Abandon My Husband who Only loves His Stepsister Novel – After seducing my husband, Brent Westwood, for three years and still being left untouched, I finally made up my mind—I was going to divorce him. From the moment I saw him at that Westwood gala—silent, cold, untouchable—I was hooked. I tried everything to melt the ice: silk dresses, soft music, late-night talks, even love. But Brent gave me nothing, and not once did he come to our bedroom. Then one night, I broke his only rule.
I opened the locked door in the west wing—and found him there. Shirt half open. Pants undone. One hand moving. The other holding a photograph. Celeste. His stepsister. He whispered her name like a secret, like a sin he didn’t want to stop. That was the moment I died inside—and the moment I stopped begging because it was his time now to beg me to love him again. — After seducing my husband, Brent Westwood, for three years and still being left untouched, I finally made up my mind—I was going to divorce him.
I leaned back on the velvet chair in our bedroom, phone pressed to my ear. My voice was calm, but inside, I was shaking. Not with fear. With relief. “I’m divorcing him,” I said flatly. “I’ll come home soon.” On the other end, my brother’s laugh rang loud and sharp. “About time, Layla. Come to Switzerland. I’ve already lined up a bunch of guys for you. Real men. Not like that emotionally-constipated mannequin you married.” “Lucas…” I sighed. “I warned you from the start,” he said, ignoring me. “You can’t tame someone like Brent.
He’d rather whisper sweet nothings to a wall than touch a woman. You deserve better. Always have.” “I thought I could make him fall for me,” I murmured. “I was wrong.” I hung up before Lucas could say more. My fingers trembled as I dropped the phone onto the bed. That’s when the memories came crashing in. The first time I saw Brent—at a Westwood gala—he stood in a corner, perfectly still, like a statue carved from marble. Men nodded with respect. Women stared with hunger.
But he didn’t return anyone’s gaze. Not even mine. My brother introduced me that night. Brent barely nodded. I smiled. He looked through me. Still, I was drawn to him—obsessed, even. I told myself I could be the one to break through that wall of ice. So I tried. Subtle touches, long stares, late-night texts, silk dresses, fake laughter, honest affection. All of it, I gave to Brent. And I waited. Three years later, he came to me. No ring. No speech. Just walked up one afternoon and said, “Let’s get married.” I agreed without hesitation.
I was foolish enough to think that meant he had finally fallen for me. But after the wedding, Brent never came to our bedroom. Not once. For months, I tried everything to pull him in—silk lingerie in his favorite color, slipping into his study at night just to bring him coffee in nothing but a robe. I memorized his schedule, cooked him breakfast every morning, massaged his shoulders after long meetings, hoping he’d just look at me the way a husband should. I’d light candles in our room, put on soft music, pretend to fall asleep in suggestive positions hoping he’d reach for me.
I even booked a weekend trip to the Maldives, thinking maybe a change of scenery would stir something in him. But he barely touched me. He didn’t even notice when I cried in the shower, or how I stopped wearing perfume because he never cared to smell it. Each time he walked past me like I wasn’t there, something inside me wilted a little more. Then one night… I broke his only rule. There was a door in the west wing. Always locked. Always off-limits. “Never go in there,” he said. But I did. The room was dim. Cold. The faint scent of perfume clung to the air. Not mine. That’s when I saw him.
Brent. Sitting in a velvet armchair, shirt half unbuttoned, trousers unzipped. One hand… moving between his pants. The other held a photograph. Celeste. His stepsister. His eyes were glassy, fixated. His lips parted in a shaky breath. “Celeste…” he called softly, voice raw and needful. I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I just stared. It wasn’t that Brent lacked desire. He just didn’t desire me. I left quietly and slept in the guest room that night. No tears. Just silence. At dawn, I rose, showered, dressed, and walked out of the house.
I just left to get fresh air and to prepare all the things I needed to leave him. While I was having coffee, staring at the calm sea, he called. I didn’t answer. A few minutes later, another call. Then a text. Brent: Where’s my navy suit? I have a meeting. You didn’t prep it. Where are you? This time, I picked up the call. “Layla,” Brent said curtly, already annoyed. “Where is my suit?” I exhaled slowly. Then calmly said, “I don’t know. I don’t care.” There was silence on the line. “What?” he asked, voice tightening. “Are you having tantrums again? Not now! I’m busy so I need the suit—” “I said, I don’t care. Why don’t you ask your stepsister?” I sa