My Ex-Boyfriend is my New Step-Brother

The emerald velvet was a second skin, and right now, it was suffocating me. "Stop fidgeting, Scarlett," Chloe muttered, her knees hitting the hardwood as she pinned the hem. "This dress is the difference between a 'rising star' and an 'A-lister.' The back is the selling point. It’s supposed to look like you’re wearing nothing but a prayer." I looked in the triple-mirror. The front was high-necked and regal, but when I turned, the gown vanished. It scooped down to the very base of my spine, exposing every inch of my pale skin to the cool air of the dressing room. "I feel exposed," I whispered. "You feel like a fantasy," Chloe corrected, standing up and grabbing her phone. "Stay. Do not move. I need to grab the body tape from the kit in the hallway. One slip and the tabloids get a show they didn't pay for." She disappeared, the heavy oak door clicking shut. The silence of the Reed mansion always felt heavy, but today it felt electric. I stared at my reflection, tracing the line of my collarbone, when the door didn't just open—it was shoved. I didn't have to turn around. The scent hit me first. Cedar, expensive leather, and a hint of smoke. Roman. He didn't stay by the door. He walked in, his heavy boots thudding against the floorboards until he was standing right behind me. In the mirror, he looked like a shadow looming over a forest. His dark eyes didn't go to my face; they went straight to my bare back. "They really are selling you off piece by piece, aren't they?" His voice was a low, dangerous grate. "Get out, Roman," I snapped, my heart hammering against my ribs. "Chloe is coming back any second." "Chloe is in the kitchen gossiping with the maid," he said, stepping closer until I could feel the heat radiating off his chest. He reached out, his long, calloused fingers hovering just an inch above my spine. "Is this the 'pure' image Marcus is so proud of? This strip of fabric?" "It’s fashion. You wouldn't understand." "I understand a come-on when I see one." He finally let his fingers drop. He traced a slow, agonizing line from my neck down to the base of the V. A violent shiver racked my body. "Your skin is cold, Scarlett. Are you scared? Or is it something else?" "I hate you," I breathed, my eyes fluttering shut against the sensation. It had been three years, but my body remembered his touch like a language it was desperate to speak again. "Liars don't get invited to the gala," he whispered, leaning down. His breath hit the shell of my ear, sending a fresh wave of heat through me. "You want me to touch you. You’ve wanted it since the day I moved into this house. Admit it." "I don't—" "Admit it, and I’ll leave." "I want you to leave," I lied, my voice breaking. "Wrong answer." He grabbed my waist, his hands bruising against the velvet, and spun me around. He slammed me back against the cold glass of the mirror. The contrast—the freezing glass on my back and his burning body in front—made me gasp. "Do not start something you cannot finish, Scarlett," he warned, his face inches from mine. His eyes were predatory, dark with a hunger that matched my own. "Then finish it," I challenged, my hands flying to his hair. He didn't hesitate. His mouth crashed onto mine, punishing and desperate. It wasn't a kiss; it was a reclamation. I groaned into his throat, my legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, pulling him into the cradle of my thighs. The emerald dress bunched up, the delicate silk straining against the force of our movements. He lifted me, his hands sliding under the hem of the gown, finding the heat of my skin. He hiked the dress up until it was around my waist, his thumb grazing the lace of my underwear. "Roman," I whimpered, my head hitting the mirror with a dull thud. "Mine," he growled against my neck, his teeth grazing my pulse point. "You were always mine." He didn't waste time. He fumbled with his belt, his movements frantic. When he pushed into me, it was a blunt, shocking intrusion that stole the breath from my lungs. It was fast, hard, and fueled by three years of resentment. I gripped his shoulders, my nails digging into the leather of his jacket, as he pinned me to the glass and took everything I had been trying to hide. The mirror rattled with every thrust. The "pure" actress was gone; there was only the girl who loved a monster. Just as the world began to blur into white heat, a faint click sounded from the corner of the room. Neither of us noticed. We were too busy drowning in each other. When he finally pulled away, his breathing was ragged, his forehead resting against mine. He looked at me—really looked at me—and for a second, the "Blacklisted King" mask slipped. "Fix your dress," he said, his voice returning to that icy, distant tone. He tucked himself back in and walked toward the door without a backward glance. "The car is waiting." I collapsed onto the vanity stool, my legs shaking, my soul exposed. I reached for my phone, my hand trembling as I tried to call Chloe. That's when I saw the notification. An anonymous message had been sent to my private inbox. It was a video file. I clicked it, my heart stopping. It was us. In the mirror. My back arched, his hands on my skin, the emerald dress ruined. Underneath the video, a single sentence: "The world loves a fallen angel. Ready for your premiere, Scarlett?"