SEVEN : ADRIAN

ADRIAN

When my dad told me I’d be getting a stepsister, irritation was my first reaction—strong, sharp, immediate. In my head, she was already loud, entitled, the kind of girl who complained about everything and treated people like furniture. I had prepared myself to tolerate her, not to like her.

Then Olivia stepped into my life and completely wrecked that assumption.

I noticed her before she even spoke.

She was just there, a little unsure of herself, fingers fidgeting as if she wasn’t certain where to place them. Her hair framed her face softly, not overly styled, not trying too hard. There was something disarming about her—something real. The kind of beauty that doesn’t demand attention but quietly steals it anyway.

I told myself I was just being observant. Protective, maybe. She was new. She was family now.

A lie. A convenient one.

Her eyes flicked toward me, cautious, curious. When they met mine, she blushed—just a faint tint on her cheeks, like she hadn’t expected me to be looking. She looked away quickly, but not before I caught it.

She thought I didn’t notice.

I noticed everything.

The way she listened when someone spoke to her, like their words mattered. The way she smiled—small at first, testing, then a little brighter when she relaxed. She wasn’t loud. She wasn’t spoiled. She was… warm. And far too easy to be around. And cute. Too damn cute.

I found excuses to stay close. To talk to her. To show her around. I told myself it was what an older brother should do—make her feel welcome, help her settle in. And yeah, that was part of it. But there was more. Something I didn’t want to name.

She laughed at something stupid I said, and the sound hit me harder than it should have. It lingered. I caught myself watching her when she wasn’t looking, the way she tucked her hair behind her ear when she was nervous, the way her lips parted slightly when she was concentrating.

Every time she blushed, it felt like a private secret between us.

And the worst part?

She looked at me like I was safe. Like she trusted me.

That should have been enough to shut everything down. To draw a hard line and stay firmly on the right side of it.

Instead, it made my chest tighten in a way I didn’t recognize—or didn’t want to.

I wasn’t distant with her. I didn’t pull away. If anything, I leaned in. I wanted to spend time with her. Learn more about her, her routines, her moods, the little things she liked. Being around her felt effortless, addictive even, and I hated myself a little for how natural it all felt.

She was my stepsister.

And yet, every time she smiled at me, every time her cheeks warmed pink under my gaze, I knew I was already in too deep.

I realised that I might like my stepsister a little bit more than I am meant to.

With the little time I have spent with her, I already noticed some habits she has. Biting her lips, darting her eyes around whenever she got shy so as to avoid eye contact.

That afternoon, when I went up to her room, I just wanted to ask how she was settling in. Moving into a big mansion that has a lot of space and two pools can be quite overwhelming, especially when the owner of the house is a billionaire who is your father that you have never met u till now.

When I walked into her room, she was sitted on the lounge chair by a window. The sunlight casted on her was like a spotlight, making her look so beautiful.

She was wearing a spaghetti hand top that showed off her neck, her hair falling around her face, making it look even smaller and cute.

As we spoke about her starting school and having friends, I kept on looking at her, admiring her. She is so beautiful.

We talked about school—how she was nervous, how she hoped she’d make friends. I told her the teachers were strict but fair, that she’d be fine. That she always was.

I don’t know when I moved closer. One moment I was leaning against the wall, the next I was standing near the lounge chair, close enough to notice the faint scent of her shampoo. Close enough to see how her lashes fluttered when she blinked.

I sat on the chair and she adjusted her legs to give me space, I didn't want her to, I wanted her to place them on my laps.

I talked to her about the school, telling her some fun stories and some teachers she might meet there. Even though I have already graduated from there, I still knew a lot of people there.

When she laughed at a joke I said, her legs unconsciously stretched out back against my thighs. I felt it the second her legs brushed against mine.

Not because it was bold or intentional—because it wasn’t—but because it sent a sharp, unwelcome awareness straight through me. The kind you don’t get to choose. The kind that shows up uninvited and refuses to leave.

I stilled.

I should have moved. Shifted back. Said something light and neutral, created space the way I was supposed to. Instead, I stayed exactly where I was, muscles tense, pretending the contact meant nothing.

It meant everything.

She kept talking, unaware at first, her voice soft, thoughtful. She trusted me. That was the worst part. She was relaxed around me, comfortable enough not to guard every movement, and that comfort felt like a line being quietly erased.

When I finally moved my hand—barely, unintentionally—it was just enough for her to notice.

She froze.

So did I.

Her eyes snapped to mine, wide and flustered, and she pulled back slightly, not fully retreating. Not fleeing. Just… uncertain. Like she didn’t know what this moment was, only that it felt different.

“I—” she started, then stopped. "I'm sorry."

“It’s nothing,” I said immediately, too quickly. I kept my voice steady, calm, grounding—because if I didn’t, I knew exactly how badly this could go. “You’re fine.”

I meant it in more ways than one.

The air between us shifted after that. Charged. Quiet. Careful. We kept talking, but every word felt like it had to pass through something heavier first. Every glance lingered half a second too long. Every silence said more than either of us dared.

Then the intercom rang.

I’ve never been more grateful for an interruption.

Dinner pulled us back into reality—into rules, into structure, into the reminder that we weren’t alone in this house. At the table, I watched her from across the plates and polished silver, noticed how she focused on her food like it was an anchor. I answered our dad’s questions, reassured him, played the role expected of me.

But even then, I was aware of her. Of how close she was. Of how carefully she avoided looking at me.

When Dad left and the room quieted, the tension returned—low, steady, undeniable.

I should’ve left too.

Instead, I walked her around the table, stopping beside her chair. I leaned down—not because I planned anything, but because the moment pulled me there—and whispered goodnight.

The kiss on her cheek was brief. Gentle. Something that could be explained away.

Something that still felt dangerous.

The way her breath caught told me I’d crossed a line I couldn’t uncross.

I left before I could do worse. Before I could stay.

Back in my room later, staring at the ceiling, I knew one thing with painful clarity:

What happened wasn’t an accident.

And pretending it was would only make what came next even harder to survive.