TWO: OLIVIA

OLIVIA

By the time I finished arranging the little I’d brought with me, an hour had already slipped away.

Not that there was much to arrange.

The closet still left me stunned.

I stood in front of it again, fingers brushing past rows of clothes that didn’t feel real—dresses, jackets, blouses, all neatly arranged, tags still attached. Designer labels I’d only ever seen on I*******m or behind glass windows I couldn’t afford to look at for too long. Shoes lined the bottom shelves, bags displayed like art pieces, accessories placed with deliberate care.

This wasn’t a closet.

It was a boutique.

I let out a quiet laugh, shaking my head.

I felt like a long-lost princess who had just been returned to the palace—except no one had bothered to warn her first.

The bathroom was just as excessive. Marble counters, gold-trimmed fixtures, towels softer than anything I owned back home. By the time I stepped out, dressed and feeling refreshed from the long flight, my nerves had settled just enough for reality to creep back in.

That was when the intercom crackled to life.

“Miss Olivia, dinner is ready.”

The voice was calm, professional.

I glanced at the clock.

Two hours had passed already.

Just like Dad said.

I grabbed my phone, slipped it into my pocket, and smoothed my dress before leaving the room. Stepping into the hallway, I paused, suddenly aware of how quiet the house was. Too quiet. The kind of silence that reminded you how big a place really was.

Okay, I told myself. Dining room. You can do this.

I made my way toward the staircase, grateful that I at least remembered how to get back down. The soft sound of my footsteps echoed faintly as I descended.

When I reached the bottom, I slowed.

Someone was walking in from the side hallway.

A guy.

Tall.

Broad-shouldered.

My first thought was painfully, embarrassingly simple.

Oh.

He was… handsome in that unfair, effortless way that made your brain short-circuit for half a second. Dark hair, slightly tousled like he didn’t care enough to tame it. Sharp jawline. Straight nose. His posture was relaxed but controlled, like he was always aware of the space he occupied.

He wore dark clothes—simple, fitted, expensive without screaming about it.

And his face…

Blank.

Not cold. Not angry. Just unreadable. Like emotions were something he kept locked behind his eyes.

I froze.

He noticed me at the same time I noticed him noticing me.

His gaze lifted, sharp and assessing, then settled on my face.

Something strange fluttered in my chest.

Oh no.

No, no, no.

I hadn’t even been here a full day and my stupid heart was already betraying me.

Get it together, Olivia.

I cleared my throat and forced my feet to move. “Um… hi.”

He didn’t respond.

Not verbally.

He just looked at me.

Up close, he was even more intimidating. Taller than I’d thought. Those eyes—dark, steady—made me feel like he was seeing right through me.

I swallowed. “I—uh—I’m looking for the dining room.”

For a moment, I wondered if he was going to ignore me completely.

Then he turned.

Didn’t say a word.

Just gestured slightly with his head and started walking.

Oh.

So that’s how it was.

I hesitated, then followed him, my heart doing something incredibly unhelpful inside my chest.

He walked with long, confident strides, hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed. The silence between us stretched, thick and heavy, filled with everything he wasn’t saying—and everything I was overthinking.

Who is he?

A guest?

A friend of my dad’s?

A son from some other secret family I don’t know about?

My brain spiraled.

I found myself noticing stupid details—the way his shirt clung to his back when he moved, the faint scent of cologne trailing behind him. Something warm. Masculine. Familiar in a way that didn’t make sense.

God.

I had a crush.

Just like that.

A ridiculous, instant, hopeless crush on a guy who hadn’t even spoken to me.

We reached a set of tall double doors. He stopped and opened one, stepping aside slightly.

“Thank you,” I said quickly, hoping he didn’t hear the nervous edge in my voice.

He nodded once.

Still silent.

As I stepped inside, I felt his presence behind me, following. The dining room was enormous—a long table set perfectly, soft lighting casting a warm glow over polished surfaces. It looked like something straight out of a magazine.

Before I could take it all in, footsteps sounded from the opposite side of the room.

My father entered.

“Olivia,” he said, smiling when he saw me. “There you are.”

Relief washed over me, grounding me instantly.

“Dad,” I replied, returning the smile.

Then his gaze shifted—just slightly—to the guy beside me.

Ah.

Something clicked.

“Good, you’ve met already,” he said.

Met?

My stomach tightened.

He placed a hand on the guy’s shoulder. “Olivia, this is my son.”

The words didn’t register at first.

“My son,” he repeated. “Your stepbrother. Adrian.”

The room tilted.

Step… brother?

I turned slowly, my eyes locking onto Adrian’s face.

The same face I’d been mentally undressing five minutes ago.

The same face I’d already fantasized about smiling at me.

The same face that suddenly felt off-limits in a way that made my skin prickle.

My heart dropped straight into my stomach.

“Oh,” I breathed.

Adrian finally spoke.

“Hi,” he said.

One word.

Low. Calm.

Deadly.

I stared at him, heat rushing to my face. “I—hi.”

My father looked between us, clearly missing the internal crisis happening inside my head. “Adrian’s been living here for years. I should’ve mentioned him earlier.”

You think?

I forced a smile, one that probably looked more strained than I meant it to. “Nice to meet you.”

Adrian held my gaze for a moment too long.

Something unreadable flickered in his eyes.

“Likewise,” he said.

And just like that, my crush didn’t disappear.

If anything—

It became more dangerous.

Because now it wasn’t just attraction.

It was forbidden.

And the worst part?

As Adrian pulled out a chair for me and I sat down, my pulse still racing, I could swear he felt it too.

The dining room was quiet except for the faint clinking of silverware and the occasional hum of the chandelier above. The table was enormous, long enough that a small army could sit comfortably, adorned with crystal glasses, fine china, and polished silver cutlery. The aroma of the food alone made my stomach rumble, even though the nervous knot in my chest refused to let me eat.

Adrian sat across from me, his posture perfect, elbows tucked neatly by his sides. He didn’t smile. He didn’t laugh. He didn’t give away anything, really. And that just made my thoughts spiral faster.

Why do I feel this? I asked myself, my fingers fiddling with the napkin in front of me. We’ve literally known each other for thirty minutes. Why does my heart feel like it’s about to explode?

Every time he glanced at me, even for the briefest second, it felt electric. My cheeks burned. My pulse hammered in my ears. And, absurdly, I wished—wished so badly—that he wasn’t my stepbrother. That some cruel, twisted fate hadn’t tied him to my life in this way.

Dad, as if sensing the tension, tried to make conversation. “Olivia, how do you like your room? I arranged everything to make it comfortable for you.”

“It was…is amazing, thank you,” I said, forcing a smile. My eyes flicked to Adrian, who didn’t even look at me, and my stomach sank a little more.

The first course arrived: a delicate soup with a golden broth that smelled heavenly. I picked up the spoon, but my appetite had vanished, replaced by a nervous flutter in my chest. I tried to focus on the soup—the way it shimmered in the candlelight, how fragrant it was—but every time I glanced at Adrian, my fork trembled slightly in my hand.

He was calm, too calm, and that infuriated me. How could someone look so indifferent, so controlled, while I was melting in a mix of attraction, guilt, and confusion?

He’s my stepbrother.

I repeated it in my head like a mantra, hoping it would ground me. But it did nothing. My mind refused to obey. It kept wandering back to the curve of his jaw, the way his hair fell over his forehead, the faint tension in his shoulders that betrayed a trace of impatience—or was it curiosity?

I glanced down at my plate and tried to force my attention there. The food was exquisite, layers of flavor I’d never experienced before. But even biting into a perfectly cooked piece of meat couldn’t erase the ache building in my chest.

Conversation flowed lightly between my father and Adrian, discussions about school, sports, and business plans. I nodded politely, sipped at my wine, but my mind raced.

Why does he make me feel like this? Why is my heart racing this much?

Every time Adrian spoke, even in the most mundane tones, a shiver ran through me. I tried to focus on the golden roasted vegetables, the creamy mashed potatoes, the delicate sauces, anything to pull myself away from the dangerous magnetic pull of his presence.

He leaned back slightly, his eyes meeting mine for a fraction of a second. My breath caught. Stop it, I whispered under my breath, staring at my plate, pretending to be absorbed in the food. I poked at the delicate garnish on the side of my plate, trying to create a small distraction.

But it didn’t work.

He was there. Right across the table. Too close. Too perfect. Too distracting. And I couldn’t even understand why I felt so much for him already.

The rest of the meal passed in a blur. I barely tasted anything, though my stomach demanded it. I watched Adrian out of the corner of my eye, tried to memorize the way his hands moved, the way he lifted his fork with such precise control, the way his lips pressed together in concentration as he listened to Dad talk.

Every tiny detail felt like a shock to my system. Every glance felt like a spark igniting something I couldn’t control.

By the end of dinner, when the plates had been cleared and the maids silently returned the room to pristine perfection, I realized something terrifying.

This wasn’t going to be a passing crush.

It wasn’t a fleeting attraction I could push aside.

It was a storm that had already settled in my chest, a heat that refused to dissipate, a thought I couldn’t escape.

I wanted Adrian in ways I didn’t understand.

And knowing that he was forbidden—knowing that he was my stepbrother—made the feeling burn even hotter.