Pregnant by the Wrong Brother

Sera's POV

"Miss, I have to tell you..." Henri burst through the door, his usually composed face pale as death. "The groom, he..."

I looked up from where I'd been staring at my reflection in the ornate mirror, my hands smoothing down the silk of my wedding dress for what felt like the hundredth time. The vintage lace felt heavy against my skin, like chains disguised as beauty.

"What's wrong?" My voice came out steadier than I felt. "The ceremony's supposed to start in ten minutes."

Henri's hands shook as he held out a folded piece of paper. "Mr. Lucien left this and... he's gone."

Gone. The word hit me like a slap. I took the note with fingers that suddenly felt numb.

I want a muse, not a broke gold-digger. Sorry. — L

I stared at the words until they blurred together. That's all my dignity was worth to Lucien Dubois.

"Son of a bitch," I whispered, crumpling the paper. The sound echoed in the fancy bridal suite with its crystal chandeliers and fresh roses that now felt like funeral flowers.

Henri cleared his throat awkwardly. "Perhaps we should inform the guests—"

"That the groom decided to chase some 'artistic goddess' to Paris instead of marrying me?" I laughed, but it sounded bitter even to my own ears. "Yeah, that'll go over real well."

Through the walls, I could hear the murmur of voices growing restless in the main hall. Two hundred guests waiting to see the broken daughter of a bankrupt family finally get her life together. What a fucking joke.

I sank into the velvet chair, my dress pooling around me like spilled milk. 'I knew this was a business arrangement. I went into it with my eyes wide open. But being humiliated like this... like I'm some desperate charity case.'

The debt collectors' faces flashed through my mind. The foreclosure notices. This marriage was supposed to fix everything. Now what was I supposed to do?

The door flew open again, and Marguerite Dubois swept in. Her sharp eyes took in Henri's panicked expression and my crumpled note.

"Well, well," she said, her French accent making everything sound like a judgment. "Let me guess. My son has disappeared again?"

"Gone to Paris," Henri confirmed miserably.

Marguerite's laugh was like breaking glass. "Of course he did. That boy never could finish anything he started." Her gaze fixed on me with the warmth of a snake. "Don't worry, Sera dear. Lucky for you, we have a backup plan."

"Backup plan?" I stood up, my dress rustling. "What the hell does that mean?"

"It means," Marguerite said, adjusting her pearl necklace like she was preparing for battle, "that what Lucien doesn't want, Étienne usually ends up handling. Lucien makes the mess, Étienne cleans it up. It's quite the family tradition."

The way she said it made my skin crawl. Like I was damaged goods being passed down the line.

"You're talking about me like I'm a business transaction," I said.

"Aren't you?" Marguerite's smile was razor-sharp. "Your family needs money. Our family needs... appearances. Simple math, really."

Through the walls, I could hear the guests getting louder. Someone was probably checking their watch, wondering why the bride was late. The whispers would start soon if they hadn't already.

'She's right, though. I am just a transaction. Mom's chemotherapy bills don't care about my pride. The bank doesn't give a damn about my feelings. I need this marriage, and we both know it.'

"Besides," Marguerite continued, "Étienne is far more reliable than Lucien. Better husband material, if you ask me. Less... dramatic."

Before I could ask what that meant, a shadow appeared in the doorway.

"You called for me?"

The voice was deeper than Lucien's, quieter. I turned to see a man I'd only glimpsed once at the engagement party—tall, dark-haired, with eyes the color of storm clouds. Everything about him seemed... controlled. Contained.

"Étienne," Marguerite said without missing a beat. "Perfect timing. You're needed to clean up another mess."

He stepped into the room, and I felt the air shift somehow. Where Lucien had been all flash and charm, this man was like still water—calm on the surface, but you knew there were depths you couldn't see.

"I understand," he said simply, then looked at me. "Miss Cross, I presume you've been informed of the... situation?"

I held up the crumpled note. "Your brother has a real way with words."

Something flickered across his face—annoyance? Embarrassment? It was gone before I could tell.

"Stepbrother," he corrected. "And yes, subtlety was never Lucien's strength." He paused, studying my face. "The question is, what would you like to do about it?"

I blinked. After Marguerite's commanding tone and Henri's panic, his quiet question caught me off guard. He was actually asking what I wanted?

"I..." I started, then stopped. What did I want? To run? To hide? To track down Lucien and tell him exactly what I thought of his artistic fucking muse?

But the debt collectors' letters were still sitting on my kitchen table. The foreclosure notice was still taped to my apartment door. My parents' medical bills weren't going to pay themselves.

"The guests are waiting," I said finally.

"They are."

"And your family needs this marriage for... whatever reason you need it."

"We do."

"And I need..." I swallowed hard. "I need the financial arrangement we agreed on."

Étienne nodded slowly. "Those are the facts, yes."

I looked at him—really looked at him. He wasn't handsome the way Lucien was, all golden boy charm and easy smiles. But there was something solid about him, something that made me think he wouldn't run off to Paris the moment things got complicated.

"So," I said, "I guess the question is: are you willing to step up and save both our asses?"

For the first time since he'd entered the room, Étienne almost smiled. "I've been cleaning up Lucien's messes my whole life. This wouldn't be the first time."

Marguerite clapped her hands together like she was applauding a particularly good performance. "Wonderful! Henri, inform the officiant there's been a small change. The bride will still be walking down the aisle, just... with a different groom."

"Wait," I said, panic suddenly rising in my throat. "Just like that? Don't we need to—"

"The marriage license just says 'Dubois,'" Marguerite interrupted. "Étienne can sign it just as easily as Lucien could have."

I stared at her, then at Étienne, then back at her. This whole family was clearly fucked up in ways I was only beginning to understand.

But the alternative was going home to face the debt collectors empty-handed.

"Okay," I said, surprising myself with how steady my voice sounded. "Let's do this."

Étienne stepped closer, close enough that I could smell his cologne—something woody and clean, nothing like Lucien's expensive French shit.

"Are you certain?" he asked quietly, his voice low enough that only I could hear it. "This doesn't have to be your only option."

For a moment, I almost believed him. Almost thought there might be another way out of this mess. But reality crashed back in like cold water.

"It is, though," I whispered back. "This is exactly my only option."

He studied my face for another long moment, then nodded. "Then we'd better not keep the guests waiting any longer."

As Henri scurried off to inform the officiant and Marguerite swept out to manage the crowd, I found myself alone with my replacement groom. The man who was about to become my husband because his stepbrother had decided I wasn't worth the trouble.

"For what it's worth," Étienne said as he offered me his arm, "I think Lucien's an idiot."

"Because he ran off to Paris?"

"Because he doesn't know a good thing when he sees it."