Midnight Texas

When Elyssa's mom married Greg Almendarez - a wealthy businessman who lifted them from modest means into a world of luxury, their lives were irrevocably changed. But that glamour came with a shock she never saw coming: Theo, her new stepbrother - furious, arrogant, and spoiled who hated her for a reason she could never fathom. Their constant bickering ignited the moment they moved into the sprawling mansion. He teased her, mocked her, seized every chance to make her feel small, yet beneath every cutting word, a current of attraction pulled them so fiercely neither could look away. She'd catch fleeting glimpses of his muscular frame as he lifted weights or swam, each accidental view sparking a flutter of desire she quickly suppressed. Theo, in return, would watch her from afar, his gaze lingering on how her loose clothes draped over her curvy body, finding her impossibly alluring. One night, a misunderstanding sent him into a rage; he burst into her room unannounced and froze when he saw her naked. The image burned into his memory, haunting his dreams and awakening a desire too intense to deny. The next time they fought, Theo's annoyance curdled into something else. Instead of lashing out, he pulled her close and drastically kissed her leaving her stunned. Then came the night when trust and passion collided, and she gave her virginity to the man she'd once hated above all others. Can they resist their feelings and attraction knowing they're stepsiblings? Can they hold back their lust and longing? Will they be forced to live on stolen moments, stealing quick kisses and constantly sneaking into each other's bedroom at midnight? And what happens if their parents find out? Will they fight for this forbidden pull, or surrender their hearts to spare their parents from hurt and pain?

On my birthday, I personally prepare 16 dishes. After setting up the candlelight, I open a bottle of red wine. I take a photo and send it to my husband, Eric Sinclair. "I'm working late tonight. Don't wait for me," he replies. I choose to believe him. But after midnight, I notice an Instagram story posted by Shirley Huxley, his secretary. Eric was there with her, dressed in the trench coat I once gave him. They sat side by side in the VIP seat of football stadium where my favorite Super Bowl take place. Entwined in a passionate embrace, they kissed beneath a sea of shimmering lights and the roar of thousands of fans. That game is the one I have always longed to experience with him. I look down at the cold food on the table. Eric's words keep ringing in my head. "I hate kissing." "Marriage is a partnership, not about love and kisses." Though we've been married for ten years, we've never shared a single kiss. Meanwhile, he's out there, kissing Shirley openly and passionately. Despite it all, not a single tear falls from my eyes. The next day, Eric settles into his chair, completely unfazed. "Return the gallery to Shelly," he commands. I nod quietly, saying nothing. Suddenly, Layla Sinclair, my daughter, comes running down the stairs and throws herself into Shirley's arms. "Aunt Shirley, you're my favorite. I don't like Mom!" In that instant, it hits me—the home I devoted my heart and soul to means nothing anymore. It doesn't matter that I've been married to Eric for a decade. Now, all I want is to find myself again. I decide to accept an invitation from the Parisoir School of Fashion Design. From this moment on, I won't wait for them to come home, and I won't look back.

On Christmas Eve, my father got the man I had secretly loved for ten years drunk and sent him to my bed. When I woke up the next morning, Roy pulled away from my attempt at a good-morning kiss. His voice was cold and distant as he agreed to marry me. After the wedding, Roy wasted no time submitting a transfer request. He took an overseas post and left. He did not return for five years. I gave birth to our daughter, Eve, alone and waited for him to come back home. When I heard that Roy had finally applied to return to a domestic position, I was overjoyed. I spent days preparing, imagining our first reunion as husband and wife. But even when the clock struck midnight, he still hadn't come home. Our daughter, ever so thoughtful, placed her most treasured possession—a photograph of Roy—into my hands. "Don't cry, Mommy," she said softly. "Look, Daddy's right here." I tried to convince myself that his absence was due to a delayed flight. But later that night, while watching the news, I saw him. He was on a crowded city street, holding a young girl in his arms. Beside him stood a woman, her smile soft and warm. Facing the camera, Roy said, "Being with them is my greatest wish." At that moment, something inside me broke. I wrote up the divorce papers, packed our things, and planned to take Eve to change her identity. I didn't want him anymore. The day before we left, a man I had never met came to see me. He was Roy's father. "You could call me Dad," he said, a faint smile playing on his lips. "But I'd rather you call me Ryan." I told him everything about the past five years—how I had waited, how I had hoped. When I finished, he laughed softly, an unusual warmth in his voice. "If it was just business," he said, "perhaps your father should have tied a bow around me and sent me to your bed instead. But I hold my liquor well—if I ever end up wrapped in a bow, you can be sure it's by choice."