Sinful Stepbrother (Stepbrother Obsession #2)

1. Alex

Alex

Divorce.

It’s the kind of word you never expect to hear from the lips of the woman you love. At first, it caught me by surprise, making my heart stutter. It’s the sort of word that happens to other people. To my parents. But not me. Not here. Not… now.

“I… I’m sorry,” I said, summoning up an amount of denial that seemed unhealthy. “I didn’t hear you.”

Amanda let out a long sigh, shaking her head. “I said I wanted a divorce, Alex. Don’t make me say it again.”

“And you chose… now to tell me this?” I whispered, anger flaring in my belly. “Five minutes before I’m supposed to accept an award?”

“I’ve been trying to find the right moment for weeks,” she began.

“This is the right moment, Amanda?!”

“You’re always at work, Alex!” she spat back. “Always on a golf trip or at a meeting or flying somewhere to meet some investor. You’re never home! When the hell was I supposed to tell you?”

I gritted my teeth. “Well, not right now, that’s for damn sure. Do you know how bad the optics are on this? You doing this is going to ruin my career. Is that really what you want?”

“You see? This is why I want a divorce.”

I let out a long sigh. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

But she didn’t budge an inch. “Think about what you just said, Alex,” she said slowly.

“You didn’t tell me you loved me, that you were sorry you'd been gone so much, or that you even cared about our relationship. The only thing you mentioned was your career taking a hit.” She stared long and hard, letting her words sink in.

“This isn’t a relationship. It’s a prison. ”

“But I do love you!”

“No, you don’t,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m just a trophy for you to parade around.”

“Since when has that been an issue?” I barked, anger getting the best of me. “I’ve never heard you complain about the fancy cars or the jewelry I bought you with all those late nights and business trips.” It was a cheap shot, and I knew it. But I was angry and I didn’t care.

Behind us, I heard the announcer call my name from beyond the curtain. It was time to accept my award.

“And you haven’t been home long enough to realize I’ve been fucking the pool boy for months,” she shot back, the hurt evident in her eyes. “So go fuck yourself, Alex.”

She turned and stormed off, disappearing through the side exit just as the applause from the auditorium swelled. I stood there frozen, my brain struggling to process what had just happened.

The pool boy? Months?

The stage manager appeared, clipboard in hand. “Mr. Whitlow? You’re up.” He gestured toward the stage.

I straightened my tie mechanically, my fingers trembling.

The spotlights blinded me as I walked out, the weight of a thousand eyes pressing down.

I couldn’t see faces, just a sea of shadows and the glint of expectant smiles.

The presenter handed me the crystal award.

It was heavy, cold, and suddenly meaningless in my palm.

“Thank you,” I heard myself say, my voice surprisingly steady.

I pulled out a small piece of paper, my acceptance speech already written down.

It had been for weeks. “This is such an honor to receive this award from you all: my colleagues, friends, and supporters.” I read on.

“But it also wouldn’t be possible without the unwavering support of my loving wife, Amanda. ”

The words from my prepared speech fell from my lips like stones. Each mention of family, of partnership, of shared sacrifice twisted the knife deeper. The audience laughed at my practiced jokes and applauded my humble references to teamwork.

They couldn’t see that I was hemorrhaging inside. That my heart was breaking.

“...and so I’d like to thank my beautiful wife for being my rock through all the late nights and missed anniversaries. For forgiving me for the long trips while I built us a life and a company we could all be proud of. Thank you.”

I finished to thunderous applause, smiling and nodding like a wind-up toy.

But that’s what I was, wasn’t I? Everything I did was for the good of the company.

And all the while, I’d been slowly destroying my home life in the process, sacrificing my life for a woman that clearly didn’t give a fuck about me.

As I made my way off stage, someone handed me a glass of champagne. I downed it in one gulp, desperate for the burn of alcohol to distract me from the crushing realization that my entire life was collapsing around me.

“Congratulations, Alex!” A colleague slapped my back. “Brilliant speech. Amanda looked stunning tonight. Where’d she run off to?”

“She had an emergency,” I lied, my voice hollow. “Something about her mother.”

For the next two hours, I performed the role of gracious winner. I shook hands, laughed at jokes I didn’t hear, and accepted congratulations that felt like sandpaper against my skin. All while my mind replayed Amanda’s words on a vicious loop.

Fucking the pool boy for months.

We didn’t even have a pool boy. We had a service that came twice a month. He was some college kid named Tyler who wore too-tight shorts and always asked Amanda if she wanted lemonade.

Tyler. Fucking Tyler.

“Alex, the investors from Singapore want a word,” the company CFO whispered in my ear.

I nodded mechanically and followed him to a corner of the ballroom where three men in impeccable suits stood waiting.

I talked numbers and projections while inside I calculated how long Amanda’s affair had been going on.

Six months? A year? While I was building an empire for us to rule, she was dismantling our marriage.

I thought I was being a good husband and giving her everything she wanted.

Wasn’t that what love was? So why didn’t she love me back?

By midnight, the ballroom had thinned out. I stood at the bar, staring at the amber liquid in my glass. It was my fourth or fifth, maybe? I’d lost count. My phone buzzed in my pocket.

Amanda: I’ll be staying at my sister’s. I’ve already called the lawyers. Don’t fight me on this, Alex.

I laughed bitterly, drawing a concerned look from the bartender. Fight her? What was there to fight for? A marriage that was apparently dead long before I realized it? My only saving grace was that I’d been gone too much for us to have kids yet. Thank God for that, I guess.

“Another,” I said, sliding my empty glass across the bar.

“Mr. Whitlow,” the bartender said carefully, “perhaps I should call you a car?”

“I have a driver,” I snapped, then immediately regretted my tone. It wasn’t his fault my life was in shambles. “Sorry. I… I think you’re right. Yes, please call my car.”

Outside, the night air hit me like a slap. I loosened my tie and gulped in oxygen that did nothing to clear my head. My driver, Henry, stood by the car door, face carefully neutral as I stumbled toward him.

“Home, sir?”

Home. The word felt strange now. A two-million-dollar mausoleum where my marriage had died without my noticing.

“No,” I said suddenly. “I don’t want to go home.”

“Sir?” Henry raised an eyebrow.

“A hotel,” I repeated firmly. “I need a night away. Anything that has a halfway decent room.”

I pulled out my phone as Henry drove, scrolling through my contacts.

My finger hovered over my brother’s name.

Well, my stepbrother technically. Then my mom’s and my stepdad’s.

It had been nearly a year since we’d all seen each other.

I’d missed Christmas with them thanks to an emergency trip to Singapore. I wondered if they even cared.

Pulling up the family group chat, I started to type.

Me: Amanda left me. She said she’s been cheating on me for months because I’m not around enough. Go figure. The first thing she hopped on after getting a ring from me was some other guy’s cock

I paused, rereading the message. Then decided I wasn’t quite drunk enough to say that to my own mother and promptly deleted it.

Instead, I wrote:

Me: Amanda and I are getting a divorce. Her idea. I’ll phone in the details once I know more.

That was perfect. Cold, corporate, and it wouldn’t get me in trouble in court. I hit send before I could overthink it and turned my phone off. The last thing I wanted to do tonight was explain this to anyone.

Ten minutes later, Henry dropped me at the front door of a nice hotel where the manager was already waiting for me.

“Mr. Whitlow,” he said, giving a small bow. There were dark circles under his eyes and his tie was off-center. He must’ve been asleep when Henry called. “We have a room waiting for you. A suite on the tenth floor.”

“Thank you,” I said, trying to maintain some semblance of dignity despite the alcohol sloshing through my system. “I appreciate your discretion.”

The manager nodded, seemingly unfazed by my disheveled appearance. “Of course, sir. Is there anything else you require tonight?”

What I required was to turn back time. To catch that first moment when Amanda had started looking elsewhere. To have noticed the signs that must have been there all along. How could I have been so blind?

“Just privacy,” I managed to say.

He handed me a keycard and directed me toward the elevator.

As the doors closed, I caught my reflection in the mirrored walls.

The tousled blonde hair, bloodshot blue eyes, and my custom tuxedo now looking like an expensive costume.

The man who’d stood so confidently backstage just hours ago was gone.

All that was left behind was a hollow shell of a person filled with nothing but anger.

The suite was immaculate, all clean lines and tasteful but boring decor.

I tossed my award onto the king-sized bed, where it bounced once before settling against the pillows.

The crystal caught the light from the bedside lamp, refracting it across the ceiling.

For what? Years of sacrifice, of missed dinners and postponed vacations, of “just one more meeting” and “I’ll make it up to you”.

And what did I have to show for it now? A fancy paperweight and a bank account that was no doubt going to be a lot lighter once Amanda got done with me.

I poured myself another drink from the minibar and shrugged off my jacket, tossing it onto the sofa.

It banged against the wall loudly. That would be my phone.

And for half a second, I thought of turning it on.

My mother would probably be losing her mind already.

But I just couldn’t bring myself to care right now.

Instead, I walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows and looked out at the city lights below.

Somewhere out there, Amanda was probably crying on her sister’s shoulder, painting me as the villain.

The workaholic husband who never had time for her.

And maybe she was right. But also, maybe she could’ve said something instead of riding a college kid.

And fucking Tyler? Really? Jesus Christ.

I pressed my forehead against the cool glass.

The truth was, I’d built everything, including the company, the house, and the life, for us.

For her. Because we loved each other. At least that’s what I told myself.

That’s what I’d been taught was the right thing to do and feel.

But standing here now, award won and marriage lost, I had to wonder why the hell I’d ever let anyone talk me into this idea of a perfect life.

I tipped my drink back, draining the glass in a single gulp.

Starting now, I wasn’t going to live that life anymore. I didn’t want the job, the cars, the money… and I sure as fuck didn’t want another wife.

Turning around, I pressed my back against the glass and slid down the wall.

With lazy, drunken movements, I managed to kick off my shoes before turning over and curling up on the floor.

I couldn’t stand the thought of a soft bed or comfort of any kind.

Someone as stupid as me didn’t deserve that.

Instead, I pulled my knees to my chest and stared into the dusty, neglected underside of the suite sofa, the true lesson of my life crystallizing into one concise thought.

Love wasn’t real. And I would never love anyone again.