Chapter 3: The Brother's Discovery
The silence in Adem’s penthouse was absolute, and heavy. Vanja let herself in with her key, the soft click of the lock echoing in the vast, open-plan living space. Moonlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting silver lines across the polished marble floor. Basel’s skyline glittered coldly in the distance, a constellation of neon and old stone.
She kicked off her heels, the sound too loud in the stillness. Her body still hummed with the memory of Niko’s hands, the ache between her legs a raw, pleasant throb. She padded silently toward the kitchen, craving water.
“I was worried.”
Adem’s voice came from the shadows of the sitting area. He was a silhouette against the window, a cut-out of darkness holding a tumbler of something amber. He didn’t move.
Vanja didn’t jump. She turned slowly, reaching for a glass. “You shouldn’t have been. I’m an adult.”
“You’re my sister.” The words were flat, devoid of their usual warmth. “And you were with him.”
She filled her glass from the tap, the water shockingly cold. “With who?” she asked, though she knew.
“Don’t.” The silhouette moved. Adem stepped into a slash of moonlight. He was still in his suit trousers and a rumpled white shirt, sleeves rolled up. His face was all hard angles and shadow. “I have eyes everywhere in this city, Vanja. You know that. The car dropped you at the Königshof. You went in. You came out two hours later. You walked differently.”
She took a long drink, the cold a counterpoint to the heat rising in her chest. “So you had me followed.”
“I protect you!” The shout cracked through the quiet. He slammed his tumbler down on the granite countertop, the sound like a gunshot. “From vultures like him! He’s forty-five, for God’s sake. He knew our father. This isn’t some fucking fling with a teammate. This is Niko Kovac. He doesn’t have flings. He consumes things.”
She set her glass down with deliberate calm. “And what is it to you? My career advisor? My agent? Or my brother?”
He crossed the space between them in three swift strides. The protective concern she was used to had curdled into something darker, sharper. He loomed over her, the scent of Scotch and his expensive cologne mixing with the cold night air coming off his clothes.
“All of the above,” he hissed. “You think this is a game? You think you can play in that league? He will chew you up and spit you out, and your precious career will be a joke before it even starts. A footnote: the girl who fucked her way to the top and then crashed.”
The vulgarity from him, from Adem who never swore at her, was a slap. It ignited something cold and furious in her gut.
“Is that what you see?” Her voice was a low, dangerous thing. “My ‘precious career’? Or is it that you don’t like someone else touching what you think is yours?”
The moment the words left her mouth, the atmosphere changed. It wasn’t just anger anymore. It was something electric, forbidden, suddenly naked in the space between them. Adem’s green eyes, so like hers yet so different, widened imperceptibly. A muscle ticked in his jaw.
“What did you do with him?” The question was barely a whisper.
“What do you think I did?”
“Tell me.” His hand shot out, fingers wrapping around her upper arm. His grip was firm, grounding, but not yet painful. “Say it.”
She tilted her head back, defiant. “He fucked me. Hard. Over a desk, against a window, in a bed. He came inside me. Twice. Is that what you wanted to hear, Adem?”
A sound escaped him, a strangled mix of fury and something else. His fingers tightened, biting into her flesh. “You stupid little girl.”
“I’m not a girl.” She wrenched her arm, but he didn’t let go. Instead, he pulled her, not toward her room, but toward his study. “Where are you taking me?”
He didn’t answer. He propelled her through the open door into his office. The room was a temple to his success: the massive, obsidian-veined mahogany desk, the wall of her football trophies beside his own business awards, the soundproofed recording booth dark and silent in the corner.
He released her arm only to spin her around and push her back against the sharp edge of the desk. The cold, polished wood dug into the base of her spine. His hands planted on the desk on either side of her, caging her in.
“Show me,” he demanded, his breath hot on her face.
“What?”
“Show me what he did.” His eyes were wild, unreadable pools. “Prove you’re such a woman. Prove you know what you’re doing.”
She laughed, a brittle, sharp sound. “You’re jealous.”
His control snapped.
One hand flew to the neck of her silk dress. With a vicious pull, he ripped it open, buttons pinging off the marble floor. The fabric fell apart, exposing her breasts to the cool air. She gasped, but not in protest. A shocking, treacherous heat pulsed low in her belly.
“Is this what he did?” Adem’s voice was a guttural rasp. He looked at her exposed flesh, her nipples hardening under his gaze. “Did he tear your clothes off? Did he get rough with you?”
Before she could answer, his mouth crashed down onto hers. It wasn’t a kiss. It was a brand. An act of possession. His tongue forced its way past her lips, the taste of Scotch and rage overwhelming. She didn’t fight it. A deep, shameful part of her yielded, opening for him. Her hands came up, not to push him away, but to clutch at the fabric of his shirt.
He broke the kiss, breathing raggedly. He stared at her swollen lips, then his gaze dropped to her breasts. “Did he touch you here?”
His hand closed over her breast, his thumb scraping roughly over her nipple. The sensation was a lightning bolt of pleasure-pain, so different from Niko’s calculated expertise. This was raw, desperate.
“Yes,” she breathed.
His other hand fumbled with the front of his trousers. She heard the whisper of a zipper, the rustle of fabric. Then he was pushing her underwear aside, his fingers finding her. She was already wet, slick with Niko’s spent release and her own renewed arousal. Adem’s fingers stilled. He felt it. His eyes locked on hers, a storm of betrayal and a dark, dawning understanding.
“He was inside you,” he whispered, his voice trembling with a horrible awe. “You’re still wet from him.”
He didn’t withdraw his hand. Instead, he pushed two fingers deep into her, his gaze locked on her face, watching her reaction. She cried out, her head falling back. It was a violation. It was a claim. It was everything she’d both feared and, in some secret, shameful corner of her mind, imagined.
“And you liked it,” he murmured, his fingers curling inside her, finding a rhythm that was brutal and perfect. “You like this. You’re soaking.”
“Adem,” she moaned, her hips rocking against his hand.
“Say my name again,” he growled, removing his fingers. He gripped her hips, yanking her forward until she was perched on the very edge of the desk. He pushed her legs apart, stepping between them. “Say it when I’m inside you.”
He guided himself to her entrance. The blunt, hot head of his cock pressed against her. She was swollen, sensitive, achingly open. He pushed in.
The stretch was different. Intimate in a way that shattered her. This was not Niko’s conquest. This was something broken and real and terrifying. He filled her completely, a searing, forbidden fullness. He paused, buried deep, his forehead pressed against hers, his eyes squeezed shut as if in pain.
“Vanja,” he whispered, a broken sound.
Then he moved.
It was rough, frantic. He pulled her hips to meet each thrust, the desk scraping across the marble floor with their force. There was no finesse, only a frantic, driving need. Each slam of his body into hers was punctuated by a ragged breath, a choked curse.
“You’re mine,” he grunted, his hands gripping her thighs hard enough to bruise. “You hear me? Mine. My sister. My responsibility. My fucking genius. Not his. Never his.”
The words were poison and nectar. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, meeting his violence with her own. This was wrong. It was a line incinerated. Yet her body convulsed around him, a sudden, sharp orgasm tearing through her with a silent scream. She clenched around his cock, milking him, and it pulled his own release from him. He shouted, a raw, animal sound, his body jerking as he spilled into her, his heat mixing with the remnants of Niko’s inside her.
He collapsed against her, his weight heavy and spent. His breathing was harsh in her ear. The only other sound was the faint, distant hum of the city through the soundproofed windows.
Slowly, he pushed himself upright. He looked down at where they were joined, at the mess on her thighs, on himself. His expression was one of hollow shock.
He withdrew from her gently, the action feeling more invasive than the taking had. He tucked himself away, zipped his trousers with trembling hands. He wouldn’t meet her eyes.
Vanja slid off the desk, her legs unsteady. The torn dress hung open. She didn’t try to cover herself. She felt raw, scraped clean.
Adem turned his back to her, running a hand through his hair. His shoulders were taut.
“Vanja,” he began, his voice hoarse.
“Don’t.” Her own voice was surprisingly steady. Cold. “Don’t say you’re sorry. Don’t say it was a mistake.”
He turned, his face ravaged. “What have we done?”
She looked past him, at the wall of trophies. At the glimmering evidence of her other life, the pure one. “What we wanted to.”
She walked out of the study, leaving him standing there amidst the wreckage. In her bathroom, under the scalding spray of the shower, she scrubbed at her skin until it was pink. The water swirled down the drain, carrying away the physical evidence.
But the shift was permanent. The geometry of her world had been fractured. Niko saw her as a storm to be pointed. Adem saw her as a possession to be guarded.
As she stood there, the water beating down on her, a cold, analytical clarity settled over her. They were both wrong.
She was the one holding the compass. And she was just beginning to learn how to navigate.
The steam from the shower couldn’t cleanse the memory of his hands, the brutal claim of his body. She stood before the fogged mirror, wiping a clear streak to stare at her own reflection. The girl there was familiar—the golden-green eyes, the athlete’s defiance—but something behind them had hardened, crystallized.
Sleep was impossible. She dressed in simple black jeans and a cashmere sweater, armor of normalcy. Dawn was a grey smear over the Rhine when she heard Adem’s bedroom door click shut, then the soft chime of the elevator descending. He was fleeing. She made coffee, the bitter aroma filling the silent, violated space.
Her phone buzzed on the counter. A single message from Niko. My hotel. Noon. We have details to discuss.
The Königshof suite smelled of citrus polish and expensive linen. Niko stood at the window, back to her, as she entered. He turned, and his gaze was different than before—sharper, appraising, stripped of the dinner’s predatory seduction. He saw the new shadows under her eyes.
“You look tired,” he stated.
“I didn’t sleep,” she replied, dropping her bag onto a chair. “My brother and I had a talk.”
A flicker in his eyes, understanding dawning. He poured mineral water into a crystal glass, the ice cracking. “And?”
“And now I’m here.” She took the glass, her fingers brushing his. A current, deliberate. “To discuss the details.”
The contract lay on the table between them, a thick sheaf of paper. He didn’t sit. He circled her, a slow, considering orbit. “The offer is unprecedented. First woman in the Bundesliga. The media storm will be nuclear. Your life ends. A new one begins.”
“I’m aware.”
“The physical demands will break men.” He stopped behind her chair. His hands came to rest on her shoulders, thumbs pressing into the tight muscle. “You will be targeted on the pitch. Kicked. Spat on. Your body will be a battleground.”
She leaned into the pressure, a calculated gesture. “I’ve been a battleground since I was twelve.”
His fingers tightened. He bent, his lips close to her ear. “This is different. I need to know you won’t shatter. I need to know your focus is absolute.” His breath was hot. “I need to know what you want.”
She turned her head, her mouth inches from his. “I want to play. I want to win. I want everything.”
“And last night?” The question was a low growl. “What was that?”
“A distraction.” She held his stare. “A pleasant one.”
He laughed, a short, humorless sound. He moved, kneeling before her chair, his hands on her knees, pushing them apart. His position was one of supplication, but his eyes held all the power. “You’re a liar. You came apart on my cock. You screamed for it.”
She didn’t flinch. “I did. And now I’m here for the contract.”
“The contract is here.” His hands slid up her inner thighs, pushing the fabric of her jeans tight against her skin. “But I need to see the commitment. I need to feel it.”
He unbuttoned her jeans, the rasp of the zipper loud in the quiet room. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of her jeans and her underwear, pulling them down in one rough motion. The cool air hit her bare skin.
“On your knees,” he commanded, his voice leaving no room for debate.
She stood, letting the clothes pool at her feet, and then lowered herself to the deep, expensive carpet. The fibers pressed into her skin. He undid his belt, his trousers, freeing his cock. It was already hard, thick, a stark reality in the genteel room.
“Open your mouth.”
She did. He didn’t guide himself gently. He fed the head past her lips, then gripped the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her golden hair. He pushed forward until she felt the tip hit the back of her throat. Her eyes watered.
“That’s it,” he murmured, looking down at her. “Take it. Take all of it. This is the deal, Vanja. You swallow my cum, you sign my papers. You let me fuck that smart mouth, and I let you fuck the entire league. You understand?”
She couldn’t speak. She made a guttural sound of assent, her lips stretched taut around him. He began to move, a shallow, controlled rhythm that quickly deepened. He fucked her mouth with the same relentless precision he coached with. Saliva dripped from her chin. Her jaw ached.
“Such a perfect fucking cunt,” he grunted, his hips snapping forward. “Taking it so well. You want this, don’t you? You want the contract. You want my dick. You’re a greedy little superstar.”
He was relentless. The pressure in her skull, the raw, unfiltered intimacy of it, coiled heat in her own core. She was wet, aching, her own need a humiliating counterpoint to his dominance. He read her body, her quickened breath through her nose, the tension in her thighs.
He pulled out suddenly, her lips making a soft, wet pop. A string of saliva connected them. “Turn around,” he ordered, his voice ragged. “On your hands and knees. Now.”
She complied, the position exposing her completely to him. He ran a hand over the curve of her ass, then spat. The wetness was a shock. He didn’t wait. He pressed the head of his cock against her entrance and pushed, burying himself in one brutal, deep stroke.
She cried out, her hands fisting the carpet. He was bigger than Adem, thicker, and he filled her with a stretching, punishing fullness. He didn’t move for a moment, letting her feel every inch.
“This is your signing bonus,” he hissed, grabbing her hips. Then he began to move.
It was not lovemaking. It was a brutal, piston-like fuck. Each thrust drove the breath from her lungs. The sound of skin slapping skin, his grunts, her muffled cries, filled the room. He leaned over her, his chest pressing against her back, his mouth at her ear.
“You belong to me on that pitch,” he snarled, pounding into her. “Every goal you score is mine. Every headline is mine. This tight, perfect cunt is mine. Say it.”
She was beyond refusal, hurtling toward a devastating climax. “Yours,” she gasped.
“Louder.”
“It’s yours! Fuck, it’s yours!” The words tore from her as her orgasm ripped through her, waves of convulsing pleasure that clenched around his driving cock. He swore, a filthy, beautiful curse, and followed her over, his body jerking as he emptied deep inside her with a final, powerful thrust.
He collapsed on top of her for a moment, both of them slick with sweat, breathing in ragged unison. Then he pulled out, leaving her feeling hollowed and used and profoundly alive.
He handed her a towel from the bathroom without a word. She cleaned herself as he dressed, his back to her. The silence was functional now, the transaction complete.
He walked to the table, picked up a pen, and placed it on the contract. He pointed to a line at the bottom. “There.”
She stood, her legs unsteady, and walked to the table. The page blurred, a sea of legal jargon. She found the line. Her name, printed neatly beside a blank space.
Niko watched her, his expression unreadable. “Sign it.”
She picked up the pen. The weight of it was final. This was the axis on which her world turned. Not Adem’s guilt, not Niko’s desire, but this ink on this page.
She bent, the pen hovering.
SHE SIGNS FOR BORUSSIA DORTMUND.
The scratch of the nib was the loudest sound in the world.