She reviews our identification, asks standard questions, and types our information into her computer.
"You'll need to apply for the license, wait the required period, then you can have a civil ceremony here or arrange a private ceremony elsewhere."
"How long is the waiting period?" I ask.
"Two weeks."
"We'll submit the application today."
She nods and prints out the necessary forms. Holly and I fill them out side by side, our shoulders touching. The clerk notices the age difference—impossible not to—but says nothing, remaining professional.
When we finish, she stamps the documents and hands us a receipt. "You'll receive notification when your license is ready. Congratulations."
"Thank you."
Outside, the afternoon sun is bright and warm. Holly stops on the sidewalk, looking down at the ring on her finger, then up at me.
"This is really happening."
"Did you think I wasn't serious?"
"I knew you were serious. But marriage? So soon?"
"Why wait? We've already faced the worst consequences. We might as well have the legal commitment to show for it."
Holly's expression falters slightly. "What about our parents?"
My jaw tightens. "What about them? They made their choice. We'll make ours."
"I wish they could be there."
I soften, cup her face in my hands. "I know, baby. Maybe someday they will be. But if not, we'll have each other."
"That's enough," Holly whispers.
"More than enough."
I kiss her forehead, then guide her back to the car. The tension eases from her shoulders as we drive, the engagement ring catching light every time she moves her hand.
Back at the penthouse, I open a bottle of champagne I've been saving—Dom Pérignon, 2008, worth more than most people's monthly rent. I pour two glasses and hand one to Holly.
"To my beautiful fiancée."
Holly smiles, raises her glass. "To my distinguished fiancé."
I raise an eyebrow. "Distinguished?"
"You're a silver fox. Distinguished, sophisticated, sexy as hell."
"You have a thing for older men, stepsister?"
"Just one older man. My stepbrother."
The playful banter shifts, heat replacing levity. I set my glass down, my eyes locked on hers.
"Come here."
Holly sets down her glass and moves to me. I pull her onto my lap, her thighs straddling mine, the skirt of her dress riding up. The diamond on her finger sparkles as she wraps her arms around my neck.
"I'm going to make you so happy, Holly. I promise."
"You already do."
"Let me show you just how much I love you."
I stand, lifting her with me. She gasps and clings to me as I carry her to the bedroom. The afternoon light fills the space, warm and golden. I lay her on the bed, follow her down, caging her beneath me.
"My fiancée," I murmur, kissing her neck. "My future wife."
"Say it again." Her voice is breathless.
"My wife. You're going to be my wife, Holly."
The word transforms everything. Makes it real and permanent and inevitable. I watch her face as it sinks in—the wonder, the joy, the certainty.
I undress her slowly, reverently. Her dress comes off first, then her bra, her panties.
Each piece of clothing reveals more of her pale skin, her soft curves, her perfect body.
The freckles across her nose and cheeks, the way her nipples peak in the cool air, the wetness already glistening between her thighs.
I remove my own clothes, dropping them beside the bed. Holly's gaze travels over my body—my tattooed chest and arms, my broad shoulders, my hardening cock. Her eyes darken with want.
"I can't wait to marry you," she whispers.
"Neither can I. I want you tied to me legally, permanently. No escape."
"I don't want to escape."
"Good. Because I'm never letting you go."
I spread her thighs, position myself between them. My cock presses against her entrance, already slick and ready. I enter her slowly, savoring every inch as her tight pussy stretches around me.
"Fuck," I groan. "So perfect."
Holly's hands grip my shoulders, her nails digging in. "Harrison?—"
I set a deep, measured rhythm, pulling out almost completely before thrusting back in. Each stroke deliberate and controlled, designed to make her feel every inch of me.
"This pussy is mine. You're mine. My stepsister, my fiancée, soon my wife."
"Yours. Always yours."
"Damn right."
I increase the pace, thrusting harder, deeper. The headboard hits the wall with each stroke. Holly's breasts bounce, her back arches, her mouth falls open.
"Harrison—please?—"
"Please what, baby?"
"Harder—I need?—"
I grin wickedly. "Need your stepbrother to fuck you harder?"
"Yes—God, yes?—"
I comply, pounding into her with controlled force. The sound of skin slapping skin fills the room, mixed with her gasps and moans. Her pussy clenches around my cock, wet and hot and gripping me tight.
"Taking my cock so well," I growl. "Such a perfect little wife for me. Gonna keep you full of my cock every day."
"Yes—want that—want you?—"
I reach between us, rub her clit in firm circles. "Come for me, fiancée. Show me how much you love being mine."
Holly's orgasm hits hard. Her pussy clenches and spasms around my cock, her whole body trembling beneath me.
"Harrison—fuck—I love you?—"
The sight and feel of her coming undone triggers my own release. I thrust deep and come, groaning her name.
"Love you—my wife—mine?—"
My cum floods her pussy, filling her, marking her from the inside. The pulsing of my cock matches the clenching of her pussy, both of us riding out the waves together.
I collapse onto her, careful not to crush her with my weight. We're both breathing hard, still connected, our bodies slick with sweat.
"In two weeks, we'll be married," I murmur against her neck.
"I can't wait."
"Neither can I. You're mine forever, stepsister. Legally, officially, irreversibly."
"Forever," Holly whispers, her fingers tracing the lines of my tattoos.
I roll onto my back, pulling her with me so she's draped across my chest. The engagement ring catches the light, the diamond brilliant and unmistakable.
My stepsister. My fiancée. Soon, my wife.
Worth every consequence. Every sacrifice. Every judgment.
She's mine.
And nothing—not our parents, not society, not the decades between us—will ever change that.