Chapter 2: We became step-siblings

Zoe’s POV

Three months ago, I was just Zoe.

Not "Zoe the stepdaughter living in a West Lake Hills mansion." Just Zoe, the girl who lived in a cramped two-bedroom apartment with her mom, ate cold leftover pizza for breakfast, and wore sweaters three sizes too big so the world would leave her alone.

"Z, you're doing it again," Madison sighed, sipping her iced matcha latte across from me at the campus coffee shop.

"Doing what?" I kept my eyes fixed on my laptop screen, pretending my marketing assignment was the most thrilling thing on earth.

"Hiding behind your hair," Madison said. She leaned over the small wooden table, reaching out to tuck a thick strand of my dark hair behind my ear. "You have a gorgeous face. Seriously. Heart-shaped jaw, huge eyes, perfect skin. But you wear that faded grey baseball cap like a helmet."

"I like my helmet," I mumbled, pulling my hood up further. "It keeps people from talking to me."

"You’re twenty-one! You should be going out, flirting with cute guys, having fun!" Madison gestured wildly with her manicured hands. A guy walking past our table literally tripped over his own sneakers trying to look at her. Madison didn't even notice. She was used to it.

"Guys don't look at girls like me, Mads," I said quietly, tapping my pencil against my notebook. "They look at girls like you. Which is totally fine! I’m just... background noise."

"That is complete trash and you know it."

"It's not trash, it's statistics," I argued, flashing a quick, sarcastic smile. "If you and I stand in a room together, ninety-nine percent of the population looks at you. The other one percent is looking for the nearest exit."

"You're impossible," Madison groaned, tossing her head back. "One of these days, Zoe Blackwood, I am going to dress you up, take you to a party, and prove to you that you're a absolute knockout."

"Over my dead body," I replied.

---

That night, the quiet in my bedroom felt heavier than usual.

My mom was out on a late dinner date with her new boyfriend, Richard—a guy she’d been seeing for six months who owned some massive real estate company. The apartment was dead silent. I lay on my stomach in the dark, scrolling through my phone, feeling that familiar, uncomfortable knot of loneliness in my chest.

I didn't want a boyfriend. I didn't want party drama. I just wanted someone to talk to. Someone who didn't look at me and see a shy, quiet girl who wore oversized clothes to disappear.

My thumb hovered over an app store icon for Incognito—a popular anonymous messaging platform everyone on campus was secretly using.

"Stupid," I muttered to myself. "This is totally stupid."

I downloaded it anyway.

The setup took two minutes. Username: Princess.

Then came the profile setup screen: Upload an optional display photo to match faster!

My heart did a nervous little flip. I opened my photo gallery. I had a few photos of myself, but every time I looked at them, my brain immediately started listing flaws. Skin too pale. Nose too small. Eyes look tired.

I couldn't do it. If I uploaded my real face, nobody would swipe. Or worse, someone from campus would recognize me and laugh.

My finger scrolled down to a photo Madison had texted me last weekend. She had been at a poolside resort in Miami, wearing a tiny, scorching-hot bright red bikini. She was lying on a sunbed with her back slightly arched, her gorgeous golden tan on display, but her face was completely cut off by the angle of the camera and her broad-brimmed sun hat.

You couldn't see who it was. You just saw a body that looked like a bikini model's.

"Just for fun," I whispered to the empty room, my hands trembling. "Just to see what happens."

I uploaded the red bikini picture, hit save, and locked my phone.

---

Ten minutes later, my screen lit up with a harsh chime.

A notification popped up: Ace sent you a message.

I swallowed hard, unlocking the app.

Ace: Are you as boring as your profile quote, or do you just like playing hard to get?

I blinked. No "hey sexy," no cheesy pick-up line about the red bikini. Just pure, unadulterated arrogance.

I sat up in bed, my fingers flying across the keypad.

Princess: I’m not playing anything. You’re just terrible at opening lines.

Ace: Ouch. Rude. Most girls would be thrilled I messaged them.

Princess: Good thing I’m not most girls then. And your ego is taking up my entire screen.

Ace: I like a girl with sharp teeth. What's a Princess doing on an app for sinners at midnight?

Princess: Avoiding real-life idiots. What’s an Ace doing here? Running out of people to annoy in person?

Ace: Something like that. The people in my real life are predictable. You seem... annoying. I like annoying.

I actually laughed out loud—a real, genuine laugh that echoed against my bedroom walls.

Princess: You don't even know me.

Ace: I know you have terrible manners and a great bikini. But mostly terrible manners.

Princess: The bikini isn't for you, Ace.

Ace: Everything on this app is for me, Princess. You'll learn that quickly.

We texted for three straight hours. He made me laugh until my cheeks hurt. He was sarcastic, ridiculously confident, playfully teasing, but surprisingly attentive. When I mentioned I was studying late, he didn't demand more pictures—he argued with me about whether coffee or energy drinks were superior for midnight cramming.

For the first time in months, I felt completely awake. He didn't care about my voice, my real name, or my background. He was just listening to me.

---

Two weeks flew by.

Ace became a daily habit. We messaged while I was sitting in the back of my university lectures. We messaged while he was allegedly "stuck in a boring business meeting."

I was officially, completely hooked on an anonymous boy.

On a rainy Tuesday evening, I was sitting at the kitchen table in our small apartment, giggling at a text Ace had just sent me about his friend failing a driving test, when my mom walked in.

Vanessa was glowing. She dropped her designer purse onto the counter and kicked off her heels with a huge sigh.

"Zoe, sweetie, put your phone down for a second," she said, her voice shaking with excitement. "I have the most incredible news."

I locked my screen, sliding my phone under a napkin. "What's going on, Mom? Did you get the design contract?"

"Better," she beamed, sitting down across from me and taking both of my hands in hers. "Richard proposed."

My jaw dropped. "Wait... what? Already?"

"I know it's fast, but when you know, you know!" She pressed her hands together, her eyes shining. "And he wants us to move in with him right away. He has this unbelievable house in West Lake Hills. You'll have your own floor, Zoe! A private bathroom, a balcony, everything."

I blinked, trying to process the idea of packing up our small, comfortable home to live in a mansion with a wealthy real estate guy I barely knew. "Mom, are you sure about this?"

"I'm completely sure. We’re going to be a real family." She smiled warmly, rubbing my arm. "And the best part? You won't be alone in that big house."

A weird, sudden knot tightened in my stomach. "What do you mean?"

"Richard has a son," Mom declared cheerfully, pouring herself a glass of water. "He's twenty-three, goes to your university, too! Richard says he's a little rebellious, but he's super handsome and popular on campus."

"Great," I muttered under my breath. "Another popular college guy."

"You two are going to get along so well," Mom insisted, walking toward her bedroom to call her sister. "His name is Aiden."

My phone buzzed under the napkin. A new notification from Ace flashed on the screen:

Ace: My dad just dropped a bomb on me. Apparently I'm getting a step-sibling next month. Pray for me, Princess.

I stared at the screen, my blood turning to liquid ice as my mom's voice echoed from down the hallway:

"Aiden Blackwood!"