Now You Want me Back Step Brother

Madonna's POV 

It was my birthday party.  

Supposedly.

But who were we kidding?

This was nothing but a glittering circus for socialites, and I had no place in it.  

After hours of pretending — the perfect smiles, the flawless family image, the endless handshakes and polite lies — I was done. Completely done.

I slipped out through the back staircase, the one the staff actually used. No more forced small talk, no more smiling for the cameras. Just me, heels in hand, heart finally quiet.

The ballroom had grown from Dad’s “intimate” gathering into a full-blown circus. Five hundred guests had somehow become eight hundred. Billionaires in bespoke suits, politicians dripping with diamonds, royalty holding court under crystal chandeliers. The whole room pulsed with wealth and entitlement.

And the only reason any of it mattered to me was the man across the floor.

Callum Blackwood.

My stepbrother.  

The one person who had made this hellish night bearable.

He moved like he owned the shadows themselves — six-four, cocoa-brown hair catching the light, those grey eyes that always looked brown from a distance. Handsome didn’t even begin to cover it. Devilish, maybe. Sinful. The kind of beautiful that made you want to climb him and never climb down.

This man was probably the devil himself.

Because one single night had sent me to hell and back.

He was supposed to be my escort tonight. But the second his eyes locked on my blue dress — the exact shade as his tie — he’d muttered a curse, turned on his heel, and vanished. When he came back five minutes later, the tie was gone, replaced by the usual ice-cold mask.

He’d been doing that for weeks.  

Avoiding me.  

Pretending I was a stranger.

Ever since his graduation party.  

Ever since he’d gotten drunk, nearly kissed me, Then he shut me out completely, acting as though nothing had happened between us.

After that night he’d built walls so high I couldn’t even see the top. And I’d done the only thing I could — built my own wall right back, mirroring every cold step he took.

Now every interaction felt like chess. Neutral face. Flat voice. Shoulders locked. All while my traitorous heart still did stupid little flips every time he walked into a room.

His grey eyes haunted my dreams at night.  

In them I kissed him back.  

In them he didn’t pull away.

God, this was hell.

I picked up the pace and reached the landing. The only sounds were the distant bass and the low rumble of thunder. My head spun. The urge to vomit hit me like a fist.

God no. Not tonight.

I quickened my steps, kicked off my heels, and dropped onto the edge of the bed in my room.

“Donna… breathe.”  

I closed my eyes, counting the breaths the way the therapist had taught me years ago.

You’re a big girl now. Just—

Lightning cracked across the sky without warning. The entire room bleached white.

I didn’t even hear myself scream. The thunder swallowed it whole, shaking the foundations of the house.

Windshield wipers fighting the storm. Screaming. The sharp smell of gasoline. Metal crunching, tumbling, nothing but darkness and the sound of my own heartbeat.

The sound of my door unlocking barely registered over the downpour, but I felt him before I saw him.

Strong, familiar arms wrapped around me like they’d been waiting seven years to do exactly that. He pulled me tight against his chest, buried his face in the crook of my neck, and whispered the words that used to save me.

“Breathe, Madonna. Breathe. I’m here. You’re safe.”

The familiar scent of him — cedar and something darker — started to push the panic back. The fog cleared. The trembling eased.

Only then did I realize what I was doing.

I shoved at his chest with everything I had, forcing space between us.

His grey eyes flew wide with shock and something painfully gentle.

“Madonna?”

The tenderness in his voice only made my temper flare hotter.

“What are you doing here?” The words snapped out sharper than I meant them to. “You’ve been avoiding me for weeks. Why stop now?”

“I haven’t been avoiding you,” he said softly, reaching out a hand.

“Liar!” I flinched away like his touch burned. “I don’t need your goddamn pity. Just leave.”

“It’s not a pity, Madonna. You were having a panic attack—”

“Then why do you treat me like a stranger?” My voice cracked. Tears burned my eyes. “Was that almost-kiss that disgusting to you?”

Cal went completely still. Every muscle in his jaw locked. The silence stretched until it felt thick enough to choke on.

“That was a mistake,” he said, voice flat and dangerous.

A bitter laugh tore out of me. “A mistake.” I nodded slowly. “Right. Of course it was.”

I stood up, temper burning through every ounce of fear. I marched straight to him and poked my finger hard into his chest.

“Then stay the hell away from me! If it was such a meaningless mistake, stop acting like you care!”

“I can’t stop caring, goddamn it!” He roared, chest heaving. His grey eyes widened like he hadn’t meant to say that either. “Every time I look at you I want to do something I can’t take back!”

Unconsciously I’d backed up until my spine hit the wall.

His hands shot out, pinning my wrists above my head. He pressed his body flush against mine, closing every last inch of space.

His grey eyes searched mine — one last chance. Neither of us took it.

“God help me, I tried, Madonna,” he whispered, almost to himself.

Then his mouth came down on mine.