My Billionaire Stepbrother

by Sterling, Jillian

  “Playing an illegal game.”

  “Yeah, but, come on. There were no legal games in the city then. That’s just how it was.”

  “I know.”

  “I know Diana would have understood. I didn’t hide it from her on purpose.”

  “I know Dad.”

  “I just wish I could tell her. I wish she could believe that I did trust her. That I do trust her.”

  “You will.”

  He closes his eyes and shakes his head. I can see the exhaustion and disappointed hopes on his face, and it breaks my heart all over again.

  “I’m sorry, Daddy.”

  “Oh, sweetie, don’t be. You haven’t done anything wrong. You’re my angel.”

  All I’ve ever wanted is my Dad to be safe and happy, and possibly to become safe and happy myself. Instead, here we are: both with broken hearts, out of our league, deserted by our too-beautiful, too-good-to-be-true Wilde lovers.

  Why is love always so hard?

  Why are the Wildes so…wild?

  Maybe that’s what we get for playing with fire. For reaching for the stars. Normal little people like us aren’t meant to be with stars. Maybe we were destined to crash and burn.

  I lean my head against my Dad’s shoulder and he reaches his arm to hug me from the side. We sit in silence a moment, each of us thinking.

  “You know,” Dad says after a minute, “Life gets difficult sometimes, sweetheart. I’ve had so many experiences now, so many stories, that I sometimes forget to keep track of them all. But your experiences, your stories – they’re important. They help shape the person you are. And when you love someone, it’s very important to share who you are with them. Your stories. Your truth. That’s the mistake I made with Diana. I left some important things out. True love needs the truth. I didn’t give her enough of the truth. I was too afraid my bad luck would follow me, and now it has. That’s why it’s important to be brave, to give it everything you’ve got all the time and never hold back.”

  I process this.

  “But Dad, you didn’t lie or omit anything on purpose. It was an accident.”

  Like my pregnancy.

  Which, by the way, I haven’t told him about. Or anyone, besides Shereen, the doctor, and Remington.

  “Accidents still count,” Dad grunts. “Accidents can change everything.”

  I feel tears start to prick my eyes and swallow them down. God, he’s right. I know all about accidents changing everything.

  Suddenly I sit up, inspired.

  “Accidents aren’t the problem,” I say. “It’s how we handle them.”

  I’m having a freaking epiphany.

  I feel like a genius.

  This is an opportunity; not just for Dad to make things right with Diana, but for me to make some big, good decisions about the rest of my life. My story doesn’t have to be that I’m pregnant and abandoned and alone.

  My story can be whatever I make it.

  Eyes clear, I turn to my Dad.

  “Dad,” I say, “I want you to know no matter what happens, I’m proud of you. I’m proud of the fact that you loved someone enough to take a chance at a new life. And I’m proud of the fact that even when things go wrong, you’re trying to fix them.”

  “Thanks Kiki.”

  “I mean it. You should keep fighting for Diana, and I just want to say: if you’re afraid of sharing certain things with her because you’re worried about hurting me or disrespecting my Mom’s memory or anything like that – don’t worry.”

  My Dad’s eyes fill with tears. I take his hands.

  “I want you to be happy, Dad. And Mom would too. I think you and Diana are great together, and this is just a little bump in the road. You’ll find her, and work things out. I have faith in you guys.”

  Dad’s tears fall quietly down his cheeks as his face cracks into a smile. He pulls me into a bear hug.

  “You’re the best kid in the world,” he says, kissing my hair. “Thank you, Kiki. You’re right. I won’t give up yet.”

  “Good. Because it’s not over until it’s over.”

  Dad sighs and stands up. “You know what? You’re right. But I’m exhausted. I think I’ll go back to my rooms and see if Diana’s turned up, and if not, I’ll just crash for the night. Sleep solves a lot of problems. Goodnight, sweetheart. I love you.”

  “Goodnight Daddy. Love you too.”

  I watch him go, feeling both hopeful and sad. God damn it, it isn’t fair. It isn’t fair that Remington should mess up BOTH our love lives.

  Who the hell does he think he is?

  Most sexy eligible stepbrother in the world or not, he doesn’t have the right to hurt my Dad like this.

  Suddenly angry, I pick up my phone and type out a text:

  Your Mom is missing. Can’t find her anywhere. Worried. Please do something. My Dad is waiting at for her on North Island. Least you could do is try to fix the fucking mess you made.

  It’s the first message I’ve typed to Remington since before the Governor’s Ball, and I hesitate a good long moment debating whether or not I should send it. I stare at the words on the screen.

  Should I even bother asking him for help? Is it worth a try? Will he give a damn?

  It makes me feel even lonelier, knowing how quickly I could send him a message, how technology makes people so reachable – and how that only makes it worse when you don’t hear back.

  Will I hear back from Remington?

  Or will my message just echo through space, unanswered?

  You know what - it doesn’t matter. Right now it’s not about me. It’s about making my own story and taking some god damn action to take care of the people I love: myself, my Dad, Diana. Even Remington. They all need to deal with this problem and see it resolved.

  I send the message, hoping it will help to make things right with Dad and Diana.

  And then I get a little emo and throw the phone into the fire.

  Well, you know: pregnant. Hormones. Feelings.

  The plastic bubbles and curls, a bad smell puffing into the air and then disappearing on a tropical breeze. My phone blackens and cracks. I mean, it wasn’t even really my phone: Diana gave it to me to use on the island. But I am done with it. This way, I have control over whether or not I hear back from a stupid boy, and he doesn’t have the power to torture me by ghosting me. This way, it will be impossible for me to worry about getting a response from Remington.

  There probably won’t be one, anyway.

  Fuck fuck fuck fuck aghghhhhhhhhhh!

  I stare at the fire, the flames twirling and sparking in the tropical night like dancers. It’s like watching my own feelings on display: twisting, burning, exhausting themselves, disappearing into ash.

  Just like my feelings for Remington: burning so brightly, and coming to nothing.

  I slump back onto the couch and let myself cry.

  So my love affair with Remington Wilde, playboy and billionaire, has come to an end. Here I am, pregnant. But I refuse to let this be a sad ending for me. Even if I can’t have my man, I can still fight to have a good life. I can still make something good come out of this. I can still be a positive force.

  I just have to decide what to do.

  Thinking hurts, but it’s time to face all the facts. My staying here in this luxury resort in Africa isn’t a plan. It’s not going in any direction now that Remington is out of my imaginary future picture. If I stayed here in The Seychelles with Dad and Diana, revealing my pregnancy would only create more drama in the family, and that seems like the last thing they need. They need peace and calm if they’re going to have a chance at reconciliation.

  Because what if they don’t patch things up? What if they split up?

  My Dad would need my help again.

  And even if Dad and Diana can get things straightened out between them, they’ll still have a lot of healing and building to do together as newlyweds. They don’t need my shit, my crisis, and my pregnancy on top of it.

  If they were to fi
nd out about my pregnancy, that would destroy them. Especially if they found out that the father was Remington.

  UGH!

  There just isn’t a good time to tell your family you’re carrying your stepbrother’s baby.

  Drama drama drama ALL AROUND.

  I really, really hate drama.

  So, I think the best thing to do is…

  Leave.

  That’s it!

  I have to leave.

  I can go finish school. I can get back before classes and petition for accelerated study. I can follow up with Signore Amato and ask if he’ll put in a word for me with any orchestras, help me get a real music job. I can travel or something. Dad and Diana won’t even have to know about the baby until after I figure everything out.

  I can do this.

  I can totally do this. It’s not like it’s the first time I’ve dealt with a problem on my own.

  On my own…sounds so sad. But it’s kinda true. I’m basically alone.

  “Shereen?”

  Ok, maybe not completely alone. At least now I have some friends.

  And money.

  Oh yeah, the money! Oh thank god. That will so help. That solves so many problems already.

  “Oui, mon petite sirene?”

  Shereen, my assistant, my friend, my Seychelles guardian angel, appears in the doorway, holding a tray of cold lemonade and fruit and a couple of ice packs.

  God, she’s the best.

  “Shereen, is that little private jet busy tomorrow? The one that brought me here from the States?”

  Shereen raises her eyebrow skeptically. “I can find out. But why?”

  I take a glass of lemonade from her, thankful for the cool refreshment. It clears my head and makes me feel even more determined to make something good out of this bad situation.

  “Because I’m going back to Philadelphia,” I announce. “Back to school and networking and getting myself set up to be a real classical musician.”

  “Philadelphia?”

  Shereen sets the ice packs on my swollen ankles.

  Wow, I mean, I’m barely pregnant, and already I feel like a whale. The ice sure helps. Playing the cello will get very, very interesting very, very soon. Which is all the more reason I need to hurry up and do something useful.

  Now.

  Shereen sinks down to a chair, her eyes concerned. “Are you sure, Mademoiselle Veronique? But what about the baby? Will you keep it?”

  I sigh.

  I hadn’t actually decided for sure yet, but hearing Shereen’s question, I know without a doubt what I want to do.

  “Yes. I’m keeping it.”

  After all…even if Remington doesn’t love me, I loved him.

  It’s crazy, but it’s true – I have no idea how it happened. It still seems like something out of a dream, a fantasy, or maybe even a tabloid. But this pregnancy is the result of the wildest, craziest, sexiest, strangest adventure of my life. And I know the baby will be very special to me because I loved its father – loved him so much I took huge risks, leaps of faith, and nosedives. And I lived more fully this last month than I ever had before. Remington Wilde brought me to life, with all its extreme highs…and lows.

  And I love him for it.

  This is the first time I’ve admitted it to myself, but I know without a shadow of a doubt that it’s true; I know I love Remington because if I didn’t, it wouldn’t hurt so much to have to walk away.

  “It’ll be hard to be a single mom,” I say, “But thanks to Diana I won’t have to worry about money for a while – as long as she and my Dad stay together, anyway. But even besides the money, it feels like it’s just time for me to get on with my real life. Build my own story. My staying here wouldn’t help anyone.”

  Shereen nods slowly, and I can see her mind is whirling.

  “Are you sure, Mademoiselle?”

  I’m glad she asked. It gives me another chance to think, to check in with myself. And I come up feeling strong.

  “Yes. I’m sure. I’m starting my own, new life. Tomorrow.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Remington Wilde

  Victoria

  I’m in the middle of a meeting with the Wilde Hospitality Corp. board of directors when my phone buzzes. Normally I’d ignore it, but the name catches my eye: it’s Veronique. A spike of hope shoots through my blood.

  Maybe she’s ready to give me another chance.

  Opening the message, my hope is quickly replaced with concern.

  Your Mom is missing. Can’t find her anywhere. Worried. Please do something. My Dad is waiting at for her on North Island. Least you could do is try to fix the fucking mess you made.

  Missing?

  Diana Wilde is not the kind of woman to just disappear, to run away from a fight. Something is wrong.

  As if that were not enough, it’s clear Veronique isn’t feeling any more forgiving of me. Her words leap out at me from the text, haunting me: Least you could do is try to fix the fucking mess you made.

  Damn it, she’s right.

  There she goes again, making me want to be a better man. None of this would have happened if I had behaved better, if I hadn’t undermined my mother’s decision about Jacques and hired a detective to dig up his dirt. If anyone has the responsibility to try to fix this problem, it’s me.

  “Excuse me,” I say, dismissing myself from the meeting.

  Within a few moments I am pacing in my private office like a man on a mission. I am on a mission. I have to fix this problem between my mother and Jacques. And then, hopefully, I’ll have more ground to stand on with Veronique.

  I try to call my mother, just to check, but of course it goes straight to voicemail. She has switched off her mobile. Her assistant doesn’t answer, either.

  When Diana Wilde wants something, she gets it. Even when what she wants is to disappear.

  So I try Veronique, but Veronique is also not answering her phone either.

  “Dammit!”

  Why do women make things so complicated? Why can’t they just answer their mobiles?

  Three calls. Five.

  I resort to texting Veronique, desperate for more information.

  Have you checked Governor’s Mansion?

  Asked Alice?

  Asked Mathilde, her maid?

  Is Jacque ok?

  Where are you?

  After twenty minutes it’s clear Veronique is just either not by her phone anymore, or choosing not to answer. Which I would understand, given the situation. But it doesn’t seem likely. Something must have happened.

  God, Veronique must be worried. She must be terrified. She must be concerned about her Dad, questioning the safety of his future, wondering how to take care of him and solve everything.

  All because I was a dick.

  Again.

  I feel terrible. The last thing I wanted to do was make Veronique’s life even harder after all the nonsense I’ve put her through the other day in our conversation about her being pregnant. I still haven’t even apologized for the way I handled her news, and now I’ve gone and thrown her whole support system into chaos.

  I have to fix this.

  Not just for my mother, but for Veronique.

  I lean against my desk, thinking fast. Veronique and Jacque know enough about my mother’s holiday habits to have probably looked at all her favorite haunts: the beach, the sail boat, the Governor’s Mansion, the main resort.

  They don’t know about her favorite retreat in times of stress.

  But I do.

  I toss my useless phone on the desk, giving up on Apple and Google. They can’t help me now. Technology can’t help me now: this is a problem that I’ll have to solve face-to-face.

  There’s a bicycle leaning on the front of the office building, and I hop on without even caring whose it is – I’ll return it later. Now I find myself speeding down the hill of Victoria town, the salt air whipping against my face, the tropical night cool whizzing by like a mist.

  It doesn’t take
me long to get to the part of Victoria where the craft market meets during the day. In the evening the booths are quieter. I hop off my bike and walk past the booths selling tropical fruit, exotic spices, tiny souvenirs, French lavender, English tea, and pictures of Seychelles sea turtles. Even though it’s getting late, some tourists are still milling around.

  I walk through the hubbub and straight to a small booth in one of the more abandoned sections of the market, a cloth tent selling dried fish. A chubby woman is sitting at the front, and she nods at me as I approach.

  “Remington,” she says, recognizing me instantly.

  “Aunt Helene,” I greet her.

  My Aunt Helene is not a true blood aunt, but her family grew up working for my mother’s family, and the two women were the same age. She has always been my mom’s best friend, in spite of their different circumstances. She’s always the first one my mom runs to in times of crisis.

  “Where is she?” I ask.

  “Upstairs,” says Helene. “Don’t say anything stupid, boy. You are walking on eggshells.”

  “Yes, I know,” I say. “Merci.”

  Leaning my bike against the tent, I pass through to the back where rickety wooden steps lead up to a small upper room in the building behind the market, where Helene lives.

  And there she is, Diana Wilde, one of the richest women in the world. She is sitting on the dirty floor, cleaning fish. It almost makes me chuckle. She is in Helene’s clothes, looking frumpy and lost and completely disguised from the powerful, put-together Diana Wilde the world is used to. Now she looks like a normal townie, tired and busy.

  “What are you doing?” I say.

  She doesn’t even look up at the sound of my voice.

  “What does it look like I’m doing,” she hisses. “Have you gone blind as well as dumb? I’m cleaning fish.”

  Yup. She’s definitely still mad.

  Shit.

  I don’t even know what to say at first. So I just sit down on the floor next to her, watching her for a few minutes. Her hands work steadily, and after a while I see a pattern to her work, a sort of meditative calm. This is her self-therapy: cleaning fish.