Her Brother’s Name

Finally, a story worth writing. Worth living. Worth retelling.

It had been some time—too long, perhaps—but the wait had only sharpened my appetite. No three Michelin stars tonight. No haute tasting menu. Tonight, I was nervous. Which is rare. But human. Something I forget I still am.

I’d never stepped inside the University Club before. So when I found myself standing beneath its vaulted ceilings, staring into the devastatingly handsome face of my newest acquisition, it felt surreal. And haunting.

We greeted with two polite kisses—European, practiced—but the smile that bloomed on his face when he saw me wasn’t polite. It was boyish. Disarmed. His mouth pulled wide with a kind of giddy awe, and those eyes… two sapphires set in a face still caught between boy and man, but undeniably masculine.

Julien Ambroise de Miremont had come to me through a friend. A young woman who’d failed to please him because, in her words, "he likes them vintage… and bossy." That’s all I needed to know.

I wore black—Chanel blazer, tailored trousers, vintage bun—and carried my navy Celine bag like a sigil. I wanted to look more mature than usual. This place, after all, was older than most countries.

“Ma’am, you look absolutely stunning,” he said, voice soft but reverent. “Merci, mon cher,” I replied, French deliberately accented—just enough to stir him.

I knew his father was Swiss-French, his mother Danish. I knew French was one of the languages he considered home. And I wanted to be that for him—home, familiarity, authority.

His cheekbones distracted me again—so high and refined it was as though nature had chosen a favorite and never looked back. He looked like someone who forgot to eat, but still lived in the mirror of old oil portraits. Ethereal, elegant, a little hollowed out from legacy.

He introduced me to a few polished, forgettable people. The kind who knew—and cared to know—exactly who he was. Julien wore Margiela and cream cashmere, and a scent I couldn’t quite place, which is rare. I always know.

“My mother and I had it made,” he said with that princely smile when I asked.

We were briefly joined by two others—boys, really. Rich, pale, and socially pre-programmed, like every tutor-schooled aristocrat with too many titles and not enough thoughts. I said all the right things. I even smiled.

But what I wanted to say lingered in my mouth like a secret:

Yes, I’ve come for Julien. Yes, I know who your grandfather was. No, I’m not here for any of you. And yet you’ll remember me longer than your wife.

When we finally sat down, he’d told half the room I was his former tutor—now a personal advisor. I looked the part.

“I would’ve taken you to the other club,” he said, “but women aren’t allowed there, unfortunately.” He seemed genuinely disappointed.

We sat at a table near the chessboard. Julien ordered his whiskey in French. I requested brandy. I’m not particularly good at chess—I’m too impatient for games that punish impulse—but I was here for the long play. We’d agreed: he would share more. Details of lineage, family… and his desire to submit.

“Tell me about your mother,” I asked, casually, as I moved my bishop.

“I love my mother,” he said quickly. I rolled my eyes.

“Ma’am, I understand the nature of the question,” he clarified, with reverent caution. “My mother is a saint. She’s protected me fiercely. She’s… my best friend.”

He flushed when he said it. Then, quietly, he stole a piece I hadn’t noticed was vulnerable.

“I know your PhD is stronger than your whip,” he added, still blushing. “Mariam told me as much.”

He didn’t see my knight coming.

“Check,” I said, smiling slowly.

“I enjoy dissecting your mind before your body,” I added.

He nodded, flustered. Then he pulled out his phone and held it between us.

“This is my family,” he said.

The photograph looked staged—sunlight pouring over a rural estate, like something out of a Ralph Lauren ad campaign. A tableau of Nordic elegance: one towering patriarch who looked part vampire, one glowing red-haired matriarch, and three flawless children. Julien. A younger redhead who resembled the mother. And then her.

Blonde. Unsmiling. Equestrian jacket. One hand resting on a stallion like a trophy. Sibyl.

“That’s my eldest sister,” he said. “Had she been born a man, she would’ve been the heir.”

I moved again. His king was trapped.

“Check,” I whispered.

He paused.

“May I be candid, ma’am?”

I nodded. We were alone now, in every way that mattered.

“Sibyl taught me everything I know,” he said. “I believe I am the man I am because of her.”

His Adam’s apple bobbed.

“She was raised as the heir. Until I came along. Then she was discarded. And I believe it.”

He took a long sip of his drink. Then continued.

“I learned to ride beside Sibyl. She’s a champion rider. Has won more ribbons than any man in our family.”

He hesitated. Then leaned closer.

“I learned how to kiss from Sibyl.”

He waited for a reaction. I gave him nothing. My expression was calm. Clinical.“I also learned how to hide bruises from Sibyl… and how to cry. Cry like a man. Not like a boy. Not like a weak thing, the way our family thinks she is.”

That was the moment. The moment the boy cracked and the man inside him trembled.

I let it hang—suspended between us like a perfume neither of us was wearing. Silence can be cruel. But I prefer to make it holy.

“Is that what you want from me?” I asked, voice velveted with control. “To bruise you? Or to make you cry?”

He didn’t answer immediately. He tried to hold my gaze but failed. The shame was visible in the way his lips parted—breath shallow, eyes darting, already imagining the scenes I hadn’t even spoken aloud yet.

“Both,” he said softly. “Please.”

That please—raw, young, and soaked in contradiction—slid across the table like an invitation written in sweat.

I shifted in my seat. Crossed my legs deliberately. The movement wasn’t for him, but it wrecked him anyway. His eyes flicked down, then up, and I watched a blush rise beneath that flawless skin.

“Sibyl may have taught you how to kiss,” I murmured, tracing my fingertip along the rim of my brandy glass, “but she didn’t teach you how to kneel. Or beg. Or break. That’s where I come in.”

He let out a small, involuntary breath. Almost like a moan, disguised as composure.

“You’re hard.” Not a question. A diagnosis.

He nodded once.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good.”

I moved another piece on the chessboard, not caring what it was—because I already had his king, and he knew it.

“You brought me here,” I said, my voice lowering to a dangerous hum, “into the club your great-grandfather likely built on blood and land. You dressed me in your need. You let me into your history. And now you sit there, flushed and stiff, leaking want into thousand-dollar trousers while I unravel you… one story at a time.”

His jaw clenched. His thighs pressed slightly together.

I reached across the table, not for him, but for his whiskey glass. My fingers brushed his. He flinched. Not in fear. In anticipation.

I held the glass up to my lips, drank, and sighed softly.

“You will sit still. Hands on your thighs. Eyes on me. Not another word.”

He obeyed instantly, breath hitching as I watched the effort it took to keep his body from moving. His cock must’ve been throbbing—desperate for friction, release, permission.

I leaned forward, letting the front of my blazer part just enough to expose the skin of my collarbone. His eyes dipped. I let them.

“Did your sister ever teach you how to worship?” I asked. “Not love. Not lust. Worship. The kind that makes your knees ache. The kind that stains your soul.”

“No, ma’am.”

“Then let me be the first.”

If this left you aching, you’re exactly where I want you. The uncensored version—explicit, exquisite, and forbidden—is waiting at Master Liz’s Patreon. Join me at @noustheclub#noustheclub #noussociety

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