Revenge Romancing His Brother

1. Noelle

NOELLE

I’m practically vibrating with excitement as the elevator shoots up the floors. I giggle to myself as I peek into the gold-foiled gift bag dangling from my wrist. A vintage Cabernet and a box of hand-painted truffles—the kind Graham pretends not to like but finishes in a single sitting.

Today is our anniversary. Three years of building, supporting, and cementing our place as the company's most formidable power couple.

I watch the floor numbers climb in a rhythmic, ascending glow. Forty-two. Forty-three. Forty-four. With every beep, my heart knocks a little harder against my ribs.

I have the key to the penthouse, but the real gift is the surprise. Graham expects me to be at my apartment where he can pick me up in two hours. He doesn't expect me here, with a bottle of wine and every salacious desire I can fit into my head.

The elevator doors ding open to the penthouse suite. The air is cool, filtered to perfection, and smells of expensive sandalwood candles. I kick off my heels immediately, the marble floor cold beneath my soles. I don’t want a single click of a stiletto to give me away.

I tiptoe toward the towering glass doors at the end of the hallway, practically holding my breath, then push one open just an inch, poking my head through like a thief. The living room is bathed in the orange glow of the setting sun.

No one in sight. Perfect.

I slip inside, my feet sinking into the plush carpeting.

I move past the long mahogany dining table, past the minimalist bar where we’ve shared a thousand late-night strategies, and into the secondary hallway.

The dim blue strip lights lining the baseboards cast an ethereal, underwater glow on the walls.

Then, I stop.

My eyes adjust to the shadows. There’s a trail on the floor: a navy blazer, a silk tie, a pair of lace-trimmed underwear that I’ve never seen before in my life.

The bedroom door is slightly ajar. From the gap, a sound drifts out—a low, rhythmic moan that curdles the blood in my veins.

“Oh, dear!”

I spin around, nearly dropping the wine. Sheila, the housekeeper, is standing behind me, her face a mask of profound, weary pity. Her hands are twisted in her apron.

“Come away now, Miss Noelle.” She reaches for me, her voice a frantic, hushed whisper. “I wouldn't go in there if I were you.”

I shirk from her grasp, my body moving on instinct. My brain is trying to process the clothes on the floor, the sound from the room, and the look in Sheila's eyes, but the gears are jamming. “Why, Sheila? Who’s in there?”

I’m backtracking now, drawn to the door by a sick, magnetic force.

“Please, Miss. No.”

Sheila moves toward me, her pace increasing, but I’m faster. My back hits the heavy oak door, which gives way under my weight, and I tumble backward, landing butt-first onto the tufted bedside rug.

A woman’s shriek pierces the air.

“Sheila! I told you not to let in any visitors!” came a man's voice. Graham's.

The bedside lamp clicked on, flooding the room in blinding yellow light. I blink, my vision clearing to find four of us frozen in a grotesque tableau.

Graham has the sheets bunched at his waist, but doesn't look startled. If anything, he looks annoyed.

Visitor? Surely, I didn't hear that correctly.

I am the woman who helped him navigate the boardrooms after his father stepped down, handled his PR disasters, and shared his bed for several hundred nights.

“Visitor?” The words escape my lips in a whisper.

My gaze drifts to the woman beside him. She’s clutching the high-thread-count duvet to her chest, her blonde tousled from messing about with Graham.

Vanessa?

My assistant. The girl I hired because she seemed desperate and loyal. Apparently, she’s gone from managing my calendar to my man.

“I didn’t hear her come in, Mr. Whitmore,” Sheila says from the doorway, her voice trembling. “I was making dinner.”

“That’s it, Sheila. You’re fired!” Graham snaps.

“Mr. Whitmore?—”

“Beat it, you old bag!” Vanessa sneers at the housekeeper with a sharp, unearned confidence. “You heard him.”

Sheila whimpers, her hands flying to her mouth as she flees the room.

The sound of her retreating footsteps is the only thing moving in the penthouse.

I grab the edge of the velvet ottoman by the foot of the bed, and haul myself to my feet.

My gift bag lies forgotten on the floor, the bottle of wine probably cracked, the truffles a bruised mess.

“Graham?” I ask, hoping this is a glitch, a joke, and someone would jump out of the shadows with a camera to reveal it's one horrible, distasteful prank.

He sighs, long, theatrical, exasperated. “Elle.”

“Vanessa?” I glance at my assistant who doesn't have the decency to look ashamed. She pouts, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, and looks away. “Why? What is going on? Why is she in our bed?”

“You mean my bed?” Graham corrects me.

The correction slices through the last shred of my denial.

This fucker isn't sorry. He isn't even pretending to be caught, merely claiming territory.

“Could you give us some privacy, Noelle?” Vanessa says, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. “You’re kind of killing the vibe. You ruined my third orgasm.”

The Lion, the Witch, and the audacity of this bitch!

I feel the bile rising in my throat. “Why?”

Vanessa laughs and loops her slender arms around Graham’s neck, planting a lingering, possessive kiss on his shoulder.

“I don't know what to tell you, Noelle,” she purrs. “I saw what I liked, and I took it.”

“Graham, how could you?” My voice is breaking. Hot tears well in my eyes, blurring my sight. “Three years. Everything we built. How could you?”

“How could I what, Noelle?”

Graham throws the covers back without a care for his nudity. He stands up and waltzes towards me, his physique lean and athletic—and I restrain myself from looking down. He carries himself with the casual arrogance of a king.

“I’m a wealthy man,” he says, stopping inches from me. The scent of them—sex and sweat and her cheap perfume—is overwhelming. “I can have my pick of any woman. I can do anything I want.”

“What about us?” I struggle to keep my voice at a respectable volume. “What about our life? Our plans?”

“What about them?” He tilts his head, his tone mocking. “Relationships end, Elle. Don’t be naive.”

“That’s it? Relationships end?” I grind my teeth, willing myself to not implode.

“That’s the best you can give me? After three years of me making you one of the most respected members of the company?

I polished you, Graham. I made people forget you were just a trust-fund brat with a mean streak.

And you throw all of that away for the first whore you see? ”

“Fuck you!” Vanessa screams from the bed. “We’ve been dating for a year!”

The air leaves my lungs, but I recover quickly.

“Shut up!” I snap at her without looking, my eyes locked on Graham. “A year? You mean to tell me I came home every night to lie in a bed you already shared with my own fucking assistant?”

Graham scoffs, moving to the dresser to grab a cigar sitting in a glass ashtray.

“First of all, whatever helps you sleep at night, Elle. The way I see it, I’ve got the money.

Whether you were in the picture or not is irrelevant in the grand scheme of things.

I come from money, Noelle. I’ve known respect all my life, even if I have to buy it.

And when people refuse to heel… well, I just make them fear me, don’t I? ”

He smiles, and I spot the hollowness behind it. “Secondly, what even is time, am I right?”

“Why, Graham?” Tears cloud my vision, but I blink them away. “Just… why?”

“Because I can.” He lights the cigar, the smoke curling around his head. “Sometimes, you tire of your old toys. You want something new. Something… exciting. Riveting.”

As he speaks, his gaze drops to Vanessa, and I watch with detached horror as he reacts to his own words, reaching down to stroke his hardening dick with casual lewdness.

“You, my butterfly, are replaceable,” he says, walking towards me as if to touch my cheek. “You always were.”

I step back and he stops his approach.

“I thought I was your butterfly,” Vanessa coos from the pillows.

“You are, my dear,” Graham says, glancing over his shoulder. “I bought the whole damn lepidopterarium.” He blows her a kiss, and she actually blushes.

I stand there, looking at them, partly mortified, partly expecting to wake up from this sick dream.

“Say,” Graham turns back to me, his hand still firmly around himself. “Since you're already here… care to make it French?”

“What?”

“A ménage à trois,” he cackles, “If you catch my drift. Might be the only way you keep a roof over your head, considering I own the lease on your apartment, too.”

“You’re a sick man, Graham.”

He laughs, a deep, guttural sound, and turns his back on me. “Don't let the door hit you on your way out, Noelle.”

He falls back into bed, into Vanessa’s eager arms. They begin to kiss with a performative, reckless abandon, the sounds of their wet, frantic mouth-work filling the room.

I can stand here and look pitiful, or I could move and start to put all of this behind me. I choose the latter, turning to the floor-to-ceiling wardrobe.

I snatch a suitcase from the top shelf and fling it onto the floor, then begin grabbing handfuls of silk, cashmere, and wool, shoving them into the case. Behind me, Vanessa starts to moan again, louder this time.

I block it out, zip up the suitcase, and march out of the bedroom, through the blue-lit hallway, across the marble foyer, and I don't look back at the world crumbling behind me.

I reach the elevator and hit the button with a trembling finger. The doors slide open instantly, revealing Edward in the cabin, Graham’s older brother.

Thankfully, one Whitmore brother is fully clothed

Edward is dressed in a charcoal suit and an unreadable facial expression.

He looks at me—really looks at me—and then his eyes drop to the suitcase. He doesn't ask. I don't think I've heard him speak outside of board meetings.

I step to the side and wait for him to get off, half expecting some platitude or a smug comment. He offers none; simply nods, a brief acknowledgment of my existence, and steps out into the foyer.

I get into the elevator and press ‘G’.