Jamieson's boots hit the marble stairs with a deliberate thud, each step a small rebellion against the silence he'd been ordered to keep.
The cellar air was cool and damp, thick with the scent of oak barrels and aged Cabernet. He didn't need the flashlight on his phone; he knew every crevice of this house, every shadow his father had cast over him since he was old enough to lift a hammer.
Nineteen now, six-three, shoulders carved from years of hauling lumber and swinging tools under his old man's barked commands, Jamieson moved like a man who could break the world if he chose to.
But tonight, he chose not to. Not yet.
Upstairs, the family chambers pulsed with low laughter and the clink of crystal.
His father's annual "inner circle" gathering—only blood allowed past the velvet rope. Jamieson had been summoned not as a son but as staff. Tray of flutes in one hand, bottle of '98 Dom Pérignon in the other, he'd threaded through the room like a ghost.
His father, Victor Hargrove, lounged at the head of the leather sectional, suit jacket slung over the armrest, tie loosened just enough to signal power without effort. At fifty-two, Victor still turned heads—silver at the temples, jaw like cut granite, the kind of face that closed deals before words were spoken.
Across from him sat Elias, the golden firstborn, thirty-two, investment banker, smug in a Tom Ford suit that cost more than most men's cars. Elias had the same height as Jamieson but none of the bulk; his strength was in boardrooms, in knowing which fork to use, in the way their mother's eyes softened when he spoke.
And then there was Valentina, twenty-eight, legs for days, hair a black waterfall down her back, cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass. She wore emerald silk that clung like it had been painted on, laughing at something Elias whispered.
Their mother—Lourdes—was the axis the whole room spun around. Forty-eight and flawless, skin like warm honey, curves that belonged on billboards in Times Square. Intense fire, narrow hips, regal tilt of the chin. She sat on the ottoman between Victor and Elias, one stiletto dangling from her toes, wineglass balanced on her bare knee. When she laughed, it was low and throaty, the sound Jamieson had jerked off to in the dark since he was eighteen. He hated himself for it. Hated them more.
He'd entered with the tray, shoulders squared, chin high. No bowing. No "yes, sir." Just the clink of glass on mahogany as he set the champagne down. Victor didn't look up from his phone. "Cellar's low on the '05 Bordeaux. Move."
Jamieson's jaw flexed. The room went still for half a heartbeat—Elias smirking into his glass, Valentina's eyes flicking to him with something that might've been pity if she were capable of it.
Lourdes finally glanced his way, dark eyes unreadable.
"Jamieson," she said, soft, almost kind. His name in her mouth was a blade and a caress. "Be quick, mijo. We're celebrating."
Celebrating. Right. Elias's promotion. Valentina's new gallery opening. Victor's latest nine-figure merger. Jamieson's role: fetch, carry, disappear.
He'd turned on his heel, boots echoing down the hall, past the framed society pages—Victor shaking hands with senators, Lourdes on his arm like a trophy. The cellar door shut behind him with a heavy click, sealing out the light. Down here, the only sounds were his breathing and the distant thump of bass from the main house where the real party raged for Victor's colleagues. Down here, he could think.
He found the Bordeaux easily—third rack, left side, dust thick on the label. His fingers closed around the neck of the bottle, knuckles whitening. The things he'd overheard. The things he'd seen through cracked doors. Elias stumbled out of their parents' bedroom at 3 a.m. two years ago, shirt half-buttoned, lipstick on his collar that wasn't Valentina's shade. The way Lourdes's hand lingered on Victor's thigh when she thought no one watched, but also the way it lingered on Elias's knee under the dinner table. The moans that leaked through the vents when Jamieson was supposed to be asleep—his father's low growl, his mother's breathless Spanish, and sometimes, sometimes, Elias's voice layered in.
They'd confronted him once. Last Christmas, after too much eggnog and not enough restraint. He'd cornered Lourdes in the pantry, hands shaking with want and rage. "Why him and not me?" he'd demanded, voice rough. "I'm your son too."
Victor had appeared like a storm cloud, grip iron on Jamieson's arm. "Because you dont deserve her," he'd said, calm as death. "And you never will be. She's mine. Elias earned it. You—fix the fence. Sand the deck. Earn your keep before you beg for scraps."
Lourdes had touched Jamieson's cheek, nails manicured blood-red. "Mijo, don't make this ugly. Family is sacred. But not… like that. Not for you." Her eyes had glittered with something—regret? Amusement? Both?
He'd wanted to hit something. Someone. Instead, he'd nodded, swallowed the humiliation, and gone to the garage to split wood until his palms bled. Because they were family. Because the alternative was losing the only home he'd ever known. Because even hating them, he loved them with a ferocity that scared him.
Now, bottle in hand, he climbed the stairs slower than he'd descended. Each step measured. Controlled. But Jamieson had learned patience the way other men learned weakness—by force. He reached the top, pushed the door open with his shoulder.
The chamber was dimmer now, lights lowered to a sultry gold. Jazz crooned from hidden speakers. Victor had his arm around Lourdes, fingers tracing the curve of her waist. Elias leaned back, tie gone, top buttons undone. Valentina perched on the arm of the sofa, one hand in Elias's hair, the other holding her phone like she was filming something. No—not filming. Just… watching.
Jamieson's stomach twisted. He set the Bordeaux on the bar cart with a deliberate clink. "Your wine," he said, voice flat.
Victor didn't look up. "Open it."
Jamieson's fingers found the corkscrew. The pop echoed like a gunshot. He poured four glasses, precise, no spills. His hands didn't shake. They never did when he was this angry.
Lourdes took her glass, lips brushing the rim. The endearment was a slap. Like he was still ten and scraping his knee on the driveway.
Elias raised his glass. "To blood," he said, eyes on Jamieson. "Thicker than water. Stronger than want."
Valentina laughed, low and throaty. "Some wants are stronger than others."
Jamieson poured his own glass—uninvited, but fuck them—and drank it in one swallow. The wine was velvet and fire. He set the glass down hard enough to crack the stem. No one flinched.
Victor finally met his eyes. "You're dismissed."
The room tilted. Not from the wine. From the weight of it—the dismissal, the exclusion, the way they closed ranks like a pride of lions and he was the cub left to starve. He could hear it already, the shift in the air, the way Lourdes's breathing changed when Victor's hand slid higher on her thigh. The way Elias watched her like she was dessert.
Jamieson turned to leave. At the door, he paused. "Enjoy your celebration," he said, voice steady as steel. "I'll be in the gym. Try not to break the furniture."
He didn't wait for a response. The door shut behind him with a soft click. In the hallway, he leaned against the wall, head tipped back, eyes closed. The moans started almost immediately—muffled through the thick wood, but unmistakable. His mother's first, a soft gasp that turned into a whimper. Then Victor's rumble. Elias's laugh, dark and triumphant.
Jamieson's fists clenched. Veins corded in his forearms. He could break the door down. Could drag Elias out by the throat. Could claim what he'd been denied since the day he understood desire. But he didn't.
Not yet.
He pushed off the wall, boots silent now on the runner carpet. The gym was in the east wing—his domain, built with his own hands under Victor's supervision. Mirrors, heavy bags, a rack of iron that could crush a man. He stripped off his shirt, muscles rippling under skin scarred from work and fights he'd never lost. The heavy bag took his fury—left hook, right cross, knee, elbow. Each impact a promise.
Upstairs, the moans rose and fell like a tide. He timed his breaths to them, let the rhythm fuel him. Sweat poured. His reflection in the mirror was a stranger—eyes wild, jaw clenched, body a weapon coiled and ready.
They thought he was broken. Thought the years of chores and cold shoulders had tamed him. They were wrong. Jamieson Hargrove didn't break. He endured. He planned. He waited.
And when the time came—when the scales tipped and family stopped being an excuse—he'd take what was his. Not with begging. Not with permission.
With teeth.
For now, he punched until his knuckles split, until the bag swung like a pendulum and the moans faded into white noise. For now, he was the storm on the horizon, gathering force.
The night was young. The house was big. And Jamieson had all the time in the world to become the man they'd never see coming.