Evil MC's NTR Harem

Ashley turned her gaze toward the man standing silently beside Ross—the true Cyril. There was no mistaking the haunted look in his eyes, the way his shoulders hunched as if the weight of guilt was pressing down on him. His lips moved, but no words escaped.

She stared at him, searching his face—her husband's face—for some kind of denial, a sign, anything that could prove Ross wrong.

But Cyril said nothing.

He just stood there, wide-eyed and trembling, like a child caught with blood on his hands.

Ashley's chest tightened painfully.

She felt as though the air had been sucked from the room. "W-What's happening here, Cyril?" she asked, her voice cracking. Her lips trembled. Tears spilled down her cheeks before she could even try to stop them.

Cyril opened his mouth again, desperation flashing in his eyes. "Honey… I—"

He tried to explain. To tell her it wasn't true. That he never asked for any of this. That he didn't have a twin named Lyric. That Ross was lying. But no sound came. His throat burned, seized by something invisible—an unnatural silence forced upon him.

Ross had made sure of it.

Cyril stuttered, helpless, his hands twitching at his sides. He looked like a man drowning in his own silence. And to Ross, it was a masterpiece of humiliation. He folded his arms and watched with cold amusement as his brother—so proud, so superior—crumbled in front of the woman he loved.

Ashley took a shaky step back, her hand pressed to her chest. "Why won't you say anything…?" she whispered.

Ross sighed, feigning sympathy. "It seems my brother lacks the courage to confess his sins. Allow me, then, to speak the truth he refuses to."

Ashley turned her tear-streaked face toward Ross, dread creeping through her veins like poison.

Ross stepped forward, his voice smooth, quiet, almost intimate. "It all started when I received a call from your husband, Ashley. A strange one. He said the fire in your marriage had died. That things were… predictable. Boring. He said he wanted to experience something different—something dangerous."

Ashley shook her head slowly, but Ross continued.

"He told me he wanted to watch you with another man. To see you touched and taken by someone else. Someone who looked like him. And he asked me, his twin brother, to play that role."

Her breath hitched. "You're lying…"

Ross tilted his head, his gaze unblinking. "Am I?"

He stepped aside, gesturing toward Cyril, who stood frozen in place, eyes wide, sweat beading at his brow.

"If I were lying, wouldn't he have stopped me by now? Wouldn't he have spoken up? Shouted? Denied it?" Ross said, voice like velvet-wrapped venom. "But he hasn't. Because he can't. Because it's true."

"No…" Ashley whispered again, shaking violently. Her vision blurred. She stumbled, nearly collapsing.

Ross caught her before she hit the floor.

His arms wrapped around her with deceptive gentleness, holding her steady as her body trembled against his. He carried her with ease to the sofa, laying her down with surprising care. Her sobs wracked her body, her hands clutching weakly at his shirt.

"You're pregnant with our baby, Ashley," Ross said softly, stroking her hair. "You need to take better care of yourself… and of our child."

She froze.

Her eyes widened in shock as the words registered.

Our baby.

A fresh wave of despair flooded her heart. She turned her face away from him, hiding in the crook of his neck, her tears coming faster now, hotter. Her mind was a storm of disbelief, betrayal, and anguish.

The man who held her wasn't her husband—but he had been, if only for a few nights. He had touched her, kissed her, spoken her name in the dark.

And now he was claiming her child as his.

Cyril, meanwhile, stood paralyzed, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white. Rage and helplessness surged inside him like a tidal wave. His heart screamed to shout, to fight back, to pull Ashley away from Ross and beg her to believe him.

But still—he couldn't speak. Couldn't move. Couldn't do anything.

Ross looked up at him from the sofa, still holding Ashley close. His smile widened—mocking, cruel.

"You got what you wanted, Cyril," he said quietly. "Be careful what you wish for."

Ashley squeezed her eyes shut, wishing the world would disappear.

Her husband stood silent. Her body shook in the arms of the man who wasn't supposed to be here. And somewhere inside her, a child was growing—conceived in deception, born from a night she hadn't known wasn't real.

And as darkness swirled behind her eyelids, one final thought echoed in her mind like a scream from a cliff's edge:

Who have I been married to all this time?

From beginning to end, Cyril had remained frozen—trapped in a waking nightmare where every moment unfolded against his will.

He couldn't believe how far things had spiraled, how Ross had manipulated not just him, but Ashley—his wife, the love of his life—into falling into the trap so easily.

That's all it took for Ross to tear down everything he had built with Ashley.

And now… Ross was holding her. Not in hatred. Not as a prisoner. But as a man who claimed her, who carried her as though she belonged to him.

"Fuck you, Ross!" Cyril finally roared, every ounce of rage and sorrow behind his words. "Why are you doing this to us?! What did we ever do to you?!"

His voice echoed off the walls, loud and raw—desperate.

But Ashley didn't stir.

She was asleep now, emotionally spent, her breathing light and steady in Ross's arms. She had no idea what was happening. No idea what kind of monster was taking her upstairs to her own bed.

Ross paused at the bottom of the stairs. Slowly, he turned his head and met Cyril's eyes. There was no sympathy in his gaze. No regret. Only satisfaction—and a cruel kind of peace.

"I've already told you," Ross said in a low voice. "I don't like to repeat myself over useless stuff."

He smirked and adjusted her in his arms. "She's even more beautiful up close. Delicate. Loyal. And so, so trusting. It didn't take much to make her fall for me. All I had to do was pretend to be you. The rest… well, she gave willingly."

Cyril's fists clenched at his sides, nails digging into his palms until they drew blood. He wanted to charge Ross. To rip him apart. To scream at Ashley, wake her up, make her see the truth.

But just as he opened his mouth to speak again, something snapped inside him.

It wasn't audible. It wasn't visible.

But it was real.

His jaw stiffened. His lips stopped moving. His throat tightened as though an invisible noose had been drawn around it. The words that had surged forward died in his throat.

And then the stillness spread.

Down his neck. Across his chest. Into his arms. His legs. His hands.

Cyril's entire body locked up. He could no longer move, no longer speak—barely even breathe properly. It was like his body had become someone else's marionette, with the strings now cut and left to dangle uselessly.

He stared in disbelief, helpless, as Ross turned around and began climbing the stairs. Step by step. Quiet. Methodical. Ashley's head rested gently against Ross's shoulder, her body peaceful. She had no idea her world was being rewritten while she slept.

Cyril wanted to cry out. Wanted to scream her name one last time.

But his mouth refused to obey him.

His legs wouldn't even take a step forward.

He was trapped inside himself.

Ross carried Ashley with the ease of a man bringing his bride across the threshold. Once upstairs, he murmured something only Ashley could hear—soft and loving.

Then, with a casual flick of his hand, he sealed the door behind him, locking Cyril out of the upper floor just as thoroughly as he had locked him out of his own life.

Downstairs, Cyril trembled where he stood. Not from fear—but from powerlessness.

And then, as if to humiliate him further, Ross's influence took hold once more.

Cyril's body jerked.

One step back.

Then another.

He wasn't moving by his own will. It was as though invisible hands pushed him from behind, guiding him toward the front door.

"W-What is this…" Cyril tried to whisper, but not even a rasp escaped his throat.

With unnatural stiffness, his legs walked him to the entrance.

The door opened for him—mockingly polite.

And then, without ceremony, he was forced out into the night.

The door shut behind him with a soft click.

A finality that sounded a lot like the end of his life.

Then it happened.

A shimmer of energy, subtle but absolute, danced across the doorway. Like a curtain of invisible light had fallen into place. A barrier. A ward. A command.

Cyril instinctively reached out and tried to cross the threshold again—but his body refused. The moment his foot came close to the welcome mat, a pulse of force pushed him back like a slap to the chest.

He fell hard onto the stone steps outside.

He tried to rise—couldn't.

He tried to scream—still couldn't.

His hands gripped the earth as he watched the house glow softly behind closed windows.

The home he had built. The life he had fought for. The woman he had loved.

All gone.

Inside, Ross was probably tucking Ashley into bed, whispering lies into her ear, maybe even touching her again.

And all Cyril could do… was sit on the front lawn, like an unwanted guest who'd been thrown out for good.

Ross had erased him from Ashley's life. Utterly and completely.

No more contact.

No more visits.

No more Cyril.

What he would do now with this new curse—Ross didn't care.

He could rot on the streets.

He could beg for scraps.

He could vanish into obscurity.

Ross didn't even bother to look out the window anymore. As far as he was concerned, Cyril no longer mattered.

The only thing that mattered now… was Ashley.

And the child she carried.