The Billionaire's Brat

Nova

The red light on my screen blinked to life.

Live.

My chest rose slowly as I exhaled. My fingers slid across the silk ribbon at my neck. Tight enough to frame my collarbone, not tight enough to hurt. Not yet.

The camera captured me from the waist up, and that was all they needed.

I was sitting cross-legged on my bed, framed in soft pink lighting. My walls were draped in sheer white fabric, fairy lights woven through like stars. The illusion was part of the game. It always was.

My robe slid off one shoulder. I let it.

Underneath, I wore a black lace bodysuit that clung to every curve I owned. Thin straps crisscrossed my stomach. The neckline dipped low, sharp and unapologetic. My thighs were bare, skin smooth, lit just enough to hint at more without showing it all. My mask was velvet, simple, covering my eyes and the top half of my face. And the wig? Long, straight, dark. Not like me. That was the point.

VelvetMistress wasn’t Novalyn Coldwell.

VelvetMistress didn’t flinch.

She didn’t go to class hungover from insomnia.

She didn’t have a stepmother who smiled like a knife or a father who only noticed when she disappointed him.

She didn’t feel anything she didn’t want to.

“Good evening, pets,” I said softly, my lips curving. “Miss me?”

Tips rolled in. I watched the numbers climb, little hearts and usernames flooding the corner of my screen. Some of them were regulars. Some were new. All of them wanted something.

I leaned forward, letting the lace pull tighter against my chest.

“You’ve all been very impatient,” I whispered. “You know I don’t like needy boys.”

Messages popped up. Some begged. Some offered. Some just worshipped.

I smirked. My fingers slid slowly up my thigh, nails grazing my skin.

“Let’s make a deal,” I said, keeping my voice low. “Whoever tips the most tonight gets a surprise.”

That always worked. The bait was never the show. It was the promise.

My eyes scanned the usernames. Then I saw him. The name. Quiet. Still. No messages. No noise. Just watching. My smirk lingered, but my pulse shifted. Just slightly. Like my body knew something I didn’t. Most men tried too hard. This one didn’t try at all. And somehow, that made it worse.

That was when I saw it. One I hadn’t noticed before.

SilentObserver77

No messages. No tips. Just watching.

I tilted my head slightly, letting my hair fall over my shoulder. Something about the name bothered me. Not the name itself. The stillness. Most people announced themselves with noise. This one didn’t. He was just... there.

I stretched slowly, letting my hips roll as I shifted position. Not for him. For the others. Still, I watched the corner of the screen.

I shifted my weight, letting the strap of my bodysuit slip lower as I rolled onto my side, elbow propped beneath me. One hand trailed up the curve of my hip, slow and deliberate. I let out a soft breath, eyes scanning the flood of messages.

The lace pinched slightly where it hugged the curve of my waist, but I didn’t shift. Every movement was intentional. Controlled. My fingers dragged along the inside of my thigh, slow enough to drive the room wild. They ate up stillness more than skin. They wanted tension. The promise of something they’d never get. My gaze drifted lazily across the screen, pausing here and there, letting silence stretch. I liked watching them squirm. The hunger in their words. The way their messages got messier when I did absolutely nothing. I tapped my nail against the glass of my water, slow, rhythmic, like a countdown they didn’t understand. I could feel how close they were to begging. And I wasn’t even trying yet.

Ten minutes passed.

Still nothing.

So I said, “Hiding’s no fun. Are you shy, SilentObserver? Or are you just cheap?”

Still nothing.

I let my smile grow sharp.

“I bet you like to watch. But not pay. That’s cute.”

Then the screen flashed.

$100 tip.

Attached message: “You talk like you’re in charge. I know better.”

My pulse skipped.

It wasn’t the amount. I got bigger tips than that before. It was the way it was said. Not horny. Not sweet. Just calm. Direct. Like he knew me.

I exhaled through my nose and leaned forward, letting my mouth hover near the mic.

“Bold words from someone who hides behind a screen,” I said slowly. “Should I be scared?”

Another tip. This one smaller. No message.

I smiled, but it didn’t reach my chest this time.

“You’re quiet,” I murmured. “Too quiet. You think you’re in control of me? You don’t even know my name.”

No tip.

I sat back and let the silence thicken.

Then the next message came.

“I don’t need your name to own you.”

I blinked.

My fingers hovered above the keyboard. For a second, I wasn’t VelvetMistress. I was Nova. And I didn’t know why that made me cold all over.

I ended the stream five minutes later.

No warning. No goodbye.

I just closed the laptop.

My apartment was still. Dim. The glow of the screen faded. I pulled off the mask first. Then the wig. My real hair clung to my temples. Sweat on my neck. I wiped it away with the back of my hand.

In the mirror above my desk, my reflection stared back at me.

No lights. No lace. No mystery.

Just Nova.

I changed into a long shirt and pulled my knees to my chest on the couch. Checked my phone. Five missed calls from my father. Two texts from Jace, my stepbrother, asking if I was coming to the family dinner this weekend. I ignored both.

Then I opened the app.

The last message from SilentObserver77 was still there.

No reply. No photo. Just those eight little words.

I don’t need your name to own you.

I didn’t sleep that night.