DON'T PLAY

“Comfortable?” She laughed humorlessly. “Your cleavage is practically hanging out, Laila. And that thing is so short I can see the lower half of your butt cheeks when you walk. You’re not wearing anything underneath, are you?”

I shrugged one shoulder.

“It’s my house too. I can dress how I want in my own home.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“Not when we have guests. Not when those guests are about to become your stepfather and stepbrothers.”

“I don’t understand why you’re so upset.” I tilted my head, keeping my tone light and reasonable. “You kept saying we should treat them like family. Like brothers. So why can’t I dress however I want around my brothers?”

“Don’t—” She pointed a warning finger at me. “Don’t you dare try to play that game with me, Laila.”

“What game?” I opened my eyes wider, feigning innocence. “I have no idea what you’re saying. They’re family now, right? If you don’t trust them enough to be around me while I’m dressed like this, then why are you marrying their father?”

Her mouth opened, then closed. A muscle ticked in her jaw.

“That is not the same thing and you know it.”

“Isn’t it?”

I pushed off the door and took a slow step closer. “You told me repeatedly that this was going to be one big happy blended family. That I should make an effort. Get to know them. Bond. so I’m bonding. In my own way.”

I flipped my hair.

“You’re being provocative on purpose.”

“I’m being comfortable. There’s a difference.”

“You’re half-naked in front of three grown men you’ve never met before!”

“Two grown men and one who’s literally the same age as me,” I corrected. “And again—if they’re my brothers now, what’s the problem? Or do you think they’re going to… what? Jump me? leer at me? Because if that’s what you’re worried about, maybe you shouldn’t be marrying someone whose sons you don’t trust around your daughter.”

“That’s enough!” she snapped. “You’re twisting my words.”

“I’m using your words. You said ‘treat them like brothers.’ You said ‘family.’ You said this was going to be good for us.” I gestured vaguely toward the hallway. “So either they’re family and harmless… or they’re not. Which is it, Mom?”

She stared at me for a long beat, cheeks flushed, eyes glittering with frustration and something that looked dangerously close to guilt.

“You’re doing this to punish me,” she said finally, quieter now. “For moving on. For bringing Victor into our lives, right?"

I let out a small, incredulous laugh.

“Wow. That’s what you’re going with? I’m not allowed to wear a nightie in my own bedroom because you feel guilty about dating?”

“This isn’t about guilt. This is about decency. About boundaries.”

“Boundaries,” I repeated slowly. “Right. So the boundary is… what? I have to dress like a nun whenever your fiancé and his sons are in the house? Even though you keep insisting they’re going to be my brothers?”

She rubbed her temple.

“You know exactly what I mean.”

“Do I? Because it sounds like you’re saying one thing and meaning something else entirely.”

“Stop it.”

Her voice cracked just slightly.

“Just… stop. Change your clothes before you come back downstairs. Please.”

She said and left the room.