Two years ago, if someone had told me I'd be living in a multimillionaire's mansion, I would've laughed — hard.
Given my background, the idea sounded ridiculous.
But here I am.
Living in a mansion owned by my new stepfather.
The place is massive — all cold marble floors and echoing silence. The kind of house where even your footsteps feel too loud. It smells like polished wood, old money, and something too clean to feel like home. I keep thinking I don't belong here — like the walls are watching me, waiting for me to break something.
And as if that weren't enough, I now have a stepbrother.
He's arrogant in that slow, chewing way — like he's always above it all.
He irritates me beyond reason, and I've only known him for two days. Exactly forty-eight hours.
He looks at me like I'm trash. Like something he can't wait to throw out. Like I'm nothing.
And yeah… that hurts.
I didn't want this marriage to happen.
But if my mom's happy, I guess that's what matters.
So I agreed to go along with it.
I'm seventeen — it's not like I have a real choice. I'm not ready to be on my own.
Every night, I lie awake with too many thoughts clawing at my head.
All the things I should've said. All the things I wish I'd done differently.
If only I'd spoken up when I had the chance. If only I'd fought harder.
But I didn't. I'm weak. Too damn weak.
I don't talk. I don't scream. I don't fight.
I cry. I listen to music.
And that's exactly what I'm doing now.
Lying in bed, tears slipping silently onto my pillow, Chemtrails Over the Country Club by Lana Del Rey humming in my ears. I've been like this for hours — unable to sleep, drowning in thoughts — until a sudden sound rips through the silence.
I sit up fast, pull out my earphones, and follow the noise down the hall.
What I find stops me cold.
My arrogant stepbrother, crouched over shattered glass, blood dripping from his hand onto the pristine white floor. The crimson against the tile looks violent. Too vivid.
I freeze.
My first instinct is to turn around — it's none of my business.
But I can't just watch him bleed.
I move toward him and reach for his hand.
He jerks it away. Instantly.
I glare at him, daring him to do it again.
Then I grab his hand again — more firmly this time.
He doesn't pull away. He just stares.
I don't ask what happened.
I hate prying into people's lives.
Instead, I go to the cabinet, grab the first aid kit, and kneel in front of him.
I clean the wound slowly, carefully. Still, not a single word passes between us.
When I finish and begin to stand, I realize how close we are.
If I moved even slightly, our lips might touch.
Our noses are already brushing. Our breaths mixing in the space between us. The only thing separating us is hesitation — and not much of it.
And I'm scared to move.
Not because I don't want to — but because I know if he kisses me… I won't stop him.
What kind of person does that make me?
His injured hand lifts, reaching toward my face.
At first, I feel the soft edge of the bandage.
Then — his fingers. Warm. Real. Bare skin brushing mine.
I gasp. The sound escapes before I can stop it.
And I regret it instantly.
That's my cue.
I pull away.
I run — because running is what I do best.
Back in my room, I shove my earbuds in, blast the volume as high as it'll go, and bury my head in the pillow.
His blood is still on my hands when I finally force myself to sleep.