The stepbrother I shouldn't want

Chapter 18: Chapter 18: Father’s Anger

James walked past me into the office like I was furniture.

I stood frozen in the hallway, my back pressed against the wall, my heart hammering so hard I was sure he could hear it. He didn’t look back. He moved toward Lucian with the single-minded focus of a man who had finally found the target he’d been hunting.

"Half a million dollars, Lucian," James said. His voice was controlled. That was worse than shouting. "Three accountants. All saying the same thing. The money went to accounts that trace back to you."

I pressed closer to the wall. The paint was cool against my spine. Through the cracked door, I could see Lucian standing by his desk, his face pale, his shoulders rigid.

"It’s a temporary transfer," Lucian said. The same low, controlled tone he used when he was building walls. "Client reimbursement."

"A client that doesn’t exist."

Paper slapped against wood.

"Dates going back six months. Your name on every withdrawal. What the hell is happening to you?"

I bit my lip, tasting copper. I should have run. Every instinct told me to. But my feet had rooted themselves to the carpet.

"Eliora," James said, not turning around. "Go home. This doesn’t concern you."

I didn’t move. I couldn’t.

"She’s not the one you’re angry with," Lucian said.

"Don’t tell me who I’m angry with." James’s voice cracked. "I’m looking at my son, the son I gave everything to, and I’m seeing a thief."

The word landed like a gunshot.

I flinched.

"I’m not a thief," Lucian said. Quiet. Dangerous. "You want to know where the money went? Ask yourself why you never noticed I was drowning. Why you never asked about the bruises. Why you handed me an office and a title and never once asked if I was okay."

"Don’t turn this on me," James snapped. "This is about missing company funds. This is about betrayal."

"This is about you seeing exactly what you want to see." Lucian’s voice rose. "You gave me cars, James. Offices. Money. You never gave me your time. Not after Mom died. Not ever. So don’t stand there and act shocked that I found other ways to survive."

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Then James, quieter, said, "I don’t understand you at all."

"No," Lucian said. "You don’t."

James turned. He walked toward the door, his face a thundercloud, his phone clenched in his hand. He paused when he saw me still standing there.

"Go home," he said again.

But this time his voice was different. Tired. Broken.

"Please."

He walked past me toward the elevator. I didn’t breathe until the doors swallowed him.

⸻

I stayed pressed against that wall long after the elevator doors had closed, my pulse refusing to slow. Somewhere behind me, down the hallway, phones kept ringing and printers kept humming, the ordinary sounds of an office that had no idea it had just watched a family come apart.

I thought about walking away. I thought about James’s face, how it had looked less like anger and more like grief wearing anger’s clothes. I thought about how easily thief had come out of his mouth, like he’d been holding the word ready for months, waiting for permission to use it.

I slipped back into the office instead.

Lucian stood at the window, his palms pressed against the glass, his head bowed. His shoulders shook, not with tears, but with something harder. Something that looked like a man trying to hold himself together with bare hands.

"Lucian," I whispered.

He spun around. His eyes were red-rimmed, his jaw clenched. When he saw me, something fractured. He crossed the room in two strides and pulled me against him, hard.

"I heard everything," I said into his chest.

His heart hammered against my cheek.

"I told you to go home."

"I couldn’t leave."

He pulled back, his hands framing my face. His thumbs were rough against my cheekbones.

"You shouldn’t have heard that. You shouldn’t see this."

"See what?" I grabbed his wrists. "See you? The real you? I’m tired of only getting pieces, Lucian. Tell me what the money was for. Tell me why you’re drowning."

"I can’t."

"Why not?"

"Because if I tell you..." His voice broke. He dropped his forehead to mine, his breath hot and ragged. "If I tell you, you’ll look at me like he does. Like I’m broken. Like I’m something to fix."

I looked up at him.

"I don’t want to fix you. I want to know you."

His mouth crashed into mine.

It wasn’t gentle. It was desperate, hungry, like he was trying to burn an apology into my skin. I gasped against his lips, my hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer.

For a few seconds, the office and the numbers and his father vanished. There was only the heat of him, the taste of coffee and regret, the way his fingers dug into my hips like he was afraid I’d disappear.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against mine. His breath was shaky.

"I can’t tell you yet," he whispered. "But I will. I promise."

"Don’t promise me things you can’t keep."

"I’m keeping you," he said. "That’s the only thing I know right now."

My phone buzzed.

I ignored it.

"Talk to your father," I said. "Before he finds whatever he’s looking for."

Lucian nodded, but his eyes were distant. He walked me to the door, his hand on my back.

"I’ll call you tonight."

"Don’t lie to me again."

He stopped. For a second, he looked like he wanted to say something real. Something true. His mouth opened, his eyes softened.

Then the moment passed.

I stepped into the hallway. I walked toward the elevator, my heart hammering, my lips still tingling from his mouth.

The elevator dinged.

The doors opened.

A girl stood inside.

Young. Dark hair. Familiar eyes that hit me like a memory I couldn’t place. She was holding a backpack, her face streaked with tears, her hands trembling around the strap.

She looked at me. Then past me, toward Lucian’s office.

"Is he here?" she asked, her voice small and wrecked. "Is Lucian here?"

I stared at her, recognition dawning slow and terrible.

Amara.

Noah’s little sister.

And from the look on her face, she knew something that was about to change everything.

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