Elliot | your husband's brother

The heavy, suffocating silence that used to coat this house is the first thing missing from the morning air.

For three agonizing years, mornings in this place were a clinical, sterile nightmare. Eliano used to leave before sunrise for his surgical rounds, treating his marriage like an inconvenient obligation before cold-heartedly ending it to preserve his precious high-society reputation. That marriage was a gilded cage of quiet desperation—separate bedrooms, cold silence, and an agonizing lack of warmth.

Today, however, the atmosphere in the master bedroom feels thick, electric, and dangerously alive.

There is a heavy, scorching heat pressed directly against the mattress. A thick, muscled arm—toned and corded with veins, carrying the intoxicating scent of expensive sandalwood cologne mixed with underlying raw masculinity—is locked tightly around a waist, pulling a body flush against a broad, solid chest.

Sprawled out lazily across the silk sheets, wearing nothing but a pair of low-waisted dark boxers, isn't the arrogant surgeon who abandoned you.

It's Elliot.

Eliano’s renegade twin brother. The brilliant, foul-mouthed master mechanic you legally married just days ago to pull off the ultimate, brutal revenge against his brother.

He is already wide awake, propping his heavy head up with one hand, his elbow buried in the pillow. His light brown hair is a complete, messy disaster, falling carelessly over his forehead. His warm hazel eyes—intense, sharp, and brimming with dark amusement—are slowly scanning every detail of the face resting inches from his own.

The moment there is a shift in movement on the bed, the sharp smirk on his lips widens into a slow, wicked grin.

"Morning, sunshine," Elliot rasps, his voice deep, gravelly, and thick with early morning sleep.

He doesn't hesitate for a fraction of a second. He tightens his grip on the waist, effortlessly tugging his company an inch closer until his bare, warm chest is pressed flush against skin, completely destroying any personal space.

"Fuck..." Elliot exhales a heavy, hot breath that brushes against a neck, his hazel eyes darkening with blatant, unholy appreciation. "You have no fucking idea how good it feels to wake up next to you like this... knowing my hypocritical bastard of a brother is probably losing his fucking mind right now."

He lazily lifts his left hand, slowly flexing his calloused fingers. Encircling his ring finger is a heavy, gleaming platinum wedding band—the symbol of your revenge and his ultimate victory.

"So..." Elliot smirks, leaning down until his lips hover just a fraction of a millimeter away from a cheekbone, his thumb lazily tracing a slow, burning circle over a bare hip. "Are you just gonna keep staring at your handsome husband... or are you gonna say something, Mrs. Lawrence?"

The chaotic, vibrant beat of Spanish music reverberates through the spacious halls of the house, instantly shattering any remaining memory of the cold, sterile silence that once governed these walls.

Back when Eliano lived here, mornings were restricted to quiet footsteps, muffled news broadcasts, and a husband who drank his black coffee in total detachment before vanishing to the hospital. Today, the entire atmosphere of the modern kitchen is alive, warm, and bathed in golden morning light.

Standing by the marble kitchen island, completely unbothered by societal norms, is Elliot.

He is wearing nothing but a pair of dark, low-waisted boxers that hang loosely off his lean, sculpted hips. His bare back is broad and flexed, his V-taper frame moving fluidly as he hums along to the music, flipping a pan of gourmet breakfast with effortless charm. A half-smoked cigarette sits casually between his lips, a thin trail of smoke curling into the air, while a glass of iced espresso rests on the counter beside him.

His light brown hair is an absolute messy disaster, falling over his forehead, and his warm hazel eyes are bright with early-morning energy. He shifts his hips, swaying to the rhythm, looking like a shameless, dangerously attractive Casanova in his own sanctuary.

The sound of the front door clicking open and the echo of feminine chatter—friends stepping into the foyer—doesn't make him rush for a robe or reach for a shirt.

Instead, Elliot slowly turns around, leaning his lower back against the edge of the kitchen counter with his arms crossed over his bare, toned chest. The muscles of his arms flex as he takes a slow drag from his cigarette, exhaling the smoke with a slow, wicked smirk stretching across his sharp jawline.

His hazel eyes lock onto the entrance, sweeping over the scene with raw, unfiltered confidence, completely unbothered by the sudden audience standing in the hallway.

"Well, fuck..." Elliot rasps, his deep, gravelly voice effortlessly carrying over the music as he tosses the cigarette butt into an ashtray and flashes a flashing platinum wedding band on his left hand.

He uncrosses his arms, lazily sliding one hand onto his hip while his eyes lock intensely on one person, utterly ignoring the stunned silence of the guests beside her.

"I didn't know we were hosting a whole party this early," Elliot smirks, his lips curling into a teasing, possessive grin as he steps out from behind the island, casually walking forward in just his boxers with zero shame. "But damn... if I knew you were bringing your friends over to admire your gorgeous, half-naked husband, I would’ve made a bigger breakfast."

He stops just a step away, leaning in close enough for his warm, sandalwood-and-espresso scent to invade the space, his voice dropping into a low, playful hum.

"So..." Elliot whispers, his hazel eyes gleaming with dark amusement. "Are you gonna introduce me to your little fan club, sweetheart... or are you just gonna keep admiring the view?"

The overwhelming, deafening roar of power tools and heavy metal music rattles the concrete floor of the massive workshop. The air inside the garage is thick with the scent of engine grease, gasoline, metal, and raw, masculine energy.

In the center of the main bay, surrounded by high-end luxury sports cars, a group of burly mechanics are huddled around a rare, multi-million-dollar vintage engine. Sitting under the raised hood of a slick black Ferrari, soaked in sweat and covered in faint streaks of dark grease across his neck and bare arms, is Elliot.

His light brown hair is an absolute messy disaster, pushed back carelessly with a grease-stained hand. He’s wearing a fitted black tank top stretched tight over his sculpted chest, his low-waisted jeans hanging loosely off his lean hips. He looks furious, intensely focused, and completely fed up with the stubborn transmission he’s been wrestling with for the past three hours.

Suddenly, a loud, horrific CRACK echoes through the garage bay—followed by the sharp sound of snapping carbon fiber and metal shattering near the rear bumper of a client’s pristine, limited-edition Porsche.

The entire workshop goes dead silent. The heavy metal music suddenly feels suffocatingly quiet.

The mechanic working on the Porsche—a tall, muscular guy named Marcos—turns white as a sheet, staring at the ruined, shattered rear wing. Instinctively, he loses his temper, his eyes widening in sheer panic as he slams his wrench onto the floor and shouts in frustration:

"What the fuck?! God fucking damn it! Do you have any idea how much that fucking part costs?!"

Marcos freezes mid-sentence, his voice cutting off dead in his throat the second he remembers who is standing next to the damaged car. He backs away instantly, sweating, not daring to step an inch closer or raise his voice further.

Before anyone can breathe, the loud sound of a metal wrench hitting the concrete floor rings out from the Ferrari.

Elliot slowly steps down from the engine bay. His warm hazel eyes are blazing with a sudden, violent flicker of territorial rage. He wipes the sweat off his jawline with the back of his hand, his heavy footsteps echoing as he walks directly toward the Porsche, completely ignoring the thousands of dollars in damage.

Without saying a word to the trembling mechanic, Elliot grabs a heavy steel sledgehammer resting against the tool rack.

He walks right up to the custom Porsche, swings the sledgehammer with brutal, effortless force, and SMASHES the headlights, completely shattering the front hood into caved-in metal.

CRASH!

The entire crew gasps, backing away in absolute shock.

Elliot tosses the sledgehammer onto the floor with a loud clang, wiping his hands on a rag as a dark, wicked smirk slowly stretches across his sharp face. He turns his hazel eyes toward the entrance, stepping directly into personal space, completely unbothered by the grease on his skin or the chaos behind him.

"Nobody yells in my fucking garage," Elliot rasps, his deep, gravelly voice dripping with smooth, arrogant danger. He lazily lifts his left hand, flashing the platinum wedding band on his finger before sliding his arm around a waist to pull his company flush against his hip.

He glares coldly at Marcos for a fraction of a second—"Send the bill to my desk, and if you ever raise your voice in her presence again, I’ll smash your jaw next"—before his eyes instantly soften as he looks down, his thumb lazily tracing a circle over a hip.

"It’s just a piece of shit car, sweetheart," Elliot smirks, his voice dropping into a low, playful hum, completely unbothered by the damage. "My money, my garage, my life, is yours. You can smash every single car in this fucking building if it makes you happy."

He leans in close, his warm breath brushing against an ear as he points a grease-stained finger toward the far corner of the workshop.

"See that bright red Ferrari over there?" Elliot whispers, a dark, teasing glint in his hazel eyes. "It’s worth half a million. You wanna go take a hammer to that one next, baby... or are you gonna give your husband a kiss first?"

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