The Broken Heirs

By Amelie Vesper

The Broken Heirs - A dark, forbidden romance. A house full of secrets. Two hearts on the edge of destruction.

Abby swore she'd never return. Not to the house where her heart was shattered. Not to the boy who became her stepbrother—and her deepest regret.

But when her estranged parents die and the will demands she live under the same roof as Harry—the cold, tormented heir of a cruel legacy—she has no choice but to face everything she tried to forget.

The mansion is no longer just haunted by memories. Now there are whispers in the halls. Footsteps in the dark. Screams that don't belong to either of them.

Harry doesn't want her there. Abby doesn't trust him. And yet, something between them refuses to die.

Bound by bloodlines, betrayal, and a twisted inheritance, Abby and Harry must confront the past before it consumes them both.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Amelie Vesper
• Release date: Jul 11, 2025
• ISBN: 9798231480395

Amelie Vesper

Amelie Vesper crafts dark romance, suspense, and thrillers that explore obsession, danger, and forbidden desires. Her gripping stories pull readers into shadowy worlds where passion burns, secrets unravel, and nothing is ever as it seems—perfect for those who crave the darker side of love.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Abby Wilson

New York

THE FIRST TIME I HEARD those words from my mother's mouth is etched in my mind. I've done everything to forget. Everything to pretend that day never happened.

But no matter how much I try to escape. How much I want to escape this prison.

Nightmares always drag me back into the hole I climbed out of.

It all begins in a ballet studio. I'm trying to balance, trying to follow the teacher's steps. I watch how her slender body manages such smooth turns. How angelic her smile is.

How I would give anything to have that confidence.

However, just as I'm about to follow her, a strong hand grabs my arm. It has cold fingers, red-painted nails, and a large gold wedding ring.

Her brown eyes stare at me coldly and when I try to ask for help, she says:

— You're useless, Abby.

It's usually when I wake up.

Sweaty, shivering in bed, most of the time not knowing where I am.

I take a deep breath. The air comes out quickly, my chest rising and falling nonstop.

You are safe. You are safe. You are safe.

I'm safe.

It's still dark. I blink quickly, trying to make out my surroundings, but I quickly spot the thousand-thread-count sheets my mother's personal servant bought for my room.

My mother. My haunting.

I lived in London for many years. Not by choice, but since she never considered my opinion, it didn't make the slightest difference.

She had a certain obsession with the secret world of the aristocrats. She wanted to be part of the elite at all costs, always pursuing this desire tooth and nail. Being fabulously rich wasn't enough. Neither was owning an internationally recognized designer label. What she wanted was power. Status.

And what Tracy Wilson wanted, she got.

She started getting involved with a British aristocrat and dragged me into a life I didn't want before I even knew if the romance would work out.

It made me go to every event, smile even when I was drowning, and pretend to be happy when all I wanted to do was scream.

That's why I joined a secret society back in my college days at Evergreen. I put up with the hazing, the late-night meetings, the lies, the innuendos, the betrayals... I put up with him.

My stepfather's son.

Harry Walker.

He was part of the secret society of Angels and for a long time was my godfather within their hierarchy. I can't deny that we became close in some way, although I prefer to forget that time of my life.

As soon as I graduated, I insisted on returning to the United States. My mother threatened me in every way possible, trying to force me to do so with every form of blackmail and manipulation imaginable.​

— What will they say about me at events, Abby? What will they think of our family?

It was then that I replied, bored:

— You have a new child. Use him.

I had never received a slap like that.

My mother's fingers on my face burned like fire. My cheeks were red for hours. But after the pain, there was nothing left.

Just an endless void. A feeling of not belonging anywhere.

Empty.

Empty, empty... And nothing else.

Packing my bags and getting on the plane was like a breath of fresh air. I was relieved to know that Tracy would no longer have me within her reach.

She had acquired new toys, after all. A husband with a British accent who knew all the social norms she so cherished. A son who could tell the difference between the cutlery on the table.

The perfect family.

And sometimes you have to know when to walk away.

It’s just a nightmare, I murmur.

But even though I repeated this to myself over and over, I couldn't sleep again. Every time I did, the images came back to haunt me.

If I were superstitious, I might think it was some kind of warning.

A sign.

Some form of omen to prepare me for what was about to happen.

But unfortunately, I stopped trusting my intuition a long time ago. It wouldn't be taken into account anymore, not after...

After having made me believe the wrong person.

After making me feel something that girls like me learn from a very young age is stupid to cultivate: hope.

The drug of hope.

CHAPTER 1

Abby Wilson

London

Five Years Earlier

DRINKING AT THIS HOUR? I scoffed, following him with my eyes.

But my stepfather's son, Harry Walker, wasn't in a good mood that morning. His red, puffy eyes were evidence of yet another heartbreak.

You should be sleeping, he grumbled, not looking away from the amber liquid in his glass.

Sighing, I went to our wine cellar and poured myself a nice glass of Cabernet.

— True, but I can't ignore this scene. It sucks drinking alone.

— I don't need your pity, Wilson.

— And who said I feel sorry for you? I'll drink in honor of the girl who left you in this state. She became my idol.

Harry's dark eyes turned to me so quickly that I had no choice but to hold his gaze.

Don't you have anything better to do, Abby? Grind up little children's bones to eat with bread, perhaps?

I smile.

Unfortunately for you, I'm on vacation. Not chasing kids. I tilted my head to the side thoughtfully. Want to talk about it?

But Harry didn't even look at me.

He looked back at the glass before downing practically the rest of his drink in one go. He grimaced and, still ignoring me, went to the wine cellar to pour a fresh one.

He repeated the act a few times, and when his brown eyes met mine again, the state of his drunkenness was evident.

— That won't bring her back.

Harry shook his head, as if hearing my voice was making him sick.

Sighing, I walked over to him and snatched the cup from his hand rather ungently. He sputtered angrily, but didn't struggle against my grip.

I tucked Harry into bed like a child. I helped him pull his shirt over his shoulders and watched as he covered himself with the thousand-thread-count sheet my mother must have been insisting so damn much he change.

She changed everything around here.

Harry closed his eyes, his breath rising and falling rapidly. I thought sleep might have overtaken him, but then his deep voice roused me from my reverie.

— Why do you hate me, Abby?

I blinked in surprise.

— Do you think I hate you?

— I'm sure.

— Curious.

He swallowed, taking a deep breath.

— Everyone hates me.

— That's not true. The people in Evergreen love you.

They only like me because of my father. His money, he spat, as if uttering such words hurt him on a personal level.

I shrugged.

It's part of the game. Some of us are born to be loved, others aren't. Do motives really matter that much?

— They matter to me.

— Then get used to an unhappy life. Living to meet other people's expectations is a punishment.

A shiver runs down my spine as something warm lands on my hand. I quickly look down, watching Harry's fingers gently trace the palm of my hand.

— You don't look anything like her.

— Who?

His tormented eyes stared into mine.

— Your mother.

Thank God.

But I didn't answer that out loud.

— You don't look like your father either.

— And it kills him with heartbreak every day.

This information caught me off guard.

I didn't try at all to live up to my mother's expectations, but Harry was the opposite. One look from his father was all it took for him to do exactly what was expected.

That didn't make sense.

— If you were more perfect, Harry... It would be unbearable to live with you. Much more than you already are.

— I knew you hated me.

— I don't hate you. I just don't care about you.

He narrowed his eyes. His eyelids felt heavier and heavier, meaning he would fall into a deep sleep at any moment.

We're a tragedy, he muttered, staring into space. I hate my father. You can't stand your mother. And these two horrible people decided to get married... He finished the sentence with a hoarse, lifeless laugh. What did we do to have such a fate, huh?

Smile.

I don't know about you, Walker. But my mother must blame me every day for winning that race when she so desperately wanted a male heir for my father.

Harry grinned mischievously.

— I'm glad you won. Imagine not having that view every day around the house...

I raised my eyebrow.

And I think that's the end of all the sentimental chatter. Sweet dreams, Harry.

But his firm hand grabbed my wrist before I could get very far. His playful expression turned to agony again.

Don't go yet, Abby. Just wait... He swallowed. Wait until I fall asleep. Is that okay?

— Afraid of ghosts?

— Like that.

I took a deep breath.

— Okay. What do I do?

— Tell me a story.

You're a big baby, Harry. All this for a girl who'll probably use you whenever she needs someone to warm her bed.

His eyes once again had the mischievous, mischievous glint he loved to wear as armor.

— I don't mind being used by women, Wilson.

I held up two fingers, pointing them in his direction.

That's the second little joke I've missed, Harry. The third time... I'll leave you alone with your ghosts.

He nodded quickly, but the mischievous smile didn't leave his lips.

I waited for him to finish settling into the huge double bed in his room while I thought about all the stories I remembered by heart.

Do you know the story of Eros and Psyche? I asked in a whisper.

It was my favorite myth from Greek mythology.

— No.

All good.

She was a beautiful woman, and this infuriated Aphrodite. She was the goddess of love and beauty; there was no way a mortal could be more beautiful than her. That's why she sent her son, Eros, also known as Cupid, after the poor girl. She asked him to make Psyche fall in love with the ugliest creature he could find. But as soon as Eros saw her... He fell in love. I paused, watching Harry's frowning face. "Psyche's father began to suspect something when he noticed his daughter was always alone. The king then decided to consult an oracle to see if he had offended the gods, even unintentionally. Eros answered him, demanding that he take his daughter to the top of a mountain. Psyche would be married to a terrible serpent. And even though terrified, the girl went. Once there, she was overcome by a deep sleep and carried by Zephyrus to a beautiful hill...

Looking up, I realized that Harry had already fallen asleep.

I watched him for a while longer, memorizing every feature of his peaceful face. Even with our differences, I couldn't deny how beautiful Harry Walker was.

And kind.

And funny.

And... Sweet.

Characteristics that, in isolation, were good adjectives. But together they made him lethal. He knew how to charm before he destroyed.

And that was precisely why I always kept him away.

Something I didn't plan on changing.

Never.

CHAPTER 2

Abby Wilson

London

Present Day

— THEY'RE DEAD, ABBY.

The voice on the other end of the line sounds steady, quite different from my trembling fingers around the receiver.​

Dead.

My mother and her new husband are dead.

I should be sad. Shouldn't I?

My voice must be cracking. My eyes should be burning with the urge to cry. My throat is tight, my heart is racing, my skin is crawling.

I should definitely be desperate. Feeling like the ground had been pulled out from under me, the latent desperation seeping under my skin.

Damn, I should start crying.

Now, preferably.

But my voice doesn't obey my command. My body doesn't care about appearances. It doesn't care if people think I'm cold, heartless, ungrateful, or strange for not displaying any of the feelings characteristic of a grieving daughter.

And when I answer, I know, I just know that the relief in my tone is evident.

— What do I need to do?

Desenho com traços pretos em fundo branco Descrição gerada automaticamente com confiança média

The next few weeks are a real rush.

Apparently, my mother died in a plane crash. Something about a reckless pilot who agreed to fly despite the bad weather conditions didn't impress me.​

My mother and stepfather would never take no for an answer.

However, since they both lived in London and I'm still in New York, all the paperwork takes even longer.

I'd rather not have to travel to bury my mother. She doesn't even deserve that from me.

But Harry, my stepsister from hell, argued in the hearing we held via videoconference that his father should be buried in England alongside all his ancestors. He also made a point of emphasizing how hard my mother worked to be part of that family and, therefore, the honor of being buried with everyone with the same surname.

Argh.

I felt like vomiting once or twice during the hearing.

Now let's talk business, the estate manager says, a serious expression on his face. The family estate is massive. They signed a prenuptial agreement, so the entire Walker family fortune remains intact. The inheritance will pass to Harry, naturally. He glances quickly over some of the papers in front of him and then lifts his chin to meet my face. That also applies to the shares inherited from your father, Miss Wilson. All shares in WK's department store remain yours. You can ask your lawyer to contact the other shareholders if you have any questions.

I just nod, dying to get off this video call and get back to my comfortable bed.

The inventory taker takes one last deep breath before continuing:

— Now let's go over the written requirements your parents left for you. They wanted these to be met before you received your individual inheritance. After the marriage, they acquired many assets, renovated their London home, and also...

Harry's voice sounds imposing as he interrupts the lawyer, curtly and bluntly:

— Demands?

The inventory taker blinks rapidly.

— Uh... Yes, Mr. Walker. Your father and stepmother had very strict inheritance requirements. For both of you.

It's the first time I've allowed myself to look at Harry through my iPad screen. His eyes are darker than I remember. His jaw is definitely more angular, and his shoulders... Well, let's just say Walker was never a small boy, but now... Wow.

I need to give my stepbrother some credit.

I clear my throat.

Demands? I repeat, this time with a hint of mockery in my voice.

But the lawyer seems quite serious to me when he answers, without flinching:

— Some. They were worried about what the house would look like after they were gone. So you can't sell it.

Owl.

— Excellent.

I hate that house. I hate who my mother became when she moved there.

To be fair, it's not like the walls and the environment could change a person. I think they only intensified the horrible person she was. It seems that living surrounded by objects that belonged to great monarchs of the last century gave her permission to explore her full potential as a bitch.

Regarding the inherited individual companies, feel free to sell the shares. The restriction only applies to the house, the lawyer emphasizes. Properties, clubs, and any remaining assets accumulated after marriage will be divided between the two of you. That is, if... And then he lifts his face to look at me. Miss Wilson returns to London and lives on the family estate for at least a year. Otherwise, everything will be passed on to and managed by Mr. Walker.

My jaw is on the floor.

A bitter taste starts to fill my throat. What the hell is this?

I exchange a quick glance with the bastard staring at me through the screen. Confusion seems to flash in Harry's eyes, quickly replaced by amusement.

He's on cloud nine.

Sorry, I think there's been some mistake, I interrupt. My mother used the money we inherited from my father's companies to invest in the business she had with her new husband. So, I'm practically an investor.

That's not what it says here, Miss Wilson. In fact, your mother was quite emphatic about you having— and here I open quotes, paraphrasing her: run away from home as soon as you graduated, abandoning the family business, and maxing out as many credit cards as you could."

I'm still too shocked to mutter any intelligent words, but Harry wastes no time.

The little laugh he lets out gets on my nerves.

Bravo... He claps his hands. Finally, Tracy did something worthy of applause. Too bad she's not here to see it.

This isn’t a good time for jokes, I retort, still refusing to look at him.

This only makes him laugh more.

— You're wrong, princess. That just makes this whole shit funnier.

Ignoring the jerk completely, I focus on facing the lawyer once more.

If I move to London and live in the house for a year, can you get me a restraining order? I want that bastard five yards away.

The executor frowns.

— That would be complicated, considering you two must live together.

— What?

Your mother and stepfather wanted the businesses to be run by the family. They were very strict about it when they wrote the will. You must live on the family property and keep up appearances for at least a year. He massages the space between his eyebrows, taking a deep breath. You want honesty? I thought all this was stupid too. But if I may give you some advice, I would do what they ask. Pretend to be grieving siblings running the family business together. Pose for a newspaper, wear black when you leave the house. And after that, take the money and rebuild your lives.

The more he talks, the more I feel like I've just walked into a horror movie.

Harry and I being trapped in a house after all these years is a police matter. One of us will definitely end up dead.

Sons of bitches, I mutter under my breath, running through all the possibilities in my head.

I can live on what's left of my father's shares. I have the apartment he inherited, and I receive a considerable amount of money from the companies he founded here. I could probably spend the rest of my days going out to parties and drinking myself into oblivion.

But...

I was counting on my mother's money. Not because I need more, but because I refuse to think that my father's money has ended up in the greedy hands of Liam Walker. Harry's father.

I clench my hands into fists.

I still remember how upset I was when I learned where much of my money was going. Marrying into the British elite wasn't enough to truly enter that world. And money ends up making things easier.

You don't have to come here, Abby, Harry says. As soon as I have possession of all our parents' assets, I'll sign over half to you.

I blink my eyes.

— And you think I was born yesterday?

— I think you and I both know that living together isn't going to work out very well.

I let out an ironic laugh.

— It's funny that you think I trust you, Harry. Really funny.

I’m really funny, he retorts, with a toothy smile.

— My answer is no.

— Do you miss me that much?

From you? I roll my eyes, irritated. I know you, Walker. I know very well that as soon as my money hits your account, I become your puppet. Your property. And it's humiliation enough to have been threatened in my mother's will.

Harry grins mischievously.

— Sometimes we have to work to get what we want, princess.

— Wow. That sentence coming from you is quite ironic, don't you think?

— You have no idea, kitten.

Argh. Kitten? He's what, twelve years old?

I turn my attention to the lawyer.

— What is my deadline?

He clears his throat quickly, organizing the paperwork on his desk. The relief shining in his eyes is undeniable.

Twenty-four hours. They were quite emphatic about your arrival. They don't want journalists speculating about the family name and why you didn't attend the funeral.

Family name.

I feel like throwing the iPad away and banging my head against the wall over and over again.

Wretched.

My mother wasn't content with terrorizing me as a child. She wasn't content with taking the money my father left me, nor was she content with dragging me to another country and making me abandon my friends here.

No... She was so careful that even after she died she found a different way to fuck me.

The funeral... I begin, but I can’t finish the sentence. My throat is dry.

My mother died.

Damn... She really died. And she'll have to be buried.

Crap.

Harry is the one who answers, expressionless:

Tomorrow afternoon. I suggest you get on a plane as soon as possible if you want to say goodbye to your mom.

If the lawyer noticed the contempt in my stepbrother's voice, he didn't waste a reaction.

I know it's a delicate situation for both of you. Losing your parents is a hard blow, but when the parents in question are millionaires and leave such a detailed will, things get complicated. Luckily, the family home is large. Huge enough that you don't have to cross paths. And believe me, a year flies by.

Harry laughs.

— Not for us. We are a tragedy.

My heart races.

We are a tragedy.

We've repeated this to each other so many times that somehow it's become intrinsic to who we are.

— You're going to have to learn to live together. Or else...

He doesn't finish the sentence, but he doesn't need to.

Or else Harry and I will kill each other.

Or else I'll end up going crazy.

Or else Harry will finally succumb to the crazy voices in his head.

Or else... We'll end up doing something stupid.

Very, very stupid.

Stupid to the point of being an international scandal.

CHAPTER 3

Abby Wilson

PACKING HAS ALWAYS been one of my favorite parts of a trip. The anticipation you create when you meticulously choose each item, thinking about all the possible places on your itinerary where it might be worn... It was part of the magic for me.​

Now I feel like a prisoner choosing my favorite straitjacket.

I don't ask any staff for help. I pack just a few items of clothing, knowing I'll be buying everything again when I get to London.

My throat closes up.

I can't believe I'm actually about to go back.

The flight passes so quickly that seven hours seems like mere minutes. I could have asked Harry to charter a flight, but I preferred the hustle and bustle of a crowded airport. This might be the last time I can do something as simple as go to the ticket counter and buy a last-minute ticket.

I have no one to carry my bags. No one to take me to the house that has long haunted my nightmares.

I head to the tube station. It may be unconventional, but I truly love the London Underground. I love seeing all the people carrying suitcases, coming and going from all corners of the city. Even with all the stairs I have to climb between stations, I feel a strange sense of freedom using this method of transportation.

My mother never knew, but I rarely used our chauffeur when I needed to get around town. Initially, it was a form of revenge, amused by how scandalized she would be if she knew. It's such a small thing to most people... But to Tracy, it definitely wasn't.

She would have had a syncope.

However, when I reach my last station, I have to give in to calling the damn number.

The number I've been avoiding for too long.

— Have you already given up your share of the inheritance?

In your dreams. I clear my throat, squinting into the sun. London in the summer always feels strange to me. As if the city doesn't agree with that climate. I'm already here, but I need you to pick me up at the station.

He bursts out laughing.

— Station? Are you still using the subway, Abby?

I'm not here to answer your questions, asshole. I just need a ride.

— It's funny. Do you really expect me to come over there and help you?

— I hope.

He is silent for a few seconds.

The truth is, I don't think Harry would come all this way willingly, but damn, I'm silently rooting for it.

Beg, he says finally.

My throat closes up.

— Never.

— So have a good walk, Abby.

And then the bastard hangs up on me.

I'm still staring at my phone in disbelief when someone bumps into me at the station. I nearly lose my balance, giving the jerk the finger, who's so engrossed in his phone conversation that he doesn't even realize he's dropped my suitcase.

It's the signal I need to get out of here as quickly as possible. So, I turn to Uber, even though I hate getting into unfamiliar cars.

I could very well demand that Harry send the family's personal driver, but I don't want to call the jerk again.

The streets of London pass through the car window as I watch with regret what will be my fate for the next twelve months.

Twelve months.

During the short journey to my personal hell, I close my eyes. I will get through this with my head held high.

It's a silent promise I make to myself.

— We're here — the driver announces.

I tense up.

I need to get out of the car.

He steps forward and opens the trunk to retrieve my luggage. I offer a polite smile as I walk slowly to the large iron gate that surrounds the entire property.

The scanner passes over my face, and after seconds that feel more like minutes, the gates finally open.

Well, here we go.

One thing I couldn't deny. My mother had really good taste. Except in men... Or maybe not. After all, every unfortunate man who had the misfortune to cross her path ended up obsessed with her.

My stepfather may have been the worst of all. So eager to see her use his surname that he agreed to break several rules. One of them compromised his family name. My mother didn't come from a wealthy family, not a noble family of any kind. She grew up in a two-story house in a suburb in the