Owned By My Ex's Brother

There was a rhythm to the rehearsals now.

Damien didn't ask questions. Maya didn't volunteer answers. But something pulsed between them—unspoken, taut, and heavy with the weight of everything they weren't saying.

It wasn't attraction. Not yet.

It was a shared silence.

The kind that followed you out of the room and echoed in the hallway long after the door had shut.

By the second week, Maya stopped pretending she hated being there. She didn't admit she liked it, either. But she showed up earlier. Stayed a little longer. Her posture softened, her glances lingered. Not because she was falling—but because being near him made her forget how hurt she still was.

And that… terrified her.

Because forgetting meant forgiving. And forgiving meant letting go of her anger—the one thing she had left to hold onto.

—

Tessa noticed.

"You've been acting weird lately," she said one morning in the cafeteria. "Like you're glitching."

Maya didn't look up from her tray. "Glitching?"

"Yeah, like... you lag when someone mentions Damien. And then you deflect. You're glitching."

"I'm not."

"You are. Don't deny it. And it's not just that. You've stopped flinching around him. I saw you two yesterday after rehearsal. He said something, and you—wait for it—smiled."

"It was muscle fatigue."

Tessa grinned. "You're the muscle that's fatiguing, girl."

Maya rolled her eyes but didn't deny it.

Because there was a truth crawling under her skin, itching at the base of her throat: she was changing. She wasn't forgetting what Logan did. She wasn't erasing the humiliation. But Damien had disrupted the pain, and that was enough to confuse her.

And then came the second painting.

She hadn't even known he was working on another.

They were in rehearsal, her usual spot under the spotlight. He stood by the canvas, painting her profile like he had every day that week. She was used to the quiet by now—the scratch of charcoal, the light swish of a brush. But then he said:

"I want to show you something."

She blinked. "Now?"

He nodded and turned the canvas slightly. It wasn't the one he'd been working on. It was different. Darker. More expressive.

It was her, again. But not the her from rehearsal. This Maya had fire behind her eyes. Her mouth was set. Her shoulders were tight, proud. Angry.

"You painted me mad," she whispered.

"You were."

She stepped forward, eyes tracing the angles. "This is the day Logan—"

"Yeah."

"You watched me?"

He didn't answer immediately. "Everyone was watching. I just... remembered better."

Maya didn't know what to do with that. Or how to feel.

She should've been flattered. Maybe even moved. But instead, she felt like she'd just stepped into a game she hadn't agreed to play.

"You're painting moments," she said. "Not portraits."

Damien's eyes flicked to hers. "Is that a bad thing?"

"I don't know."

Because she really didn't.

—

That night, as she lay in bed, Maya replayed everything in her head: the second painting, the conversation, the way he looked at her like she was something worth studying.

Not loving. Not desiring. But understanding.

She wasn't used to that.

She didn't know how to fight it either.

The next day, Logan showed up at rehearsal.

He strolled in like he owned the place—hands in his jacket pockets, smirk barely concealed.

"Didn't know this was open to walk-ins," Logan said.

Damien's hand paused mid-stroke. His brush hovered in the air.

"It's not," Damien said without looking at him.

Logan's eyes swept over Maya first, then the half-finished canvas. "Looks like you've been busy. And here I thought you didn't care about things like attention."

"I don't," Damien replied, his tone flat. "But sometimes it's useful."

"Useful?" Logan laughed. "You call painting her useful?"

Maya's jaw tightened.

Damien looked up slowly, eyes razor-sharp. "Careful, brother."

The word hit like a slap. Not just because it reminded everyone they were related—but because of the venom behind it.

Logan tilted his head. "Relax. I'm just trying to understand your obsession."

"I thought you were the one obsessed," Damien said coolly. "You keep showing up where she is. Still trying to stake a claim on someone you already threw away?"

Logan scoffed, but his smirk faltered.

"She's not yours," Logan muttered.

Damien set the brush down gently. "No. She's not anyone's. But if she ever decides to be mine, you'll be the last to know."

Maya's heart hammered in her chest.

The silence was brutal.

Logan turned his glare on her. "You really think he's different? That this isn't just another one of his games?"

"Better a game with rules than whatever you were playing," she said before she could stop herself.

Logan blinked. Hurt flickered through his expression—just for a second.

Then he turned and left, shoulders tight.

When the door shut, Damien didn't say anything. He just picked up the brush again and returned to painting.

"Was that necessary?" Maya asked after a while.

"Yes," Damien said. "He needed to know he can't mess with you anymore."

"You think that's your job?"

"No," he said. "But it felt good to do it anyway."

She didn't know how to respond to that. So she sat. And let him paint.

—

Later that night, Maya returned to the auditorium alone. Again.

She stared at the second canvas. The angry one. Her reflection in that piece looked so fierce, so unapologetic. It reminded her of the girl she used to be before everything fell apart.

She didn't hear Damien walk in.

"You always come back here," he said from the doorway.

She turned. "So do you."

"I don't like unfinished things."

She crossed her arms. "And what am I? A project?"

"No," he said, stepping closer. "You're a process."

She almost laughed. "That's worse."

He shrugged. "Maybe. But some processes are worth the patience."

The way he said it—slow, deliberate—made her throat tighten.

"Is that why you kissed me?"

He didn't look away. "That was impulse. But what I'm doing now?" He nodded to the painting. "That's intention."

They stood there for a long beat.

"You want everyone to think I'm yours," she said finally. "But you tell Logan I'm not. Which is it?"

His expression didn't change. "It's both."

"That makes no sense."

"It does to me. I don't own you, Maya. But that doesn't mean I don't want the world to know I see you. That I'm not afraid to show it."

Maya's breath caught. She didn't know what to say.

She wasn't falling yet—but something was definitely cracking.

And Damien? He wasn't even pretending anymore.