Mara's POV
"You have to show your face, Mara. This family won't survive another scandal. Remember whose name you carry."
Camille's words still echoed in my head, not as an advice, but a warning.
Of course she'd say that. It's her daughter's grand engagement party, and the Lawsons never let grief stand in the way of appearances. Philip's funeral had barely faded from memory, yet here we were dressed in gold, pretending the dead didn't exist.
Inside, chandeliers burned too bright, and every face turned when I walked in. Maybe they were searching for another reason to whisper about me. Last time, I was the curse that brought the Lawsons bad luck.
What would it be this time?
"Mara," Camille's voice sliced through the crowd. She approached with a practiced smile. "You made the right choice coming."
Her cheek brushed mine in a polite peck that fooled the cameras, not me.
"People have been asking about you," she whispered. "There are cameras everywhere. Behave accordingly."
Then she pulled back, smiling sweetly for the room. "Let me call Andrea."
While she walked off, I took in the decorations, every inch of the mansion draped in luxury. All for Andrea. I was never treated this way. Not even when Philip was alive. I should hate him for things he did… but he was still my husband.
"Mara!"
I looked up. Andrea was gliding toward me, Camille beside her. And then…
My breath caught.
David.
Standing next to her, smiling faintly. My boyfriend before the situation with Philip happened. The man who once promised me forever.
"Oh God…" The words barely left my lips.
"I didn't think you'd come," Andrea chirped. "Anyways, meet David, my fiancé. David, this is my sister-in-law, Mara."
Her hand curled possessively over his arm. My gaze dropped to the ring on her finger, the same ring he once bought for me.
"Nice to meet you," I managed, though my voice sounded strange in my ears. He said nothing, only looked at me, too long, too deep. I couldn't read the meaning in his eyes, and I didn't want to try.
"Congratulations," I whispered. "Please excuse me."
"Are you leaving already? You just came. Besides, we have a special guest we'll meet soon," Camille cut in.
"Mother, I'm still here," I murmured quickly, forcing a smile before slipping away.
The music was too loud. The laughter too sharp. I headed for the bar, anywhere away from their eyes.
As I waited for my drink, I looked back across the hall. Andrea was glowing, her arm looped through David's as Camille introduced them to a group of socialites. He leaned in, whispered something that made her blush, the kind of smile that once belonged to me.
My throat tightened.
Then, as if sensing me, David turned. Our eyes met for the briefest second. I turned away immediately, heat rushing to my face.
I hated that he could still make me feel anything at all.
I grabbed the glass the bartender slid across and downed it in one go. The burn didn't help. I reached for another, then carried the bottle with me as I left the bar.
The lounge was quieter, dim, hushed, and lined with velvet. I just wanted to be alone. The last time I drank like this was weeks after I lost my baby.
Was I angry that my ex was marrying my sister-in-law? Or angry that I still cared?
I drank until the room began to blur, until my heart went numb.
"I didn't expect anyone else here," a voice said, making me flinch.
I turned toward the sound, a man's figure emerging from the shadows.
No one should've been here. All the guests were downstairs.
His suit was undone at the collar, his expression unreadable in the low light.
"You shouldn't be here," I murmured, trying to stand, but my balance betrayed me.
He caught my arm before I could fall. His grip was firm, steady in a way that made my chest twist.
"You've had enough," he said quietly. "I'll call someone to take you downstairs. This place isn't for guests."
He reached for the bottle, taking it gently from my hands, and I stared at him, something about him unsettlingly familiar.
"Wait," I whispered, and he froze. He obeyed, eyes locked on mine.
That was when I really saw him. Effortlessly handsome. Every detail perfect, from the dark hair to his grey eyes to the lips that twitched slightly, as if holding back words.
It was cruel. Cruel how much he looked like Philip.
Then it hit me, a memory I thought I'd buried for good. Philip, in his office, kissing another woman. I'd brought him lunch that day, smiling like a fool, until I saw them. And I left before he could even see me.
"Why wasn't I enough for you?" The words slipped out, soft but breaking.
He didn't answer. Just stared.
I wanted what he gave to that woman. I wanted Philip to look at me the way he looked at her. To kiss me like he loved me. But he never did.
This wasn't Philip. This was a stranger, one who made me forget why I'd gotten drunk in the first place.
And in that silence, my body betrayed me, craving him.
I leaned closer and kissed him.
It was wild, desperate, a clash of anger and need. His taste was fire and whiskey, scorching against my tongue. He resisted for just a heartbeat, but then his hand slid to my waist, dragging me against him.
A gasp escaped me, swallowed by his mouth. His kisses were rough, as though once he'd given in, he couldn't stop. He kissed like a man fighting himself, torn between pushing me away and devouring me whole.
Philip never kissed me like this. Never touched me like I mattered.
This man's touch burned through me, reckless and alive.
I should've stopped. But I didn't.
Because for one night, I didn't want to be the grieving widow or the scandalous name on everyone's tongue.
I wanted to forget.
And he was the perfect sin to do it with.
It was the tender kiss of morning light that stirred me awake. My eyes blinked open to a ceiling I didn't recognize. For a second, I didn't move. My head throbbed, my throat dry, the faint taste of whiskey still on my lips.
The sheets beside me were tangled. Empty.
I sat up slowly. My dress was crumpled on the floor, my skin marked by shadows that weren't mine.
And then the memories came: the lounge, the stranger, the heat of his mouth on mine, the way I had clung to him like he could erase every wound I'd ever buried.
"Oh God…" My voice cracked. "What did I do?"
My heart pounded. I pressed a trembling hand to my lips as if I could undo it, as if I could erase the feel of him. My body ached in places that told me I hadn't imagined any of it.
I scrambled from the bed, panic clawing at my throat. I dressed fast, barely breathing. My hands shook so hard I could hardly fasten my zip.
No one can know.
If Camille or Andrea found out, if anyone did, there'd be no saving me.
I pushed out into the hall, my pulse racing, praying no one would see me.
"Mara."
Camille's voice froze me where I stood.
She appeared at the end of the corridor, perfectly composed, her expression unreadable. "Where were you all night?"
My breath caught. "I—I"
"I told you we had a special guest to meet yesterday. Don't stir up problems. Go downstairs and wait to meet Elias, your husband's brother."
My stomach flipped. "Philip's brother?"
"The one abroad, yes," she said curtly. "Be respectful, as it's your first time seeing him. You'll make a good impression, won't you?"
I nodded mutely. "Of course."
She gave me one last sharp look before walking away.
I exhaled shakily, pressing a hand to my chest. The walls felt too close, the air too heavy. Get it together, Mara.
Ten minutes later, I came downstairs, washed, composed, the widow's poise stitched carefully back into place. Every step felt rehearsed. I could still feel the ache on my skin, though I tried not to show it.
Camille, Andrea, and David were already seated at the breakfast table, so I took the empty chair at the edge.
"Good morning," I murmured, avoiding David's eyes.
Camille's head turned at the sound of footsteps from the hall. "Ah. He's here."
The door opened, and a familiar face entered.
My breath caught.
No. No, it couldn't be.
The man stepped into the light, dark hair, tailored suit, calm authority radiating off him like a second skin.
And those eyes—grey, cold and familiar.
"Welcome, son," Camille said warmly, rising to embrace him. "It's been far too long."
I couldn't move. Couldn't breathe.
It was him.
The man from last night. He looked at me, his gaze unflinching, expression unreadable. A flicker of recognition passed behind his eyes, sharp and gone in a second.
"Mara," Camille said proudly, "meet Elias Lawson, Philip's twin brother."
"Mrs. Lawson," he said, tilting his head slightly. "An honor to finally meet you."
I tried to speak, but nothing came out. My lips parted, then closed again. His tone was polite, his face composed, but I saw it—the ghost of that night reflected in his gaze.
I forced a brittle smile, my hands clasped tightly in my lap. "Welcome home," I whispered.
He smiled faintly, the kind of smile that hid secrets.
And I realized, with a cold chill sinking into my bones, I hadn't just slept with a stranger. I had slept with my husband's brother.