Half-brother
ARIANA'S POV
I stared at him like he’d stepped out of a nightmare I hadn’t realized I was having.
Tall, lean, maybe a year or two older than me—God, they had the same jawline. The same cutting cheekbones. The same unbothered tilt to our smirk when we were pissed off and pretending not to be.
The resemblance was so striking it stole the breath from my lungs.
I didn't need anyone to tell me who he was.
I already knew.
My father’s mistake. My secret brother.
But knowing who he was didn't answer the one question clawing at my throat like broken glass:
Why the hell was he here?
"What are you doing here?" I finally managed, my voice hoarse and barely above a whisper.
He tilted his head, amused. “That’s the greeting I get? No ‘thank you for coming’? No warm family hug?”
My fingers curled around the hospital blanket. “You’re not family.”
“Oh, I think we both know that’s not true.” He took another step closer, hands in his pockets like he owned the goddamn room. “Half of your blood runs through my veins, sweetheart. Whether you like it or not.”
I gritted my teeth. “I said—what are you doing here?”
He shrugged, casually, like he’d dropped in for coffee. “I heard my dear sister was in a car accident. Thought I’d come see how you were doing. That’s what caring brothers do, isn’t it?”
I let out a bitter laugh. “Or maybe you came to check if I was dead.”
He clucked his tongue and feigned a wince, like I’d wounded him. “So cynical. You wound me, truly.”
I glared. “Don’t play games with me. I know what you want.”
His eyes flickered—just a hint—but I saw it. The truth beneath the performance. The calculation hiding behind the charm.
“Isn’t it obvious?” I pressed. “You want the company.”
For a moment, the air between us stilled. Thickened.
His expression didn’t change right away. He just stood there, watching me. Like a wolf watching a rabbit decide whether to run.
And then, finally, he exhaled a slow breath, his smile curving, cold and cruel.
“Well,” he said, “yes. Of course I want it.”
He moved closer—two steps now, slow and deliberate—and his voice dropped a little lower. “But let’s be honest, sister. You don’t need to be dead for that to happen.”
My heart thudded in my chest.
He smiled.
“But,” he added, his eyes darkening, “if it does come to that…”
Something flickered in his gaze—something colder than ice, sharper than a blade.
“I’ll do what needs to be done.”
A chill swept down my spine. “You’re insane.”
“Maybe,” he said. “But I’m also very, very patient. You see, I’ve waited a long time for this. For my name to mean something. For my father’s empire—our father’s—to be mine.”
“You mean the father you never knew?” I spat. “The man who didn’t even acknowledge you?”
His jaw ticked, just slightly.
“Don’t pretend you’re here out of pride or legacy or love,” I said, venom lacing every word. “You’re here because you were raised on resentment. You’re here because bitterness is all you’ve ever known.”
“I’m here,” he said softly, “because I earned this. Everything you have was handed to you, Ariana. Silver spoon. Perfect little princess. You walked through life thinking the world bent for you.”
“You have no idea what you're talking about.”
He looked at me then, really looked. Something unreadable passed behind his eyes.
And then he laughed.
“You’re fiery,” he said. “I like that.”
“Go to hell.”
“I’m already there.” He stepped closer again, now standing at the foot of my bed. Too close. Too calm. He reached into his coat pocket, and I tensed.
But all he pulled out was a single, perfect black rose.
He twirled it between his fingers, then dropped it on the white hospital blanket, right over my lap.
My breath caught.
“What the hell is this supposed to mean?”
He leaned down—too close, so close I could see the flecks of gold in his irises—and looked me dead in the eyes.
“The Miller company will be mine.”
Silence.
Not a breath. Not a blink. Just that sentence—soft, confident, laced with poison.
Then, without another word, he turned and walked to the door.
Just before stepping out, he paused. His hand on the doorknob. Head tilted ever so slightly.
“You should rest, Ariana,” he said without turning around. “Big decisions are coming.”
And with that, the door clicked shut behind him.
I sat frozen, the black rose still resting on my lap, its thorny stem coiled like a warning.
I couldn’t breathe.
I couldn’t move.
All the air had been sucked out of the room, leaving behind only the echo of his threat and the faint, bitter scent of the flower.
I lifted it slowly, hands trembling, and stared at it.
So black it was almost unnatural. Its petals were soft but chilling. Its presence felt… wrong. Like something from a funeral.
And that’s exactly what it was.
A message.
A promise.
A fucking declaration of war.
My mind spun. I couldn’t tell if I wanted to scream or vomit or cry.
But I knew one thing with crystal clarity:
He wasn’t bluffing.
Whoever this man was—this stranger who shared my blood but none of my soul—he’d meant every word.
And if I didn’t find a way to stop him… he’d take everything.
My family’s legacy.
My company.
My life.
Suddenly, my phone buzzed on the tray beside me. I jumped, heart hammering in my chest, and grabbed it with a shaky hand.
Unknown number.
I stared at it, debating.
It buzzed again.
This time, a message.
I opened it.
“Nice seeing you, sis. Let’s do this again soon.”
I dropped the phone like it had burned me.
Tears sprang to my eyes, but I blinked them back. I’d cried enough.
I wasn’t going to sit here and be the victim.
I wasn’t going to let my father’s secret unravel everything I’d built.
I wasn’t going to let some bitter bastard with a rose and a grudge destroy me.
Not without a fight.
I stared at the rose again. My fingers tightened around it, thorns pricking into my skin—but I didn’t let go.
Let it hurt.
Let it bleed.
Let it remind me of what was at stake.
I didn’t know where he’d been hiding all these years. I didn’t know what he’d already set in motion behind the scenes.
But I did know this:
He’d come to play king.
But I wasn’t planning to bow.
Not now.
Not ever.
Let him come.
Let him try.
Because if he wanted war…
I’d show him what a Miller was really made of.
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