My Billionaire Stepbrother

by Sterling, Jillian

  Our driver, Chip, is another handsome stud that looks like he could be related to my pilot Chance. He tips his hat, greets me by name, and has us on the road in seconds. The tires crunch lazily over a surprisingly well manicured road. I guess it shouldn’t surprise me, really – it’s just that the actual jungle is looming over us at every side, complete with vines and monkeys and enormous tropical flowers. It doesn’t seem like a private jet, a Cadillac, and brand-new road could coexist this closely with all that wild beauty.

  My head is out the window like an excited puppy for the entire ride, the salt breeze kissing my face as I drink in the luscious sights of the island. At one point, we have to stop the car because a turtle is crossing the road.

  A turtle is crossing the road.

  But it’s still a very short drive to the bungalow, which seems to me that it should more rightly be called a mansion. It’s an enormous three-story glass-and-wood palace that blends almost perfectly with the surrounding greenery: the only clue giving away its presence in the natural surroundings the reflected sunlight glimmering off the huge windows like a diamond.

  “Wow,” I breathe aloud.

  Miss Butler laughs. “Welcome home, Mademoiselle LaRoux. Here is your bungalow.”

  “Is my father here?”

  “You will see him soon.”

  “What is this place?”

  “This is your bungalow, Mademoiselle.”

  “Please, call me Veronique.”

  “Then you must call me Shereen.”

  The sight of the bungalow takes my breath away, and even with Chip and Shereen escorting me I have a hard time making one foot step in front of the other to go inside. Enormous bouquets of birds of paradise greet me through the doorway, immense, cool space beckoning to me from every direction of the house. There is an enormous sofa, an indoor fire pit, a huge wall of wine bottles, and a patio that stretches away from a sliding door and beyond my line of vision. Fresh coffee perfumes the air. It feels so green in here! So peaceful, so romantic, so luxurious.

  I can’t believe this is for me.

  “Wow,” I say again.

  “Yes, wow is correct!” Shereen smiles and waves Chip away, shutting the door behind us. “And I promise I will give you the full tour and explanation of all that is included in this bungalow later, but first we have work to do.”

  My stomach sinks just a little. “What do I have to do?”

  Shereen’s mega-watt smile doesn’t leave much room for trepidation.

  “Ma petite sirène, we are going to change you from your ordinary clothes into a princess. Come.”

  Fascinated, I follow her up a floating staircase to an enormous master suite, decorated in the most tasteful and beautiful white furniture I have ever seen. How decadent, to have white furniture and carpet. How do they keep it clean?

  An enormous closet takes up the entire wall, its mirrored doors flung open to reveal a full stock of garments. Entranced, I run my fingers over a few dresses, noting the silky textures.

  And the tags.

  “Gucci,” I breathe. “Chanel, Prada, Fendi, Dior, Ralph Lauren, Dolce and Gabbana, Versace. This is ridiculous! And everything is in my size? How?”

  I’ve never even stood this close to clothes this expensive in my entire life. I can feel perspiration break out on my forehead. What if I rip or spill something? I usually spill everything. I could never afford to replace one of these if I ruined it.

  “A welcoming gift,” Shereen explains. “All for you to keep, Mademoiselle. But today, these are not for you to wear. Today, you are to wear this.”

  She steps over to an armoire in the corner that I had not noticed; it is entirely made of beveled mirrors, intricately carved like something straight out of Versailles Palace. She opens the doors and carefully removes an elegant dress fit for a fairy tale; it’s a soft color somewhere between white, peach, and gold, the palette seeming to shift like a shimmering sunrise.

  “Wow,” I murmur.

  It’s turning into my favorite word.

  “Custom made for you, Mademoiselle, by Oscar de la Renta. A special order hastily completed because the late Monsieur de la Renta was a close family friend. This is for today’s special occasion. You will look like a goddess, oui?”

  “Oui, a goddess with no idea where she is or what she is doing.”

  I touch the fabric in awe. It’s like touching a cloud. Shereen sighs wistfully.

  “This dress will be perfection on you, Mademoiselle Veronique. When he sees you in this, how could he be upset?”

  I stare at her. “When who sees me? Who is upset?”

  But she only claps her hands and shakes her head.

  “No no don’t listen to me, I am just talking to myself. We must hurry. We only have an hour.”

  “An hour ‘til what?”

  As per usual, I get no answer to my question. Instead Shereen just grins mysteriously and herds me into the shower.

  The time flies, filled with primping and make-up and finally the dress itself, which slides over my skin and fits like a glove. When I see my own finished reflection, I can’t believe it. My long dark hair is piled on top of my head in an elegant updo, white orchids pinned here and there, pearl earrings making the whites of my eyes and my greenish pupils jump out like beacons.

  And the dress – the dress! It’s beyond a fairy tale. It’s beyond the red carpet. It hugs my upper body, tastefully revealing every curve, and cascades to the ground like a golden mist that whispers with secrets every time I breathe.

  “Wow. Are you sure I’m not being sold to a Shiek?” I ask Sherren, laughing nervously. “That seems to be the only occasion fancy enough for this dress. This is the most amazing thing I have ever had on my body.”

  She chuckles back and tucks away a stray strand of my hair. “You are beautiful, Mademoiselle. Come, Chip will be outside waiting.”

  Taking a deep breath, I follow Shereen and plunge into the unknown.

  I have no idea what fate awaits me in this beyond-fancy dress, but I manage to get into the car without crushing the skirt or panicking. I even manage to follow Shereen into the central resort building without crushing the dress or panicking. I somehow manage to get into the elevator without crushing the dress or panicking.

  But by the time we step onto the rooftop deck, even though the dress is not crushed, I am panicking.

  I am so excited and confused that I feel scared to death. My golden mist skirt is trembling, and this time it’s definitely from fear.

  The elevator doors open.

  It’s happening. Here I am! Where am I?? Why am I here??

  We step out onto an expansive rooftop deck that spans the whole width and length of the resort. It’s a rooftop resort within a resort. There is a mini lake, for crying out loud. There are actual trees. Chandeliers. Flowers.

  “Wow,” I say for the zillionth time today.

  The view is actually stunning. I literally feel my breath catch. In every direction, I can see the island rimmed by the endless sea. The colors are richer and deeper up close than they looked from the jet, with the green jungle and white shores and emerald water mixing together in a stunning contrast like exquisite stained glass. A white canopy overhead ripples in the soft breeze, shading the huge rooftop deck and giving me the illusion of flying through the clouds. I close my eyes for a minute and soak in the sensation of the cool ocean breeze caressing my face.

  Wow.

  When I open my eyes and follow Shereen a few steps further in, I realize the rooftop is set up for some sort of event. There are rows of crystal-clear chairs filled with beautifully dressed people facing an exquisite flowered arbor in the corner, and standing in the arbor are two men. They’re standing in front of an altar. Wearing tuxedos.

  Oh! It’s an incredibly decadent, beautiful, enormous wedding ceremony. Not only a wedding ceremony – one at which I am shocked to discover I know the groom. I step forward, my shock giving way to relief and confusion.

  “Dad? Dad! Is that you?
”

  Chapter Four

  “Daddy!”

  The word escapes my lips the moment I recognize him standing under the flowered arbor next to a priest.

  I race over to him as quickly as my dress and heels will allow and find myself throwing my arms around him in a relieved embrace.

  “Daddy! I’m so glad you’re ok!”

  “Veronique! Of course I am ok, silly girl. But I am so glad you are here! You made it! Thank god! Now we can begin.”

  “Begin?”

  I draw back from the hug, searching his face. My father is a trim and handsome middle-aged man, but usually there is an air of strain around his eyes. Not so now: he is beaming as brightly as the sun.

  “Yes,” he says with a laughing smile. “You just made it in time for my wedding. Kiki, I have met the love of my life after your mother God rest her soul. I never thought this would happen for me again. Will you be my best man? Well, best daughter, but you know what I mean.”

  A strange cocktail of feelings rush through my body. Relief, yes – 24-hours ago, I thought my Dad might be dying, in jail, kidnapped; 24-hours ago, I thought my Dad was in the clutches of some terrible emergency that required me to uproot myself, risk my education and career, and come charging to his rescue. I am so relieved this is not the case that I momentarily feel nothing but grateful.

  Then I get angry.

  Yes, I think rage is an accurate word to use. Would it have killed him to explain this? Would it have killed him to say, hey Veronique, I have happy news – I’ve decided to get married and I want you to come to the ceremony please? And would it have killed him to give me more than 24-hours’ notice?

  The selfishness of it makes me want to stomp my foot and wail at the injustice. Sure, he gets a fairytale wedding – and what do I get? 24-hours of stress and maybe a straight line of F’s on my final grades.

  Typical. It’s typical. My Dad is always a fan of surprises, of living in the moment, of having an adventure. He never stops to think how it affects the people around him. He never tallies up the cost.

  Already I am wondering just how much I am going to have to pay for this latest escapade of his. I’ve already paid in stress and time. Will I pay with my future? Will I pay with my money? Who is funding this? How did he get himself involved with this level of rich?

  While my mind is reeling, my Dad looks happier than I have ever seen him before in my life. His eyes are welling with happy tears, and I am far too stunned to say anything intelligent.

  Breathe, Veronique. Be happy for your Dad. You can yell at him later.

  I realize Dad is probably waiting for me to say something about his impending wedding. Right – his wedding! I just rushed unknowingly to Africa for his wedding. That’s what’s happening.

  “How?” I stutter. “Who? Where did you meet? What’s –”

  “There’s no time for that now.” He kisses me on the cheek, an affectionate but dismissive gesture that tells me that his mind is really elsewhere at the moment. Not that that’s surprising, giving the circumstances. “I will tell you everything after the ceremony, but right now I need to get married. Stand beside me, Kiki. Here are the rings.”

  He presses two rings into my palm and positions me to his side. I fall in place obediently, still too shocked to resist.

  Guess my Dad is getting married in Africa. No big deal.

  Music swells up around us. Live music! With awe I realize that a string quartet is hidden in an alcove to our right, and as much of a music snob as I am, I have to admit their playing is sublime. As the music swells, a procession begins: tiny flower girls giggling and tossing rose petals, a very smart-looking bridesmaid.

  Then comes the bride.

  I have never seen anyone quite so striking in my life as this woman. Everything about her radiates joy as she takes firm, teasing steps toward the altar. She stares at my Dad, her face incandescent. She is a tall, handsome African woman with sharply intelligent eyes and a kind face. Her carriage bespeaks royalty – is she Seychelles royalty? She is wearing a gorgeous off-white suit. Tasteful. Elegant.

  Rich.

  I think I know who chose my wardrobe.

  The woman winks at me and takes her place beside my father. Both of them are smiling so hard that it almost hurts to look at their faces.

  “Dearly beloved,” begins the minister, “We are gathered here today in the sight of God to witness the union of Jacques LaRoux and Diana Wilde.”

  Wilde. Diana Wilde. Wilde Hospitality Corp.

  So she owns everything.

  She owns that private jet with the bed.

  She owns this resort.

  She owns this freaking island.

  If I was shocked before, now I am ready to pass out.

  It’s all I can do to keep my knees from buckling as the vows and rings are exchanged. Diana Wilde! Wilde Hospitality Corp!

  Does she know I work at a bar? Does she know my Dad is a drifter who plays poker and hasn’t had a steady job in 20 years? That I pay his phone bill and half his living expenses? Does she know the LaRouxs are not rich?

  Oh god. This is either going to end in divorce court or prison.

  Can’t. Breathe. Stress. So much stress.

  By the time the minister pronounces them man and wife, I am barely hanging on. All I want is a nice brown paper bag to hyperventilate into and a nice dark corner where I can go to quietly lose my shit.

  “You may now kiss the bride.”

  My Dad and Diana lean in to a passionate kiss that has the guests clapping and laughing and makes my stomach drop with embarrassment.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, by the power vested in me, may I now present to you for the very first time, Mr. and Mrs. La-“

  But someone interrupts the priest with a roar.

  “Stop! I object to this wedding!”

  Everyone gasps. Heads turn. The bride and groom spin around, confused, to face the voice at the back of the rooftop. The entire floor falls so quiet that you could hear a pin drop. Everyone is staring at a new, powerful, dominating presence in the back of the room. His instant control of the crowd is total as everyone waits to see what he will do next.

  It’s like a scene in a movie.

  Squinting, I can see the figure of this new, powerful man approaching. He’s tall, dark and handsome and it doesn’t take a genius to notice that he is pissed as hell.

  Sexy as hell, too.

  As he gets closer, my mouth drops open, and suddenly the wetness between my legs is not just from sweat. His presence is an instant aphrodisiac that makes me bite my lip and forget how to breathe.

  It’s Remington Wilde.

  The Remington Wilde.

  He moves with a cocky grace, taking giant and dominating steps until he is within punching distance of the altar. And his hands are balled in fists like he’s ready to take us all out. I feel myself shrink and duck instinctively, afraid of the violent confrontation in his eyes. I can see the muscles of his jaw and upper body clenching, a mixture of rage and calculation that tells me instantly that he is able and willing to take control of anyone – me included – in any way necessary, including physical force.

  Is it weird that that kind of turns me on?

  I’m kind of curious to see him take control. I’m kind of curious to know what it would feel like. I’m kind of curious what he would do with me, if he had me in his power.

  God, I want to find out.

  Remington Wilde is like a force of nature: super masculine, super strong, super angry. His face openly registers his scorn as if he doesn’t care that every eye in the room is fixed with fascination on his every move. Maybe he even enjoys it, being the center of attention like this. He certainly doesn’t care that he’s just ruined a wedding. His amazing, sculpted body is relaxed underneath that perfectly tailored suit, and somehow even the anger on his face makes him look…dreamy.

  I might faint.

  He stalks defiantly up the aisle, planting his feet and glaring at the small group of us standin
g around the altar.

  “I object to this wedding,” he repeats. “Reverend, you must not proceed.”

  The priest swallows. “I’m sorry, Mr. Wilde, but, uh, you see…”

  Diana, the bride, lifts her chin and shakes her head.

  “You are too late for that, son,” she says. “Whether you object or do not object it does not matter: the marriage is done and legal. I am an adult who can make decisions without your approval. You must accept it. It does not matter if you like it. Remington, I want you to meet your new stepfather Jacques, and your lovely new stepsister Veronique.”

  Son. So Remington Wilde is Diana Wilde’s son.

  So Remington Wilde is my stepbrother.

  What?!?

  Holy fuck.

  Staring between Remington and Diana, I can definitely see the resemblance – similar face, similar regal posture – but his skin is lighter and he doesn’t have the same radiant peace in his expression. He looks anything but peaceful. He looks like he’s ready to wage a war and set fire to the wedding altar. He looks like he is ready to tear the world apart and drink it dry.

  Maybe I could convince him to tear up the sheets instead.

  Stop it, Veronique.

  Am I imagining things or is Remington actually growling? Yikes. It’s a low, masculine sound that gets my motor going in spite of myself. His nostrils flare like a dog about to bite.

  Actually, I wouldn’t mind if he bit me.

  Whoa, Veronique, that’s totally inappropriate. Totally inappropriate for so many reasons! Think about where you are. Think about what is happening. Think about who he is. Why don’t you join us back in this present moment, these present circumstances, you know – your Dad’s surprise wedding! Meeting your new step-family!

  “How could you, Mother,” Remington growls at Diana, ignoring my Dad’s outstretched hand. Yup, that answers my question: he is definitely growling. “How could you marry this stranger, this random pathetic nobody? You disgrace yourself and our family with this ill-bred low-class charlatan and I will contest this marriage if I have to drag you through court. I will not allow my mother to consort with trash.”

  “Hey! Watch yourself, sir!”