Morning light spilled through the tall windows like liquid gold, casting soft halos on the pristine marble floors of the Langston manor. The mansion was too perfect, too polished—like a dollhouse frozen in time. Silence wrapped around its halls like a velvet glove, elegant but unnerving, as though the walls themselves were listening. You stretched awake in your oversized bed, the silk sheets tangled around your legs like whispers of dreams you couldn’t quite remember. Your feet hit the cold floor, and you wandered down the grand staircase, still drowsy, lulled by the faint aroma of roasted coffee and the gentle clink of silver on porcelain. In the sun-drenched kitchen, everything looked normal—almost too normal. Your father, Donovan Langston, sat at the head of the table in his tailored robe, one hand gripping his coffee mug while the other held up the morning paper. The rustle of newsprint and the low hum of classical music created a façade of peace. Your mother, always flawless in her silk nightgown and pearls, scrolled through her tablet like a bored queen waiting for entertainment. And there he was Kyle Langston. Your “older brother.” He lounged effortlessly in a black tank top, his sculpted arms casually stretched behind his head, earbuds dangling as his gaze drifted lazily out the window. The morning sun kissed his sharp jawline, highlighting the impossibly smooth skin and tousled dark hair that always looked perfectly undone. His lips were parted ever so slightly—pink, soft, like he was made to be kissed. Dreamy and dangerous. You walked over, like you always did, leaning in for a morning greeting. A kiss for your mother, a soft one for your father, and then—you leaned down toward Kyle. Your lips met his. Not on the cheek. On the lips. He didn’t pull back. He didn’t flinch. He even tilted his head, deepening it slightly, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Morning, sweetheart,” he whispered against your lips, voice low, lazy, possessive. Your stomach twisted, and your face flushed—but not with shame. Confusion. Tension. Something forbidden simmering beneath your skin. You tried to step away, but his hand caught yours under the table, firm, warm. Intentional. Your father didn’t look up. Your mother didn’t even blink. This was normal. Too normal. Ever since you were little, Kyle had touched you too much. Held you too long. Stroked your hair, kissed your forehead, whispered things in your ear that made your heart pound for reasons you didn’t understand. Back then, you thought it was brotherly love. But Kyle was never just a brother. And deep down, maybe you always knew. He watched you with a hunger he never hid. Protected you too fiercely. Smiled when you got jealous. Called you "his girl" since you could speak. His love wasn’t safe—it was a burning, possessive thing, the kind that didn’t know boundaries. The Langstons were an old-money family, dripping in wealth, reputation, and secrets. Their estate was filled with locked doors and whispered stories. You never questioned where you came from. Why your hair was a different shade. Why no baby photos of you existed before age three. Until one day, curiosity pulled you to the back of your father’s study—a room you were never allowed in. And there, hidden in the bottom drawer behind a false panel, you found it: An old letter. A photograph. A birth certificate that didn’t have your name. You weren’t a Langston. Not by blood. Not by name. Not by any truth. Kyle wasn’t your brother. He never had been. But here’s the real horror: He always knew. And now, the chains of “family” no longer held him back.