My Billionaire Stepbrother

by Sterling, Jillian

  “Try to think less like a total asshole, would you? This can be good news. We can make something good out of this.”

  “What could possibly be good? I thought I knew you, but now I think I was wrong.”

  I stare at him, my core feeling suddenly thin and weak, realizing that he doesn’t trust me at all. He barely even likes me enough to give me the benefit of the doubt, to accept that this pregnancy was really a surprise and not some weird convoluted plot. Could this conversation be going any worse?

  This is a nightmare.

  And the last thing I want is to go through this alone.

  “Being pregnant in no way changes who I am, Remi. I’m still Veronique, still the same woman. But how you deal with it, and how you’re treating me, definitely matters. This isn’t just about you anymore. I could use your support, Remington. I could use your help. I could use more of that kindness you showed me earlier tonight. I could use the lover I knew three weeks ago, not the stepbrother who ignores me and lashes out like a spoiled prince when he doesn’t get exactly his way.”

  “Three weeks,” he mutters. “Three weeks. That’s fast. How could you possibly know you’re pregnant in only three weeks?”

  His eyes grow cold again and he stares at my belly. Then he says the worst thing anyone has ever said to me: “Is it even mine?”

  His words hurt so much I literally can’t speak.

  I have to turn my back and walk away.

  So I turn.

  And walk away.

  I run down the steps, past the party crowd, past the people trying to talk to me about my cello, past the flowers, past the food, past the front door. I am running out the front door, into the street, through the nighttime city of Victoria, back to the house I’m sharing with Dad and Diana, back to being alone.

  Everywhere I turn, I’m running into the truth: Remington doesn’t want the baby.

  Or me.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Remington Wilde

  The Wilde Townhouse, Victoria

  I’ve not slept a wink.

  All night I paced around my room in the Governor’s Mansion, reliving every terrible word I said to Veronique, cursing myself for being such an immature dick. A really remarkable, vulnerable, beautiful woman just told me she was pregnant by me, and what did I do?

  I insulted her.

  What the hell is wrong with me?

  As soon as the sun came up, I was out the door, jogging around the island to try to burn up this nervous energy. It didn’t really help. So now I’m on the doorstep of my mother’s house, seeking forgiveness.

  A familiar face answers my knock. It’s a woman – the same woman I saw in Veronique’s villa before I left for the capital. She stares at me, this time with even more open dislike.

  “Mr. Wilde,” she says. “You are a bastard.”

  And she shuts the door in my face.

  Ugh.

  Not again.

  It’s like slamming doors in my face is this woman’s favorite hobby. Not that I don’t deserve it. Stifling my annoyance, I knock again. The woman has to open the door, and she knows it. She does so grudgingly, staring at me like I’m a cockroach.

  “Good morning,” I say as politely as I can. “Bastard or not, I need to see Veronique. Is she awake?”

  The woman glares at me. “You should be ashamed of yourself. What you said to her. Doubting her at a time like this, treating her like dirt. Why should I let you in? Would I let a rabid dog in? You’ll only hurt her more.”

  It takes me only a moment to put two and two together and realize this person must be Veronique’s confidant, the one who helped her get the pregnancy tests, the one who knows about the situation.

  “Please,” I beg in desperation, sticking my foot in the door as she tries to slam it again. “Please, I know I’ve been terrible. I know I don’t deserve another chance. But please let me talk to her. I’m here to apologize and to make things right. Is she awake?”

  The woman frowns at me. “She is not some slut like your clubbing girls and your playboy women. You took advantage of her. You are so blind from your own bad habits that you can’t even see a good person when one comes into your life. And what do you do? You cut her down. Destroy her hopes. You are a bastard.”

  “I know,” I admit ruefully. “Come on, let me in. You can yell at me all you want later, but I have to apologize to her before I lose my chance.”

  She studies me, and for a minute I think she’s about to slam the door again, but finally she pulls it open and steps aside, muttering curses at me in French as I pass her.

  “Mademoiselle Veronique is out on the patio,” the woman says. “With Madame Diana and Monsieur Jacques. Watch yourself, Monsieur Remington. They do not know anything about the baby.”

  The baby.

  Wow.

  Hearing someone say it out loud makes my throat tighten with emotion.

  I got Veronique pregnant. Yes, I know it was me. I know it’s mine.

  And I know it’s time to man up.

  I find them all on the patio, eating breakfast. Veronique sees me first. She freezes for a minute like a terrified child, but then a cold expression crosses over her face, almost as if she is erasing any feelings. Then she returns to her toast, ignoring me.

  “Remington!” My mother waves me over and points to a chair. “Come join us!”

  Jacques turns and smiles. “Good morning, Remington. That was quite a party last night. Great work!”

  “Thank you,” I say, sliding into my chair.

  Next to Veronique.

  She is buttering her toast like it’s the most fascinating, important toast in the world, like it’s made out of plutonium and requires the most careful attention or else it will explode. Sitting not five inches away from her, I might as well be invisible for all the notice she pays me.

  But I don’t blame her.

  “Good morning, Veronique,” I try.

  But she doesn’t respond, just takes a giant bite of her toast and reaches for the pot of coffee before returning to the American newspaper she is reading.

  I might as well be mute.

  But I can’t say I don’t deserve the cold shoulder.

  “We’re all a little foggy this morning,” my Mom says, not understanding the tension between me and Veronique. “Too much of that punch! I’m trying to catch up on opening this stack of mail. Need something to read, Remington?”

  “I’ll take the business section of Veronique’s paper. If you don’t want it, sis.”

  I use that nickname on purpose, knowing Veronique hates it, in the hopes that it will get me a reaction. But she ignores me. She juts continues to chew her toast and read, not bothering to look up as she slides the business section out of the paper and drops it on the floor next to me.

  Yup. She’s pissed.

  I can’t blame her.

  “Thank you,” I mumble, reaching down to pick it up.

  “There’s a big article on your merger,” Jacques says. “Page five.”

  I appreciate that he doesn’t bother me much, doesn’t try to force a relationship to form and just occasionally adds something brief and relevant to the conversation. I think I may have misjudged him at the start, and it crosses my mind that a way to help smooth things out with Veronique might be to patch things up with her Dad.

  “Great. Thank you, Jacques.”

  Everyone silently returns to his or her reading, almost like a normal family, and I feel the pressure building inside. I have to find a way to apologize, to get Veronique alone, to make things right. So I’m sitting there racking my brain trying to think of something clever and nice to say to Jacques, when all of a sudden the world turns upside down.

  It starts innocuously enough.

  “What’s this?” My mom mutters, cutting into a manila envelope. I don’t even glance up from my business paper for a few more minutes, when all of a sudden I hear my mother gasp and drop her fist on the table, spilling her coffee.

  There are some paper
s clutched in her fist.

  “Jacques,” she cries, “What is this? What does this mean?”

  “What’s the matter?” he asks, his face suddenly worried.

  I’m worried too. Outbursts are not normal for my mother.

  “What is this?!” She repeats, throwing the papers at Jacques.

  Puzzled, Jacques picks the papers up from the breakfast table, piecing them together and scanning them as quickly as he can.

  “Oh no,” he murmurs after a minute. He looks up at my mother, his face tortured. “It’s my police record. Yes, I have a police record. I was arrested once. I never told you. Of course you must be upset. But how? I don’t understand why this came to you. I should have mentioned it before, but Diana, please believe me; it was just so long ago, and such a silly story, half the time I forget it even happened. Please, darling, believe me. I didn’t mean to hide it from you.”

  “How could you?” My mother asks. “How could you keep something like this from me? Jacques, it’s too horrible that you wouldn’t trust me enough to tell me. I thought I’d earned your honesty and your openness, especially about something so important. Did you think I would judge you? Why would you hide it?”

  “Please, Diana, understand –”

  “No! I am too upset to understand. You understand! You left out this story. What else have you left out? And to find out in this cold, terrible way, in a letter over breakfast! What kind of a cruel joke is this? Remington?”

  She’s pointing a finger at me, and I feel the blood draining from my face just the same way it did when I got in trouble as a little kid.

  When Diana Wilde gets angry, you’re done.

  “Remington, how dare you. I know this was you. I know you didn’t trust me to choose my own husband, but to go behind our backs like this, to send me his police record, to snoop around and sabotage my marriage like this? You’ve broken my heart!”

  Before I can respond, my mother storms away.

  I’ve never seen her storm away before.

  Not once. In my entire life.

  Whoa.

  “Diana!” Jacques calls. He jumps out of his seat, staring after her in shock, and then turns to me. “Remington, I apologize, I am sure this was some mistake. I hope you’ll learn to trust me in time, but if you’ll both excuse me, I am going to see if I can’t talk to her.”

  With that, Jacques disappears into the house, calling my mother’s name.

  Chastened and horrified, I reach for the manila envelope that has fallen over my mother’s plate. It’s addressed to me, and I recognize the return address as one of the detective agencies I had hired last month, back when I was intent on exposing Jacques as a fraud and gold-digger. I had completely forgotten about my stupid quest to ruin him, completely forgotten about all the information I had ordered, completely forgotten that I had asked them to send things here to Victoria where I thought I would be alone to intercept them.

  I was trying to sabotage their marriage. I did think I knew better than my mother. I did cause this.

  It is my fault.

  “Shit,” I curse.

  I scan over the paperwork, seeing that Jacques was only arrested for being present at a poker game in New York City that was being run without a license. Nothing dramatic. I myself have been arrested for worse.

  “Shit,” I say again.

  I drop the papers back onto the table and rub my face in my hands, groaning. When I look up, I see that Veronique is staring at me.

  Her angelic face is laced with pain.

  Oh god. No. Veronique.

  I’ve just made a terrible situation even worse.

  “I understand your not trusting me,” she says, her barely controlled voice like a pot of boiling water. “I understand your not wanting me. It hurts, but I can understand it. I can also understand your not trusting my father. That’s one thing. But to hurt your mother like that? Even if you hate me and my father, how could you purposefully destroy your own mother’s happiness?”

  I feel shame making my cheeks hot even as my body grows colder, her words twisting like a knife.

  “I didn’t!” I stutter, knowing I sound even guiltier. “I mean, I didn’t mean to! I swear, Veronique. I never meant my mother to see that. I never meant her to find out this way. I was trying to do what I thought was the responsible, smart thing.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Veronique says. “I wish I could, but I don’t. What did you do, hire somebody to dig up all my family’s dirt?”

  She jumps out of her chair, her eyes flashing angrily.

  “You want the LaRoux’s dirt, Remington? Is that what you want? Well I can tell you all the dirt. There’s a lot of dirt for you. You’ll love it. Ready? Here it comes.”

  “Veronique –“

  “Shh! Let me tell you everything! Let’s see, what’s the dirt? Did your detectives find out that my mother’s father was a kamikaze pilot for Japan in WWII, and that after the war my grandmother had to hide it so she could get work as a housekeeper in the states? Did they tell you my mom had rocks thrown at her at school because she was Japanese? That I was called names in school too? Did they tell you my Dad plays poker because he’s been on his own since he was fourteen? That no one ever wanted us? Anything else you want to know about my family?”

  “Veronique, I’m sorry.”

  “Or – ooh! – here, how about this one? I got a good one, I got a real juicy piece of dirt for you that I am sure you and your mom and your detectives and all the tabloids would love to get their hands on; did you know that I’m pregnant and single and unwanted, and that the father is my billionaire stepbrother?”

  “Veronique, please –”

  “Just how good are your detectives, Remington? Because I bet they couldn’t tell you this part: here’s the clincher, the clue that will crack the case. Did they tell you that I don’t want anything to do with someone who hurts people on purpose, someone that intentionally hurts people I love? Did they tell you I’d be actually thankful that I got to see you do that, so that I could know once and for all that it’s ok that you rejected me? Did they tell you I’ve had enough?”

  “Veronique…”

  There’s nothing I can think of to say.

  “I’m sorry.”

  There’s nothing I can think of to do.

  “I didn’t mean to hurt anyone.”

  I want to hug her, to apologize to her, to beg her to forgive me.

  “Well, Remington, you really, really did.”

  I feel frozen to the chair with the weight of my mistake.

  By the time I can even try to form words, by the time I can raise my head to try to look at her, she is gone – back into the house, upstairs, behind locked doors, unreachable.

  She is probably crying. Alone.

  My mom is probably crying. Alone.

  Jacques…who the hell knows what he’s doing. But he’s probably crying. Alone.

  What a mess.

  I sit at the table, my head in my hands, and I am not embarrassed to admit that I feel a tear streak down my face.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Veronique LaRoux

  North Island of the Seychelles

  My Dad and I arrived back at North Island a couple hours ago. It’s safe to say that the LaRouxs are in a sorry state. Neither of us have been this depressed since…well…since my Mom died.

  The tropical daylight is bright, clean, and fresh, but as beautiful as the day is, my heart is heavy. If the only problem was my drama with Remington, I think I could handle it. But there’s trouble in paradise all around. It’s way worse to watch my Dad going through heartache at the same time as me. I’m depleted enough on my own, but seeing my Dad suffer and not being able to really help him? Brutal.

  Why did Remington have to do this to us?

  We came back to North Island from the capital to look for Diana; she disappeared from the family townhouse in the capital after the fight yesterday and then never came home last night. We looked for her all over Victoria, eve
n at the Governor’s Mansion, and when we couldn’t find her we thought maybe she’d come back here.

  My Dad didn’t say anything the entire boat ride. He hasn’t said anything since last night.

  It’s not just that it’s my Dad’s first fight with his new bride; it’s that he’s terrified the first fight will be the last if he can’t find her and have a chance to clear the air. I can feel his tension, his fear. His loneliness.

  He doesn’t want to lose her.

  You know, it’s really fucking hard to fight with a person that isn’t there. It’s hard to reconcile when someone won’t even show up. Like Remington and me: I can’t fight for us if he isn’t willing to fight, too. There’s no one to fight with.

  Nothing to fight for.

  I wish…ugh...

  But what’s the point of wishing?

  Remington doesn’t want me.

  And I can’t help my Dad.

  It’s the worst day ever.

  But we keep looking, hoping against hope. My driver Chip and Shereen have split up too, each headed in opposite directions around the island’s main road to help us find Diana. They’ll be asking around if any of the resort staff has seen her while Dad searches their shared rooms and I scour the beach.

  It’s a long, long day. And when we all meet back at my bungalow at sunset, everyone’s faces are downcast and tired.

  No Diana.

  No luck.

  No hope.

  “Guess I’m tapped out,” Dad says.

  It’s a gambling term. It means he’s giving up.

  Sighing, I plop down next to him on the couch. My body hurts. I haven’t had a lot of symptoms of pregnancy yet, but I feel them starting. My feet are swollen and sore from walking all day, so I prop them up on the couch while Shereen lights the fire pit and orders some dinner delivered from the central resort.

  As much as I want to quit, I can’t stand to watch my Dad give up. One of us has to fight.

  “Nah,” I say. “You’re not tapped out, Dad. You’re just the dark horse up against tall odds. You’ll pull through in the end. You’ll see.”

  He grins ruefully. “This might be the end, Kiki. Can you believe it? Something so stupid. I know better than to hide anything from her. I didn’t mean to. I really had completely forgotten about that time in New York, getting arrested. It feels like another life. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”