Stepbrother’s Secret

The hangers had to be exactly two inches apart.

I knew how that sounded. I knew what people thought when they saw me arranging my closet like I was prepping for a military inspection. Control freak. Uptight. That Sterling kid with the stick up his ass.

Let them think it.

There was a specific kind of peace in precision—in knowing exactly where everything belonged, in creating order from chaos. My therapist called it a coping mechanism. My father called it discipline. I called it the only thing keeping me from crawling out of my own skin.

I stepped back to survey my work. The walk-in closet of my new apartment—our new apartment, I corrected myself with a twist of disgust—was now a monument to organization. Suits arranged by color gradient. Dress shirts pressed and hanging. Shoes lined up on the rack below like soldiers awaiting inspection.

Perfect.

The rest of the condo gleamed with the same sterile precision. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the city, letting in the harsh afternoon light that bounced off white marble countertops and pale hardwood floors. The furniture was modern, minimalist, expensive—all sharp angles and neutral tones. My father had hired a decorator. Of course he had.

“You will live with Noah. You will civilize him or prove he’s unsalvageable. Either way, you will not embarrass this family.”

Richard Sterling’s words from three weeks ago still rattled around my skull like a stone I couldn’t cough up. He’d delivered the ultimatum over dinner at the club, cutting into his filet mignon with the same precision he used to carve up struggling companies. No emotion. No room for negotiation.

Live with my stepbrother—the one person on this planet who made me want to commit violence—or lose everything. My trust fund. My inheritance. My place in the family.

My father’s love, such as it was.

I’d said yes, obviously. I always said yes to Richard Sterling. Everyone did. That was the thing about my father—he didn’t make requests. He made inevitabilities.

So here I was. Senior year at Kingsley University, supposed to be focusing on my double major and my future at Sterling Ventures. Instead, I was standing in a luxury cage, waiting for the one person capable of destroying my carefully constructed existence.

Noah Callahan.

Even thinking his name made my jaw clench.

I checked my watch. He was supposed to be here an hour ago. Typical. The guy had never been on time for anything in his life. Probably thought punctuality was a tool of capitalist oppression or whatever bullshit his art school professors fed him.

The sound of a key in the lock made every muscle in my body go rigid.

The door swung open, and chaos walked in.

Noah didn’t enter a room. He invaded it. Garbage bags of clothes in both hands—who the hell moved with garbage bags?—a massive portfolio case strapped across his back, and a wireless speaker already blasting something loud and aggressive that I didn’t recognize. The bass rattled the windows.

“Honey, I’m home!” he called out, his voice dripping with mockery.

I didn’t move from my position by the window. I watched him dump his bags in the middle of the pristine living room floor like he was marking territory.

Six years since I’d last seen him in person. Family holidays didn’t count—we’d both perfected the art of strategic avoidance, staying in opposite wings of whatever house we were forced to occupy. But this was different. This was close.

Too close.

Continue reading to discover what happens when hatred ignites into something neither of them can control…