I had detested Steven Wilder since the moment I first laid eyes on him. I hated the way he had suddenly moved into my home, and I hated the way he stole my father's attention. Most of all, I hated how he always acted completely unfazed, no matter how much I tried to torment him. But then, I accidentally caught him in the bathroom, holding a photograph of a girl while doing something incredibly private. Seizing the opportunity, I snapped a picture of him on my phone and threatened him with a smug grin. "If you don't want anyone to find out about this, pack your bags and get out of my house." Yet, there wasn't a single trace of panic in his eyes. Instead, he looked at me and asked, "What do you want me to do to make you stop hating me?" I smiled slyly, deliberately trying to humiliate him. "How about you strip down and let me take a couple more photos?" Just when I thought I had him cornered, he looked down with a low, quiet chuckle. "Sure." 1 I never expected him to agree so easily. The sudden shift caught me off guard, and a wave of panic washed over me. I took two hasty steps backward, staring at him with deep suspicion. "You... you're shameless!" He didn't bother to reply. Instead, he took two slow, deliberate steps forward with a quiet smile. Before I could react, he had trapped me in the corner of the hallway. He leaned down slightly, resting his hands on his knees, forcing me to meet his gaze. A playful, teasing glint danced in his dark eyes. "Isn't this exactly what you wanted to see?" The words died in my throat. My fingers gripped my phone so tightly that my knuckles turned white. I instinctively glanced toward his half-open bedroom door, desperate for an escape. Following my gaze, he reached out and casually shut the door with a soft click. Then, he raised his hand and lightly tapped his index finger against my forehead. "Ow!" I glared at him, my bravado returning as I tried to push him away. But he didn't budge, standing before me like a solid wall. Steven was tall, with broad shoulders and a lean, athletic frame that was far stronger than it looked. Standing this close, his sheer presence was completely overwhelming, making me swallow hard in nervousness. Refusing to lose my edge, I took the silver necklace I was clutching and threw it right at his chest. "Take your stupid gift back!" Today was my twentieth birthday. After the party ended, I had gone upstairs to happily unwrap the gifts from my friends and relatives. My mood instantly soured when I came across Steven's present. Initially, I wanted to toss it straight into the trash. But then I thought, no, that's too quiet. It would be much more satisfying to march into his room, throw it at him, and sneer, Who would ever want anything from you? So, I went to find him. Seeing his door slightly ajar, I pushed it open without knocking. The moment I stepped inside, the sound of heavy, ragged breathing reached my ears, followed by a low, muffled groan. I followed the sound and froze. Steven was standing in front of the bathroom vanity. He was biting down on the hem of his t-shirt, exposing his lean, sculpted stomach. My eyes instinctively traveled downward, catching his long fingers wrapped around... himself. On the marble counter lay a small, plastic-sealed photograph. I could tell it was a girl, though I couldn't make out her face. My face flushed crimson in an instant. "Steven, you're disgusting!" I shrieked. Hearing my voice, he slowly turned his head. Even with me standing right outside the door, he didn't try to cover himself. He simply knit his brows slightly. "Turn around, Lynn." I instinctively spun around, but then my stubborn pride flared up. Why should I listen to him? I turned right back around, whipped out my phone, and snapped a photo of him. He flinched slightly at the camera's shutter sound, looking at the lens with a calm, unbothered expression. Without a word, he turned back to the mirror and finished what he was doing. I waited outside, my heart hammering. After what felt like an eternity, he slowly cleaned up the vanity, adjusted his clothes, and walked out. Aside from a lingering flush on his neck, there wasn't a single trace of embarrassment on his face. "What do you want?" he asked quietly. I was used to his unflappable demeanor, so I didn't let it deter me. I raised my phone, letting a smug smile spread across my face. "I assume you don't want anyone to see this?" He raised an eyebrow. "It's not disgusting. Every guy does it." I tilted my head, my eyes gleaming with mischief. "I know who's in that photo on your counter. You wouldn't want her to find out what you do while looking at her, would you?" He went still for a moment, then let out a soft sigh. "No, I wouldn't. So, what's your price?" Seeing him finally yield, my triumph was complete. "Delete the photo, pack your bags, and get out of our house." He didn't answer immediately. His gaze fell, a flicker of loneliness crossing his eyes. "What will it take for you to stop hating me?" he asked softly. Stop hating him? Never. But to make things as difficult as possible for him, I offered a wicked alternative. "It's hard to stop hating you. But if you strip down and let me take a couple more photos, I might consider it." I thought I had him backed into a corner. But he simply paused, looked down, and let out a low, quiet chuckle. "Sure." 2 After tossing the necklace at him, my courage evaporated, and I fled back to my room. On my way down the hall, I ran into Greta, our housekeeper, who was carrying a mug of warm milk up the stairs. Seeing my flushed face and frantic breathing, she stopped in concern. "Lynn, sweetie, are you alright? You look like you've seen a ghost." "I'm fine," I mumbled, shaking my head. Sensing Steven stepping out of his room behind me, I bolted into my bedroom without looking back. "Lynn, you forgot your milk!" Greta called out. I slammed my door shut and locked it. Leaning against the heavy oak wood, I drew in long, ragged breaths. My mind was a chaotic blur of Steven's calm face, the quiet intensity of his movements, and the sudden, breathless finish over the sink. My heart was beating so fast it felt like it would burst. I cupped my burning cheeks, feeling like I was about to melt. A sudden knock on the door made me jump. Assuming it was Greta, I patted my cheeks, tried to smooth down my hair, and unlocked the door. But the moment the door cracked open, Steven's face appeared. I instantly tried to slam the door shut, but he reacted quickly, shoving his hand into the frame to block it. The heavy wood clamped down on his knuckles, and he let out a sharp grunt of pain. I panicked and immediately pulled back. "Are you crazy?!" Without a word, he slipped into my room, closing the door behind him. I looked at the angry red marks forming across the back of his hand, biting my lip. "What do you want?" He ignored the question, walking over to my vanity to set down the mug of milk. He let his eyes wander around my room, finally resting on a lace bra I had left tossed on the unmade bed. My face burned hotter. I lunged across the room, shoving the underwear beneath my duvet. "Keep your eyes to yourself!" He tapped his knuckles lightly against the wooden vanity. "Drink your milk." I picked up the mug, taking small, nervous sips, while he casually sat down on the edge of my bed. He looked up at me. "Let's make a deal. Delete the photo." Hearing him ask for a favor brought back my confidence. I sat down in my vanity chair, holding my mug like a queen on her throne, looking down at him. "I already told you my terms. Pack your bags." I had just taken a shower before this, and I was only wearing a thin, white silk slip. As I sat down, the hem rode up, exposing a pale stretch of my thighs. Steven's gaze flicked down. His throat cleared, and he quickly looked away, reaching for a decorative throw pillow on my bed and tossing it over my lap. "Your dress is too short," he muttered, his voice slightly rough. I stiffened, quickly pulling the pillow tight against myself. He looked back up, his eyes serious. "Choose another condition." "Fine," I said, thinking. "Whenever you see me, stay at least ten feet away." "No. Try again." "This isn't how negotiations work!" I snapped, slamming my mug down. "You're the one asking me for a favor, Steven!" A slow, frustrating smile touched his lips. "But taking non-consensual photos of someone for blackmail is a felony, Lynn." My eyes widened in panic. "Fine! I'll just delete it." "No, you won't." "Then what do you want?" I cried. Wait, why was I asking for his permission? I could just delete it right now and he wouldn't have any leverage to threaten me with. I grabbed my phone, intending to do just that. But then I hesitated. If he really decided to play dirty and call the police, my father would hate him forever. Steven respected my father too much to ever let that happen. Slowly, I lowered my phone. When people get nervous, they tend to drink water. I reached for the warm milk, but as I looked at the creamy, white liquid, my mind instantly flashed back to what I had witnessed in the bathroom. I shuddered, slamming the mug back down with a dull thud. "Just promise me one thing," his voice drifted over, soft and quiet. "Why should I?" I scoffed. He looked at me, a lazy, dangerous glint in his eyes. "What do you think Thomas would say if he found out you snuck into my room and watched me do... that?" I stood up, clenching my teeth. "You are completely shameless!" "Yes," he replied softly. "I am." In the end, I kicked him out of my room. As I slammed the door on his face, I threw out one last desperate threat. "If you tell my dad a single word, I'll tell him I'm madly in love with you! I'll force him to make you marry into our family as a charity-case husband, and I'll keep you under my thumb and torture you for the rest of your life!" Steven only let out a low, amused laugh at my childish outburst. 3 Steven was sixteen when he first arrived at our house, only two years older than me. At the time, my parents had just gone through a bitter divorce. I immediately assumed he was my father's secret love child from an affair, and that he was the reason my family had fallen apart. I had a screaming match with my father, demanding that Steven be kicked out. When my dad refused, telling me to grow up, I ran away from home in a fit of rage. The security guards, the housekeeper, and the local police searched for me all night. In the end, it was Steven who found me curled up in the old doghouse in the far corner of our backyard. He sat on the grass outside the kennel and said quietly, "I'm not Thomas's son, Lynn. My mother passed away, and I have no one else left in the world. Your father was just kind enough to take me in." Later, I found out he was telling the truth. But his mother had been my father's high school sweetheart. Even knowing he wasn't my half-brother, I couldn't stop myself from detesting him, wishing every single day that he would leave. During his first few months, I did everything I could to make his life miserable. I poured milk all over his mattress, waiting gleefully for him to lose his temper. But he merely stripped the sheets in silence and washed them himself. Sometimes, after school, I would tell the driver to pull away quickly, leaving him stranded. I hoped he would complain to my dad, giving me an excuse to start another fight. But he never said a word. He just rode his bicycle on sunny days and took the bus when it rained, acting as if my petty cruelties were nothing more than a minor inconvenience. Eventually, I grew tired of the games and stopped bothering him. But the resentment lingered. Yet, despite how awful I was, he was the one who carried me to the nurse's office when I scraped my knee during track and field. He was the one who draped his school blazer around my waist when my period stained my skirt, getting himself a week of detention for violating the dress code. He was the one who secretly left a small mango cupcake on my desk when my father was too busy with work to celebrate my birthday. And during the stressful months of senior year, he was the one who quietly wrote out step-by-step calculus solutions on the margins of my scratch paper. He wasn't a bad person. I couldn't even force myself to believe he was. For a long time, I felt incredibly conflicted, unable to find a logical reason to keep hating him. I rolled around in my bed, hugging my pillow tight. "Curse you, Steven!" I groaned into the fabric. Across the hall, Steven was having an equally restless night. He lay staring at the ceiling, the air conditioning running at a cool sixty-eight degrees, yet he felt entirely too hot. His mind kept drifting back to a dream he had woken up from. In the dream, Lynn was wearing that thin white slip. One of the straps had fallen down, resting against her pale shoulder. Her lips were red and slightly swollen from his kisses, and her eyes were bright with tears as she lunged forward to bite his shoulder. Steven couldn't quite remember when his thoughts about her had turned so dark. Perhaps it was during their junior year, right after they moved to the private academy in the city. Because of his striking looks and perfect grades, he was popular with the girls, but the boys from old-money families resented the middle-class transfer student. They whispered rumors behind his back, calling him the Mercer family's charity case. He didn't know how to defend himself, but Lynn had overheard them. She had marched straight up to the group, pointing a finger at their chests. "We don't keep charity cases in our house. Steven's mother was my dad's dearest friend. Keep your filthy mouths shut, or I'll make sure you regret it." After lecturing them, she had dragged him away, her nose in the air. "You're embarrassing me," she had complained. "Don't let them walk over you like that." She wasn't cruel; she was just a spoiled, fiercely loyal girl who wore her heart on her sleeve. He loved watching her twirl around the living room in a new dress, asking the golden retriever if she was the most beautiful princess in the world. He loved the way she would look up at him on the stairs, offering a haughty huff before marching past. He was entirely, utterly captivated by her. Sighing, Steven sat up and opened his desk drawer, pulling out the plastic-sealed Polaroid he had hidden away. It was a photo from her eighteenth birthday. She was wearing a soft yellow gown with a massive bow on the back, exposing a beautiful stretch of her spine. She had dropped it on the coffee table, and he had quietly pocketed it, keeping it close for two long years. 4 The next morning, I waited until I saw Steven leave for his morning run before sneaking back into his room. I had spent the entire night staring at the photo on my phone, trying to figure out who the girl in his photograph was. I needed to find that physical print. I had lost the upper hand last night, and I was determined to win it back. His curtains were drawn, letting in only a thin sliver of morning light. The room smelled faintly of cedarwood and laundry detergent. I began searching through his drawers, eventually sliding my hand beneath his pillow. My fingers brushed against the smooth edge of a plastic sleeve. Gleefully pulling the Polaroid out, I turned around to slip out of the room, only to crash straight into a broad, solid chest. Steven reached over and flicked on the light. He looked down at me, his eyes dark, his expression completely unreadable. Caught red-handed, a cold sweat broke out across my back. I quickly hid my hands behind my back, trying to act natural. But he had already seen it. Steven closed the door behind him. He took a slow step forward, trapping me against his computer desk. He reached out his hand. "Give it back, Lynn." "No," I stubborned, shaking my head. He let out a quiet sigh. He was much taller than me, his arms long and powerful. He reached behind my back, his fingers wrapping firmly around my wrist. With a gentle but unyielding tug, he retrieved the photo. A playful, dangerous smile touched his lips as he looked down at me. "Do you really want to know who she is?" I tilted my chin up, trying to look indifferent. "I don't care." Suddenly, his fingers turned the plastic-sealed print around, holding it right in front of my eyes. "The girl in this picture," he whispered, his voice dangerously low, "is you."
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