Fake Fiancée To My Bully Stepbrother

POV : Elena The blast of thick, humid air hit me the second I stepped off the jet bridge, but it wasn't nearly as suffocating as the voice vibrating against my eardrum. "Elena? Are you off yet? Tell me you’re off the plane," my mother’s voice rushed through the line, accompanied by the distinct, clinking of crystal glasses in the background. "Richard sent a private car for you. It’s a black Mercedes. The driver is standing right by the baggage claim exit. Don't make him wait, sweetie, it’s incredibly tacky." I dragged my heavy carry-on bag down the terminal, my phone pressed tight to my ear. "I just got off, Mom. I can find a cab, you really didn't need to..." "Oh, don't be ridiculous. You're a Calloway now, well, officially tomorrow, but you need to start acting like it," Margot interrupted, her voice dropping into a tight, frantic whisper she now used a lot whenever she was desperately trying to sound elegant. "Listen to me very carefully. When you get to the gates, the guard already has your name. The driver knows the way. When you get to the house, make sure you take your shoes off at the entrance. The marble is imported from Italy, and Richard is very particular about it. And please, Elena, change out of those oversized sweatpants before your stepfather sees you. We have a family dinner tonight, and first impressions are everything. I worked too hard for us to get here and the last thing I want is for you to look like a charity case." "I look like a student who just took a five-hour flight," I muttered under my breath, checking my reflection in the dark glass of a terminal window. My hair was tied up in a messy clip, and my gray hoodie practically swallowed my frame. Well, guess she wasn't wrong. "Just...hurry up. I love you, see you in an hour!" The line went dead. I let out a long, slow breath, staring at my phone screen before slipping it into my pocket. A Calloway. The name still tasted foreign and bitter on my tongue. Three months ago, my mother was struggling to pay the lease on our cramped two-bedroom apartment. Then she met Richard Calloway at a charity gala, and suddenly, my entire universe was rewritten. Now, here I was. An hour later, the black Mercedes pulled through a set of massive, towering iron gates that looked like they belonged to a European fortress. The house wasn't just a house; it was a sprawling, neoclassical mansion nestled in the most exclusive zip code near Halden University. My supposed new school. The sheer scale of the wealth made a knot of pure anxiety tighten in my stomach. The lawns, the fountains, the limestone columns; it was a completely different world. A world where people like me didn't belong. The driver opened my door, politely retrieving my luggage. "Welcome home, Miss Hart." "Thank you," I murmured, my voice sounding incredibly small in the massive courtyard. I dragged my carry-on through the towering double front doors. The foyer was dead silent, the air smelling faintly of expensive jasmine and polished wood. Remembering my mother's frantic lecture, I immediately slipped off my sneakers, my socks padding softly against the freezing, pristine white marble floor. "Elena! Oh, thank goodness, you're finally here!" Margot hurried down the grand curved staircase, looking immaculate in a tailored cream-colored dress. She didn't hug me; instead, she immediately grabbed my shoulders, her eyes scanning me from head to toe before landing on my face with a heavy sigh. "I told you to change," she hissed under her breath, smoothing down my messy hair. “And where the hell was I supposed to do that, mom?” “I don't know, the car?" I looked at her like she'd lost her mind, which she really had. “Anyway, Richard is in his home office finishing up a conference call. He is so excited to welcome you. But look at you! Go put your things in your room on the East wing, wash your face, and put on that linen dress I bought you. We cannot be late for the reservation." "I just walked through the door. Can I at least get some water first?" I asked, my throat feeling dry and scratched from the airplane air. "Fine, fine, but be quick," she said, checking her gold watch nervously. "The kitchen is straight down the main corridor past the dining room. Don't touch anything with sticky fingers, Richard just had the counters sealed." It was like everything now was Richard, Richard , Richard. Gosh!! I rolled my eyes privately, leaving my suitcase by the stairs as I walked down the long, intimidating hallway. The walls were lined with expensive paintings and glass cases displaying vintage sports trophies. Richard Calloway was a legendary former athlete turned real-estate mogul, a ruthless billionaire who kept his personal life completely locked away from the media. I didn't know much about him other than what my mother told me, which was always wrapped in layers of absolute reverence. The kitchen opened up into a massive, state-of-the-art space with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a private pool. It was completely empty and dead silent. I grabbed a clean glass from the open cabinet, walking over to the massive refrigerator. I pressed the button on the water dispenser, the quiet hum of the machine the only sound filling the room as the cold liquid filled the glass. I took a long, desperate gulp, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand as I finally felt human again. "You're in my spot." A deep, gravelly baritone voice cut through the silence like a blade. I froze, the glass halfway to my mouth. I turned around slowly, my heart suddenly hammering against my ribs for a reason I couldn't quite explain. Standing by the massive marble island, completely shirtless and drinking straight from a carton of orange juice, was a boy. No, not a boy. A man. He was easily six-foot-three, his broad shoulders and ripped chest covered in a faint sheen of sweat, his dark hair messy and pushed back as if he had just finished a brutal workout. He had the kind of sharp, devastatingly handsome jawline that belonged on a billboard, but it was his eyes that made the air completely leave my lungs. A pair of piercing, familiar gray eyes stared down at me, holding a mixture of cruel amusement, and dangerous familiarity. My brain completely short-circuited. The expensive kitchen faded away, replaced by the vivid, suffocating memory of a middle-school hallway, of tears burning my eyes, and a cruel, mocking laugh that used to haunt my nightmares. Jace Calloway. My childhood bully. How? Why was he here? My fingers tightened around the glass on my hand until it finally shattered, sending shards of glass and water exploding across my face.