milking my millionaire stepbrother.

"Sofia, we are getting late! Did you pack your bag?!" Elisa’s voice cracked through the thin walls like a whip. "b***h," Sofia hissed under her breath, the word tasting like rust. Louder, she yelled, "Coming, Mom!" She gave her room one last sweep. The peeling wallpaper curled like dead skin; the mattress sagged from too many nights curled fetal while her parents screamed downstairs. A single poster of some indie band she didn’t even like anymore hung crooked above the desk, corners curling inward. The air smelled of mildew and the ghost of her dad’s cheap whiskey. Empty. Hollow. Just like her. She dragged the trolley bag into the living room. Elisa stood in front of the cracked mirror, smearing cherry-red lipstick for the tenth time since sunrise. She tugged the neckline of her dress lower—way lower—until the lace edge of her bra peeked like a secret. Sofia’s hoodie swallowed her whole, sleeves chewed at the cuffs. Elisa flicked her eyes up for half a second. "All set? Ready to go?" Sofia’s nod was barely a twitch. They wrestled the suitcases out the front door. The house crouched on the cracked sidewalk like a beaten dog: paint the color of dried vomit, one shutter dangling by a single screw, the porch step splintered so bad Sofia had learned to jump it in the dark. Weeds strangled the flowerbeds her mom once pretended to care about. A rusted tricycle—some neighbor kid’s—lay on its side in the driveway, training wheels bent like broken wings. The air carried the sour stink of the dumpster two houses down, always overflowing with beer cans and pizza boxes. Elisa wrinkled her nose. "Ugh. I don’t know how the hell I lived here." "Will he come?" Sofia asked, voice small. Elisa’s fist clenched; the fake diamonds on her knuckles flashed. "I hope he rots." She spun on her heel, dress swishing. "Didn’t you say goodbye to Mira?" Sofia stared at the oil stain on the driveway shaped like a heart. "She stopped talking to me three months ago." Elisa winced—actually winced—but covered it with a hair-flip. "Well. New city, new friends." She twirled, the dress flaring. "How do I look, darling?" Sofia fought the eye-roll. Her mom was thirty-four going on twenty-four, all sharp cheekbones and collagen lips. "You look pretty, Mom." Elisa pouted like a t****k teen. "Pretty? I’m serving main-character energy. Try hot, sexy, glamorous—pick one." "Noted," Sofia muttered. "Next time I’ll say you look like a Bond girl who mugged a Victoria’s Secret model." Elisa barked a laugh, surprised and delighted. "There’s my girl." Silence stretched, thick as the humidity. A dog barked three houses down. Somewhere, a bottle shattered. "So," Elisa said, checking her phone, "JFK’s gonna be a zoo. But the new apartment’s got a view of the Hudson. Heated pool on the roof." "Cool." "And the office is two blocks from Central Park. Mr. Lang says the team does Friday margaritas at some rooftop bar." Sofia kicked a pebble. "Mr. Lang sounds fun." "He’s… intense." Elisa’s smile went plastic. "But he promoted me. Gave us this chance." She reached out like she might ruffle Sofia’s hair, then thought better. "We’re gonna be okay, kiddo." Sofia wanted to believe her. She really did. Elisa scrolled i********:, liking thirst traps. "Remember when you were obsessed with that boy band? What were they—Five Directions?" "One Direction, Mom. I was nine." "Same difference." She grinned. "Bet the new school’s crawling with future pop stars. You’ll find your people." Sofia shrugged. "Maybe I’ll just… disappear." Elisa’s fingers froze mid-scroll. "Don’t say that." Headlights sliced the dusk. The taxi—a yellow Crown Vic with a dented fender—rolled up. The driver hopped out, late thirties, buzz-cut, Mets cap tilted back. Gold chain glinted under the streetlamp. "Ladies!" He flashed a grin. "Airport run?" Elisa batted lashes. "JFK, please. And step on it—we’re late for our glow-up." He hefted the bags like feathers. "Name’s James. Where to, princesses?" "Princesses?" Elisa laughed, throaty. "Keep talking." Sofia slid into the back seat, hoodie up, earbuds in but no music. James caught her eye in the rearview. "Quiet one, huh? First time flying?" She stared out the window. Streetlights smeared into watercolor. Elisa leaned forward between the seats, cleavage on full parade. "We’re moving into the Lang Towers. Penthouse level." James whistled. "Fancy. Boss man’s treating you right." "You have no idea." Elisa’s laugh tinkled like champagne glasses. James merged onto the expressway. "So, Elisa—gorgeous name—what’s a smoke show like you doing in a yellow cab instead of a town car?" "Please. My ex drove a rust-bucket that smelled like regret and menthols." She flicked her hair. "Upgrade time." Sofia pressed her forehead to the cool glass. The city blurred—pawn shops, neon laundromats, a church with a flickering cross. Every mile carried her farther from the screaming, the fists, the nights she hid in the closet with her hands over her ears. James glanced back. "You good, kid? Need a water or something?" Sofia met his eyes in the mirror. "I’m fine." Elisa shot her a look. "She’s just… processing." James nodded like he got it. "Big move. New York’ll chew you up if you let it. But it spits out diamonds too." He winked at Sofia. "Stick close to your mom. She looks like she knows how to bite back." Elisa preened. "Damn right." The cab hummed along the Van Wyck. Billboards flashed: Lang Enterprises—Building Tomorrow. Sofia’s stomach flipped. That was him. The promotion. The reason they could afford marble countertops and a doorman who called you "ma’am." James turned the radio low—Springsteen, Born to Run. Elisa swayed in her seat, humming off-key. Sofia watched the skyline grow teeth of glass and steel. Forty minutes later, the Crown Vic pulled under the Departures sign at Terminal 4. Porters swarmed like sharks. James popped the trunk. "Safe flight, ladies. Don’t let the Big Apple scare ya." Elisa tipped him a crumpled fifty. "Buy yourself a beer at Kennedy’s." He winked. "Already got my eyes on the prettiest view in Queens." Sofia hauled her bag, wheels clacking over concrete. The terminal smelled like jet fuel and pretzels. Elisa checked them in at the first-class counter—another gift from Mr. Lang. Security was a blur of shoes and laptops. Gate 27 loomed, all chrome and overpriced sushi. Elisa bought two lattes and a Vogue. Sofia stared at the tarmac, planes taxiing like silver whales. Elisa was already sipping foam, scrolling. "Deep breath, babe. New life starts… now." Sofia swallowed. "Define ready." The gate agent called their row. Elisa stood, dress swishing. Sofia followed, boarding pass crumpled in her fist. As they stepped onto the jet bridge, Sofia glanced back once—at the city shrinking behind glass, at the life she was leaving in a broken house with a busted tricycle. The plane doors sealed with a hiss.