6

Isabella Leonardo:

“So… you’re my daddy’s stepsister?” Amara asked, her eyes squinting with suspicion far too mature for a six-year-old.

I nodded, offering her a small smile. “Yes. I am.”

She tilted her head. “So, your mom is the gold digger who married my Grandpa?”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“That’s what Daddy said. He said Grandpa married a woman who only wanted his money. That’s your mom, right?”

Wow. Direct. Just like her father.

I cleared my throat. “Well, that’s… a complicated story.”

Amara crossed her arms. “So, are you going to take our money too? Or are you just here to spy?”

My jaw dropped slightly. “Spy? No! I’m just visiting.”

She gave me a long stare, then shrugged. “Okay. So, when are you leaving?”

I was so stunned I didn’t know what to say. Her tone wasn’t mean—it was casual. Like she was genuinely scheduling my departure.

Before I could answer, a voice interrupted from behind.

“Hey, angel. Let’s try not to interrogate our guest,” Christopher said as he walked in, voice calm but firm.

I stood quickly, brushing invisible dust off my dress like a nervous schoolgirl. Why did I do that?

“Hi. Welcome,” I said stiffly, my voice higher than usual. Do something. Say something normal.

I grabbed a throw pillow off the couch like it was part of some grand plan.

Christopher’s brow furrowed. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah… yeah. Everything’s fine. Right, Amara?” I asked, forcing a smile.

Amara rolled her eyes dramatically. “I don’t like her.” She turned away, clutching her teddy bear like a prized possession. “Maria! I want some candy!” she shouted as she marched off.

I let out a breath. “She’s just like you,” I muttered, swallowing the lump in my throat.

Christopher chuckled, folding his arms. “I spoke to your mother. She sold the house?”

I looked down, shame creeping in like a shadow. “Yeah. I guess we’re officially broke now.”

He raised an eyebrow. “So what’s the plan? Hoping I hand you a check out of pity?”

My head snapped up. “No. I’m going to work for it. I don’t want your money.”

“Good,” he said without missing a beat. “Because I wasn’t planning to. You should work for it, don’t you think?”

“Yeah. Definitely. Just because you're a millionaire doesn’t mean—”

“Billionaire,” he corrected, smirking slightly.

I scoffed. “Yup. Exactly. Even worse. You know what? I actually have somewhere to be.”

I turned on my heel and walked straight to the guest room, holding it together just long enough to close the door behind me.

Then I let out a muffled scream into my hands.

“What the hell was that?” I hissed to myself, pacing the small space like a lunatic. “Shit…”

I threw myself on the bed, face buried in the pillow.

“God, I hate myself. I hate myself…”

Why did I grab a pillow? Why did I talk like that? Why did I sound like a begging, awkward idiot in front of him?

I curled up tighter, hugging the pillow like it could shield me from reality. The shame clung to my skin, hotter than the Dubai sun.

What the hell was that?

The way I stammered. The way I grabbed a pillow like it was some kind of defense mechanism. The way I practically fled the room.

God, I hate myself. I hate myself...

Eventually, exhaustion took over. My thoughts slowed. My grip loosened. Darkness pulled me under.

---

The nightmare woke me.

Not with a scream, but with that sick, breathless panic that sits heavy in your chest. I sat up, blinking at the ceiling. My skin was damp. My mouth dry. The dream had already faded, but the feeling stayed.

After splashing cold water on my face and brushing the knots out of my hair, I returned to the guest room, still dazed, still ashamed.

That’s when I saw it.

A brand-new phone, still in its packaging, resting neatly on the nightstand.

My steps faltered. I just stared.

It looked expensive. Sleek. Way too generous for someone who had practically mocked me hours ago.

I walked toward it slowly, like it might explode. I picked it up, turned it over in my hands. My heart fluttered in a confused mess of gratitude and unease.

“Christopher,” I whispered, almost disbelieving. “You actually did this?”

A smile tugged at my lips before I could stop it. I hadn’t smiled genuinely in days. But something about this—this small, thoughtful, totally unexpected gesture—cracked something in me.

I slipped on a plain t-shirt and jeans, threw my hair into a low ponytail, and left the room before I could talk myself out of it. I didn’t want to make a big deal of it. I just wanted to say thank you. Maybe not mess it up this time.

Downstairs, I looked around but didn’t see him. I hesitated near the dining area, until one of the maids walked by with a tray.

“Excuse me,” I said. “Do you know where Christopher is?”

She smiled politely. “Poolside, ma’am. Through the glass doors and to your left.”

I nodded, murmuring a quiet “thank you,” then followed her directions.

The sliding doors opened with a soft click, and I stepped outside. The sun was just beginning to dip, casting everything in a warm golden hue.

And there he was.

In the pool. Shirtless. Tattoos wrapping around his arms and chest like they belonged there. Hair wet and pushed back. Water gliding over his skin like it knew it was lucky.

I stopped. Froze, actually.

It wasn’t even about attraction—it was the familiarity. My brain didn’t see the billionaire or the man who mocked me earlier. It saw him. The version of Christopher who used to walk around barefoot, steal fries off my plate, kiss the side of my neck when no one was looking.

I hated that my chest ached remembering it.

He noticed me. Of course he did. His eyes caught mine like they always used to, and for a second, neither of us said anything.

I cleared my throat and walked closer to the edge of the pool, holding the phone in my hand like evidence.

“Hey. Um… thanks for the phone. I didn’t expect you to get me one.”

He swam slowly toward the shallow end, his expression unreadable. “It’s just a phone. No need to thank me.”

I pressed my lips together and nodded. “Still… it’s nice.”

He leaned back against the edge, arms resting on the tiles. “I got it because you’re my stepsister. Nothing attached.”

I smiled tightly. “Yeah. Nothing attached.”

But my voice didn’t sound convincing. Even I could hear it.

My eyes kept drifting. His tattoos. His collarbone. The way the water dripped down his neck. The memories I’d spent years shoving into a locked box were clawing their way out.

I bit the inside of my cheek. Hard.

Christopher tilted his head. “You’re staring.”

“I’m not,” I lied immediately.

He smirked. “Do you want to eat me or something?”

“What? No!” I nearly choked on the words. “Why would you even say that?”

“You’re biting your lip. You’re staring like I’m your last meal,” he said calmly, like he was reading a menu.

My face burned. “I wasn’t—God, you’re so full of yourself.”

He shrugged, still watching me with that lazy, knowing look. “You used to say the same thing. Right before you kissed me.”

I froze.

That wasn’t fair.

I laughed softly, trying to shake it off. “Well… clearly I was going through something.”

“Yeah,” he said, voice lower now. “You were.”

Something hung between us. Something unspoken but painfully loud. The tension wasn’t new—it had always been there. But now it felt heavier. More dangerous.

And I wasn’t sure if I wanted to run from it or dive straight in.