Falling For My Stepbrother

Sienna's POVThe house looked like it had been ripped straight from a magazine spread titled "Rich People Who Don't Actually Live Here." All glass and sharp angles, sitting on a hill like it was judging the peasants below. I hated it immediately.

Dad pulled into the driveway humming—actually humming—like we were arriving at Disney World instead of the architectural equivalent of a prison.

"You'll love it here," he said, killing the engine.

I didn't respond. What was I supposed to say? Thanks for marrying a stranger six months after Mom's death anniversary and dragging me into her perfect little dollhouse?

Yeah. That'd go over well.

Two years. That's how long Mom had been gone. Two years since the aneurysm took her in three hours flat, leaving Dad and me in a two-bedroom apartment that smelled like hospital scrubs and her lavender shampoo. She'd worked doubles while Dad clawed his way up from nothing, building his consulting firm one sleepless night at a time.

Back then, he used to ask how I was doing. Now? He just told me what to do.

"Sienna, you're going to law school." Not a question. A command. Three months after the funeral.

Mom had wanted me to study literature. To write poetry. To be happy.

But Dad wanted stability. A legacy. A daughter who made him proud instead of one who reminded him of what he lost.

So I buried my dreams, aced the LSAT, and became the perfect pre-law student. Because that's what you do when grief turns your father into a stranger and you're terrified of losing him too.

Eighteen months later, he met Angela Carter at some charity gala. Widow. Wealthy. Elegant in that cold, calculating way. Three months later, engaged. Three months after that, married.

I'd gone to the wedding in navy and a frozen smile. Didn't cry once.

Now I was moving into her house.

The front doors opened before we reached them. Angela stood there in cream cashmere and pearls, her blonde hair in one of those effortless knots that probably took an hour. She smiled, but her eyes did a quick scan—shoes, posture, expression. Taking inventory.

"Sienna." She stepped forward, arms open for an embrace I didn't want. Her perfume was expensive. Suffocating. "Welcome home."

Home. Right.

"Thanks, Angela."

"Please, call me Mom if you're comfortable." Her hand landed on my shoulder, light but deliberate. "I know this is an adjustment, but your father and I want you to feel like this is your space too."

Translation: We've been planning you like furniture.

Dad grabbed my bags while Angela led me through the foyer. White marble. Vaulted ceilings. A chandelier that probably cost more than Mom's entire yearly salary. Everything screamed money. Cold, soulless money.

"Your room is down this hall," Angela said, guiding me past rooms that looked like they'd never been lived in. "We thought you'd prefer privacy, so you're in the guest wing. Quiet. Spacious. You'll have your own bathroom—well, mostly."

I stopped walking. "Mostly?"

She hesitated. Just a fraction. "It's a Jack and Jill bathroom. You'll share with Rhett. But he's very respectful of boundaries."

Rhett.

I knew that name. Everyone at Westbridge University knew that name.

Rhett Carter—philosophy major, debate champion, and the campus's favorite bad boy fantasy. I'd been watching him for three years. Not because I wanted to—because I couldn't help it.

Freshman orientation: he'd been at the fountain, surrounded by people who hung on his every word. Dark curls. Leather jacket. That kind of presence that makes you stop mid-sentence.

Since then? Everywhere. Library. Quad. Parties I shouldn't have gone to. Always with different girls draped over him like accessories. Always asking questions in seminars that made professors pause. Always looking like life was a game only he knew how to win.

I'd watched him. Hated him for how easy everything seemed. Hated the twist in my chest every time I saw him with someone else—a feeling I refused to name because naming it made it dangerous.

Now I had to live with him.

"He's your stepbrother now," I said, testing the words. They tasted wrong.

Angela's smile tightened. "Technically. But you're both adults."

She opened the door to my new room. White linens. Abstract art. A window overlooking a garden that probably had its own staff. Everything curated. Sterile.

"Dinner's at seven," Angela said. "I'm so glad you're here, Sienna. I've always wanted a daughter."

The door clicked shut.

I stood there, surrounded by expensive emptiness, and felt more alone than I had in our cramped apartment where Mom and I used to watch old movies on her nights off.

I unpacked methodically. Textbooks by subject. Clothes by color. Alarm set for 6:00 a.m. Structure was the only thing keeping me functional.

Around eight, I heard music through the bathroom door. Low bass. Movement.

I knocked. "Hello?"

The music cut off.

The door opened.

Rhett stood there in black joggers and nothing else. Water droplets on his collarbone. Tattoos everywhere—geometric patterns, script, a moth across his chest. His eyes swept over me once before he leaned against the doorframe.

Up close, he was overwhelming. Taller than I expected. More real.

"You must be the stepsister," he said.

I forced myself to meet his gaze. "Sienna."

"I know." He crossed his arms. "You're in my philosophy seminar. Back row. You never talk."

I blinked. I hadn't thought he'd noticed me.

"You argue with Professor Chen in your head," he added. "Your face does this thing when he makes a point you disagree with."

My stomach flipped. He'd been watching me.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Sure." His mouth curved. "Anyway. Welcome. Sorry about the bathroom. Mom's idea."

"I'll stay out of your way."

"Will you?" He studied me for a moment. "Good luck with that, Sienna."

He closed the door.

I stood there, heart hammering, already knowing this was going to be a problem.

Dinner was worse.

Dad arrived late, kissed Angela's cheek, asked about my room without listening. Angela served organic chicken. Rhett showed up ten minutes late in a black t-shirt, slid into his seat like he owned the table.

"Rhett, punctuality," Angela said gently.

"Sorry. Lost track of time."

He didn't sound sorry.

Dad talked about clients. Angela nodded at the right moments. I ate mechanically. Rhett pushed food around his plate.

"So, Sienna," Angela said. "Your father mentioned internship applications. I have connections at Morrison & Blake if you'd like an introduction."

"I appreciate it, but I'm handling it myself."

Her smile didn't falter. "Of course. I just want to help. You're family now."

Family. That word again.

I felt Rhett's eyes on me but didn't look.

Later, I texted Lia.

Me: Survived day one. Barely.

Lia: Did the Ice Palace have a wine fountain?

Me: Close. Also, shirtless stepbrother situation.

Lia: DETAILS. NOW.

Me: He called me out for watching him in class. Apparently my face "does a thing."

Lia: Your face DOES do a thing. You get all squinty when you're judging someone.

Me: I don't squint.

Lia: You absolutely squint. Also, is he hot?

Me: Unfortunately.

Lia: This is going to be a disaster and I'm HERE FOR IT.

I smiled despite everything. Lia had been my anchor since freshman year—the kind of friend who thrived on chaos and hated being left in the dark. Growing up in a messy household made her value honesty above all. She'd see through this situation in seconds.

I tossed my phone aside and lay in bed, thinking about my mother.

She used to say I felt things too deeply. After she died, I buried everything under schedules and perfect grades. Became the daughter Dad wanted—obedient, focused, untouchable.

But now I was living in a house where my stepmother watched me like a project and my stepbrother looked at me like he knew every secret I was hiding.

And the worst part?

I'd been watching him for months. Stolen glances. Held breaths. A crush I refused to name.

Now he was across the hall.

Now we were family.

Now it was impossible.

Around midnight, I heard his door open and close. Footsteps. Then silence.

I pressed my pillow over my face and willed myself to sleep.

It didn't work.