The corporate betrothal between Theo Sinclair and me was suffocated by a thick, suffocating layer of awkwardness right from the start. He always wore this rigid, stony expression, desperate to draw a line in the sand. "You are my little sister!" That was his favorite excuse, his ultimate shield against me. "How can a little sister become a wife?" Whenever those words left his mouth, his eyes would dart away, terrified of meeting mine. On the surface, I played the part of the compliant girl who understood his boundaries perfectly. But in the dark quiet of my own mind, I was already writing a different script. The very next day, I brought home the boyfriend I’d supposedly been dating for ages. Right in front of Theo, I looped my arm through my new prize and smiled brightly. "Hey, Theo. Come meet your new brother-in-law." 1 When I leaned in for a kiss, Theo pushed me away. Again. "Noelle, since the day you were brought into this house, I have only ever looked at you as a little sister to protect." "A sister is a sister. She cannot magically transform into a wife." His jaw was set. Hard lines, rigid posture. It was highly amusing, really, watching him deliver this righteous, puritanical sermon while my crimson lipstick was still smeared across the pulse point of his neck. I sat obediently beside him, my gaze lowering past his tailored belt to his lap. Look at this rich boy. Pitching a tent in the middle of a Tuesday afternoon. We had been officially engaged for three months. Instead of moving forward, our relationship had plummeted off a cliff. And it was all because of one single sentence spat out by his best friend, Damian: "Dude, you practically raised her with your own two hands. How is marrying her any different from marrying your actual flesh-and-blood sister? It's sick." Theo had, in fact, raised me. When I was a toddler, the very first word that stumbled out of my mouth wasn't Mom or Dad. It was Theo. My parents had discarded me long before I could form memories. They were ghosts haunting the upper echelons of the global elite, jet-setting between continents, far too busy for a child. The nannies they hired couldn't have cared less; their only metric for success was that I didn't die on their watch. When Theo came over to my estate one afternoon, he found me sitting on a filthy marble floor. The milk in the bottle clutched to my chest was ice-cold. It had already curdled and soured. I was so small, so devastatingly neglected, that I was practically withering away under the nannies' indifferent eyes. I never spoke. My parents, in their rare moments of attention, preferred to suspect I was intellectually disabled rather than admit I was severely depressed. Theo saw the tragedy of my existence. Without asking permission, he simply scooped me up in his arms, carried me back to the Sinclair estate, and took it upon himself to keep me alive. That arrangement lasted for years. Our families, old money and deeply intertwined, were thrilled. A marriage alliance between us was the most logical, profitable conclusion. Theo and I ate at the same table, slept under the same roof, just like we did when we were kids. Everything was seamless. Until Damian’s little “it’s like marrying your sister” comment jolted Theo awake like a bucket of ice water. The guilt consumed him. He spent half his nights pacing the floor, terrified he was committing some grave, unnatural sin by desiring the girl he had protected. He practically wanted to take up monkhood to cleanse his soul of the urge to taste forbidden fruit. He moved out of the master suite overnight, opting to ruin his back on the living room sofa. If I so much as walked to the kitchen in a silk camisole, he looked ready to gouge his own eyes out. Every single day, it was the same broken record: A sister cannot be a wife. He started dressing like he was bracing for an arctic winter. Thermal layers under slacks, sweaters buttoned to the collarbone. He looked as though he’d rather castrate himself than give me an inch of access. It was starting to give me a complex. Determined to reclaim my pride, I spent hours today perfecting a devastatingly chic look. I padded my bra. I pushed the girls up until they defied gravity. I walked into his corporate headquarters playing the role of the devoted, doting fiancée dropping off a homemade lunch. I was going for an impromptu office-play vibe. I let my fingers brush against his knuckles, pretending it was an accident. When I leaned over his mahogany desk, I made sure my hair trailed lightly across his cheek. After a few calculated moves, Theo was completely intoxicated. He lost his grip on reality. But right in the middle of kissing me breathless, it was as if the Holy Ghost possessed him. He shoved me back, gasping for air, and started reciting his sisters can't be wives gospel all over again. If you’re so pure, then why is the zipper on your slacks fighting for its life? Catching the direction of my gaze, a furious, humiliated flush crept up Theo's neck. He pointed a trembling finger at his office door. His voice was a ragged rasp. "Get out!" 2 I was evicted. I stood in the sterile hallway of the executive floor, absolutely seething. In my head, I had already murdered Theo in eight hundred different, creative ways. I took a deep, shaky breath. Once I was done mentally assassinating Theo, I pivoted to cursing out his loud-mouthed friend. I shot a venomous glare at the closed oak door of the CEO's office and scoffed under my breath. "Whatever. Who needs you." I spun on my heel to storm off—and slammed face-first into a solid wall of muscle. I lost my footing entirely and went crashing down onto the carpeted floor. My tailbone screamed in agony. I was pretty sure my ass just died. God, that hurts! Tears of pure, unadulterated pain pricked the corners of my eyes. The man I collided with panicked. He dropped to his knees beside me, his hands hovering, unsure where to touch. "God, I'm so sorry. I wasn't looking where I was going." He retrieved my discarded stiletto from the floor and carefully, gently, slipped it back onto my foot. Then, he offered his hands to pull me up. I leaned heavily against his chest, catching a faint, expensive drift of cedarwood and bergamot cologne. The impact had thoroughly rattled me. He cleared his throat, the awkwardness radiating off him in waves as he desperately searched for small talk. "I don't think I've seen you around here before. Are you a new hire?" I turned my head slowly to look at him. Spite was a bitter pill on my tongue. Without thinking, I fired back: "I'm Theo Sinclair's little sister." When our eyes met, he froze. A sharp intake of breath. "Wow. Small world. I'm Theo's brother-in-law!" The moment those words left his mouth, a suffocating silence fell between us. His face contorted in sheer panic as he realized what he just said. He fumbled over his words, trying to backtrack. "I—I mean, small world. I'm Theo's best friend. I'm Damian." Hearing that name, I paused. My eyes raked over him, taking in the sharp jawline, the expensive suit. A slow, wicked smile curled in the shadows of my mind. I let my body go completely limp, melting against his chest like I had no bones at all. "I think I twisted my ankle," I whispered, looking up at him through my lashes. "Could you take me home?" 3 Damian was a nervous wreck. His entire body was rigid, strung tighter than piano wire. A violent red flush crept up his neck and consumed his ears. He wouldn't even look me in the eye. "Theo... never really mentioned having a little sister." I looked at him, my expression hovering somewhere between a smile and a smirk. "Really? I'm quite sure he brought me up to you." And you laughed in his face and told him he was sick for eating from his own family tree. You son of a bitch. I could have strangled him right then and there. Damian stole a quick glance at me, then forced a dry, hollow laugh. "Right, right. Now that I think about it, he did mention he had a very... cute... younger sister." You don't remember shit. When the engagement was finalized, our families had kept it incredibly private—just a quiet dinner with the immediate relatives. Damian hadn't been invited. He had never seen my face. Now, Damian was bending over backward to play the gentleman. He practically tripped over himself to open my car door. He rushed into a pharmacy to buy expensive cooling gel for my ankle. When he finally parked outside my luxury apartment building, he awkwardly asked for my number. He threw out a hurried "See you around" and turned to bolt like a dog off a leash. I reached out and hooked my fingers onto the fabric of his shoulder. "Aren't you going to help me apply the gel?" Damian froze in his tracks. His gaze dragged down, painfully slow, landing on my exposed ankle. "Is... is that really appropriate?" I tilted my head. "Are you planning to hit and run? Aren't you going to take responsibility for injuring me?" "Responsibility! Yes, of course I want to take responsibility!" Damian blurted out instantly. "I just didn't want to overstep." He supported my weight as we took the elevator up. Once inside my apartment, he looked around like he was walking through a minefield. In my pocket, my phone was having a seizure. It was a relentless barrage of texts from Theo. [I'm sorry. I was too harsh earlier. Are you mad at me?] [I wanted to apologize right away. When I went out to the hall to find you, you were already gone.] [Noelle, please don't do things like that anymore. I hate it when we fight over this.] [When you were little, you used to follow me everywhere. You called me 'Theo' with such trust. Can't we just go back to how things used to be? Please?] Did you pop a boner for me when I was little too? Fucking hypocrite. I didn't even have the energy to type out a reply. Damian was watching me, his eyes darting between my face and my pocket. He tried to sound incredibly casual, failing miserably. "Texting your boyfriend?" I tossed the phone onto the kitchen island and shook my head. "No." Just my fiancé. Damian let out an audible sigh of relief. I stepped closer to him. "Do you care whether I have a boyfriend or not?" The question hit him like a physical blow. He turned a spectacular shade of crimson, stammering, completely lost for words. I didn't let him breathe. "...Do you want to be my boyfriend?" Damian stopped breathing. He stared at my face for a long, heavy moment. Then, the blushing intensified. When he finally spoke, his words tripped over each other. "I mean... if you're okay with it, I would absolutely love to be your boyfriend..." "It's just, I've never really dated anyone before. I don't even have female friends. I'm not very good at... talking to girls." My phone buzzed against the marble counter. The screen lit up with back-to-back messages from Theo. [I'm in the elevator. I'm almost at your door.] [Can you forgive me? I brought you that strawberry shortcake from the bakery you love.] I tore my eyes away from the screen and looked at Damian. "My brother is coming upstairs." Damian blinked, suddenly remembering that his entire reason for being downtown was to meet Theo at the office. But he had quite literally crashed into me and followed me home in a haze. He hadn't even seen Theo yet. "Oh, right. I actually needed to talk to him about something." Seeing that he completely missed the gravity of the situation, I spelled it out for him. "Do you want to hide? I mean... look at the time." I gestured toward the floor-to-ceiling windows, where the city skyline was already swallowed by the dark. "If he finds the two of us alone in my apartment at night, he might get the wrong idea." Damian processed this. A look of grim realization washed over his face. He nodded. I grabbed his wrist and dragged him down the hall, straight into my bedroom. I pointed at my massive king-sized bed. "Get in." I pulled back the blush-pink duvet, releasing a cloud of sweet, feminine perfume into the air. Damian was completely dizzy. By the time his brain caught up with his body, he was already lying flat on his back in my bed, buried under my blankets. From the front door, the heavy, rhythmic thud of Theo knocking echoed through the apartment. "Noelle? Can I come in?" 4 By the time I walked out to open the door, Damian had dutifully pulled the covers all the way up to his chin. He was drowning in the scent of my expensive lotions and silk sheets. It was subtle, but intoxicating. A dumb, euphoric smile plastered itself across Damian's face. But before he could take another deep breath, Theo's deep, authoritative voice carried through the living room. "I tolerate your little games when we're at home, but what on earth possessed you to kiss me in the middle of my office?" Damian’s euphoric smile shattered. He lay there, paralyzed, wondering if he had suffered a concussion and was hallucinating. In the living room, I crossed my arms and glared at Theo. "Why can't I kiss you? Honestly, I'd like to bang you on your desk!" Theo pinched the bridge of his nose. He looked physically pained, like a man being tortured for state secrets. "We grew up in the same house! I practically raised you. I cannot do those things to you!" Under the pink duvet, Damian clapped both hands over his mouth in sheer terror, too terrified to even draw a breath. Theo and I stood in a suffocating standoff. Seeing that I wasn't going to back down, he finally cracked. He let out a ragged sigh, his shoulders slumping in defeat, and held out the pristine white pastry box. "I went to that bakery you love. I stood in line for forty minutes." "I heard the strawberries are exceptionally sweet today." He was desperately trying to change the subject, terrified of where the argument was heading. I didn't even look at the box. "Do I look like a toddler to you? You break my heart, and you think the price of admission is a slice of cake?" Theo’s eyes softened. He reached out, pulling me flush against his chest, and pressed a tender, lingering kiss to my forehead. "Then what does my girl want?" his voice dropped, a soft rumble in his chest. "Bags? Diamonds?" I shook my head. I slid my arms up to loop around his neck, forcing his head down so our mouths were agonizingly close. "I just want to finish the kiss we started this afternoon." "Please, Theo..." Theo’s spine went rigid. His instinct was to shove me away. But the memory of how cold he had been lately, the harshness of his rejection in the office—it weighed on him. He couldn't bring himself to push me away again. His hands drifted down to grip my waist. He walked me backward, guiding me through the open door of the bedroom, right toward the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under our shifting weight. Lying just inches away on the other side of the bed, Damian’s soul left his body. He was stiff as a wooden plank, praying to a God he didn't believe in that he wouldn't be discovered. In that moment, he genuinely wished for a swift death. I traced the line of Theo's lapel, my fingers hooking onto the knot of his silk tie, pulling it loose. Theo's large hand clamped down over mine, stopping me. "Noelle, no..." his voice was a tortured rasp. "We'll be quiet," I whispered, a dark promise. "I won't tell anyone." Theo's breathing turned heavy, jagged. He was teetering on the absolute edge of his control. He closed his eyes, taking a shuddering breath to claw back a shred of his sanity. "...You're my sister." He turned his head away, desperate to break the spell. And as he looked away, his eyes landed on the massive, human-sized lump under the duvet on the other side of the bed. He frowned, the haze of lust instantly vanishing. "What the hell is that?" Beneath the covers, Damian's face was the color of ash. His eyes stared blankly ahead, completely hollowed out by despair. I smiled. A slow, terrifying smile. Without a second's hesitation, I gripped the edge of the duvet and yanked it back. Zero warning. Damian didn't even have time to flinch. He just lay there, perfectly rigid, looking like a corpse in a morgue. The look he gave me was utterly shattered. Pure, unadulterated devastation. I leaned over, wrapping my arm intimately around Damian's neck, pressing my cheek against his shoulder. I looked up at Theo and purred. "Theo, meet your brother-in-law." Damian's heart stopped beating. He turned his head, moving in slow motion, until his eyes met Theo's. Theo’s gaze was pitch-black, a terrifying, homicidal void. Damian forced a smile that looked more like a grimace of agony. "If I told you I was just taking a walk and stopped in for a rest... would you believe me?" Theo didn't smile. He didn't speak. His answer was a textbook, devastating right cross straight to Damian’s jaw. Damian's eyes rolled into the back of his head, and he instantly descended into the sweet release of unconsciousness. I calmly reached for my phone and dialed. "Hello, is this the crematorium?" 5 Theo, despite his flaws, had a conscience. Seeing that Damian was still drawing breath and hadn't technically expired yet, Theo decided that an immediate cremation might be considered poor etiquette. After a brief internal struggle, he hauled Damian into his SUV and drove him to the ER. Damian kept his eyes firmly shut, playing dead. He lay in the hospital bed for hours. Only when he heard the distinct click of the door closing behind Theo did he dare to peel one eye open. Confirming that the Grim Reaper had left the room, he let out a massive exhale. Before he could finish the breath, he turned his head—and nearly screamed. I was standing directly over him. Damian aggressively rubbed his temples, his face twisted in a mess of frustration, terror, and profound confusion. He wrestled with his words for a solid minute before hesitantly asking, "What exactly is the relationship between you and Theo?" "Brother and sister," I replied smoothly. The moment those words hung in the air, Damian looked like he was going to throw up. "Your brother is engaged to be married." I nodded. "I know. And I'm dating you, my new boyfriend." The word 'boyfriend' acted like a cattle prod. Damian nearly launched himself out of the hospital bed. "I am not! I never said that! Don't you dare put that on me!" He frantically checked the door, terrified Theo was lurking in the hallway. Whatever carnal desires he had harbored for me were entirely eradicated. The man was operating solely on survival instinct. I tapped my chin, pretending to think deeply. "So... does that mean my brother is actually my boyfriend?" Damian paled. "...Please stop telling ghost stories in broad daylight." The way he looked at me slowly shifted from sheer terror to a strange, misplaced pity. In his mind, he was piecing together a tragic narrative: a twisted, psychologically damaged girl, raised in a gilded cage, trapped in a sick, taboo obsession with her surrogate older brother. Damian physically shivered as his imagination ran wild with this gothic romance. He chewed on his bottom lip, clearly conflicted, before leaning in to offer a solemn warning. "You're going to destroy him, you know that?" Even after getting his jaw realigned, he was still defending Theo. The man had the health bar of a raid boss. A brutal punch to the face didn't deter him; it seemed to increase his loyalty. A glutton for punishment. A textbook masochist. I genuinely wanted to laugh in his face. Damian took a deep, centering breath. With the noble resignation of a martyr marching to the guillotine, he looked at me and said: "Let your brother go. I will be your boyfriend." In a span of ten seconds, the concept of 'bro code' had ascended to terrifying new heights. I let the silence stretch. Then, I smiled. "Okay." I reached out, wrapping my fist in the fabric of his hospital gown, and yanked him forward so his face hovered inches from mine. "My brother owes me a kiss. You can pay his debt." Damian squeezed his eyes shut, compliant and entirely submissive. "You know, for a guy who claimed he's never dated, you seem pretty experienced," I murmured, a teasing edge to my voice. Damian’s eyes fluttered open, narrowing slightly. "I've never dated you." Behind me, the hospital door cracked open. Theo stood perfectly still in the doorway, watching me and Damian share an intimate, whispered exchange. His arms hung loosely at his sides, but his hands slowly curled into fists. The sickening sound of his knuckles cracking echoed loudly in the sterile room.
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