When her mother marries a billionaire businessman, nineteen-year-old Lauren Parker is forced into a new life filled with private jets, penthouse rules, and one impossible housemate-Ronan Pitts, her cold and arrogant new stepbrother. He's everything she's not: rich, emotionally guarded, and painfully attractive. From the moment they meet, sparks fly-but not the good kind. Ronan wants nothing to do with her, and Lauren is determined to keep her distance. But the more they're thrown together, the harder it becomes to deny the tension simmering beneath the surface. Living under the same roof, desire turns dangerous, and boundaries blur. Secrets unravel and emotions spiral, Lauren finds herself torn between what's right... and what her heart wants most. She knows falling for him is wrong, but some temptations are too strong to resist.
Chapter 1 1
Lauren
I hated airports. The noise, the lines, the fact that they always smelled like over-brewed coffee and jet fuel. But most of all, I hated what this one represented- goodbye to everything I knew.
I tightened my grip on my suitcase handle as I stepped into the arrival terminal of JFK, blinking against the fluorescent lights. My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I fished it out, already knowing who it would be.
Mom: Ronan is waiting outside. Be nice, okay?
I rolled my eyes and didn't bother replying.
Be nice.
As if I was the one who needed that reminder.
I stepped through the sliding glass doors and scanned the crowd. It didn't take long to spot him. Leaning against a sleek black Mercedes, arms crossed, designer sunglasses hiding half his face- Ronan Pitts looked exactly like the kind of guy who knew he was better than you.
Tall. Sharp jawline. Dressed in black from head to toe like he was headed to a fashion show or a funeral. Maybe both.
He didn't wave. Didn't move. Just gave me a once-over and turned to open the passenger door.
Charming.
Dragging my suitcase behind me, I approached the car and forced a smile. "Hey. Thanks for picking me up."
"You're late," he said without looking at me.
Okay, so that's how it was going to be.
I slid into the leather seat and shut the door, biting back a snarky reply. This wasn't just a ride-it was the start of my new life, and I wasn't about to let Ronan Pitts ruin it before it even began.
But as the car pulled away from the curb, silence thick between us, I couldn't ignore the way his jaw clenched when our arms accidentally brushed. Or how my heart stuttered just a little too hard in my chest. This was going to be a problem. A big one.
I didn't sleep well that night. Maybe it was the too-soft pillows, or maybe it was the strange silence that filled the mansion after dark- like it was holding its breath. But most likely, it was Ronan's words echoing in my head.
"You're not my sister."
What did that even mean?
He didn't say it like he hated the idea of a sibling. He said it like... like it was something else. Something I couldn't name yet.
I finally drifted off sometime after three, only to be jolted awake at seven by sunlight blazing through the windows. I groaned and pulled the blankets over my head. Jet lag was evil.
Downstairs, the smell of coffee lured me to the kitchen. My mom and Gregory were already gone for the day, probably off to meetings and brunches and whatever billionaires did on a Tuesday. The housekeeper, Marta, smiled warmly and handed me a plate with toast and eggs. I thanked her and sat at the marble island.
Ronan was already there, dressed in a gray hoodie and black joggers, casually scrolling through his phone like he hadn't shattered my sense of normal the night before.
He didn't look up as he spoke. "Sleep okay, princess?"
I narrowed my eyes at him. "Did you just call me princess?"
"If the tiara fits."
"I should throw this toast at your head."
"Please. At least throw something gluten-free."
I blinked, then laughed-before I could stop myself. His smirk grew a fraction wider.
Was he being... nice?
"You always this annoying in the morning?" I asked.
"Only when I'm forced to share breakfast with someone who drinks coffee with too much sugar."
I looked down at my cup. "It's called personality."
"It's called a blood sugar spike."
I shook my head, grinning despite myself. "You know, you were a lot colder at the airport."
He set his phone down and finally looked at me. "You surprised me."
"By existing?"
"By not being a brat," he said simply.
"Well, the week is young," I muttered, sipping my sugary coffee.
Something passed between us then-a flicker of something I didn't want to name. Chemistry. Tension. A beat too long of eye contact. Whatever it was, it made my pulse trip over itself.
Ronan stood abruptly, grabbing his mug. "I've got training."
"Training?"
He nodded. "Boxing."
Of course. The brooding bad boy boxes. I should've guessed.
"Are you good?"
He shot me a look. "Come find out."
My eyes widened. "Was that a challenge or a threat?"
"Both." He was smiling, just slightly, as he disappeared through the side door.
And just like that, he was gone again-leaving behind a silence that felt anything but empty.
Later that afternoon, I wandered the house, trying not to feel like I was trespassing in someone else's world. Every hallway was immaculate, every piece of furniture probably cost more than my entire tuition bill.
I found a piano room, a gym, even a sunroom filled with plants that looked way too healthy to be real.
And then, as I turned a corner, I heard the dull rhythm of fists meeting pads.
Curiosity tugged me toward the gym. There he was. Ronan. Shirtless, gloved, focused. He moved like he was made of muscle and precision, sweat dripping down his back as he landed punch after punch on a padded target held by a grizzled trainer.
I should've left. I should've turned around. But I didn't... I watched... And when he finally noticed me, he didn't stop.
He just smirked. "Enjoying the show?"
I flushed. "Just... exploring."
"Right." He pulled off the gloves and walked over, grabbing a towel. His chest rose and fell with every breath, and my brain short-circuited just a little.
"You're staring," he said.
"No, I'm judging your footwork."
He chuckled. "Cute."
I crossed my arms. "So what's your deal, Ronan?"
"My deal?"
"You act like you don't care about anything, but you clearly care about some things. Like boxing. Like... whatever this whole moody rich boy persona is."
He stepped closer. Not intimidatingly. Just... close.
"My deal," he said, voice lower now, "is that I don't let people in unless they've earned it."
"And have I?"
He looked at me for a long time. Too long.
"No," he said, and left again-like he hadn't just dropped a live wire at my feet.
I was halfway through a late-night Netflix binge when someone knocked on my bedroom door.
I paused the movie and padded over in my socks, cracking the door open to find Ronan leaning against the frame, a glass of something amber in his hand.
"Don't worry, it's just apple juice," he said with a half-smile. "Figured you could use a nightcap."
I opened the door wider. "Trying to be nice now?"
"I'm complicated."
"No kidding."
He glanced over my shoulder at the movie paused on the screen. "You watching The Notebook?"
"I needed something to balance out all the testosterone in this house."
He hesitated. "Can I come in?"
I blinked. "Seriously?"
He raised both brows. "I don't bite."
I stepped aside, heart pounding. "Fine. But no mocking Ryan Gosling."
"No promises."
He sat on the edge of my bed like it was the most normal thing in the world. I stayed near the window, keeping space between us. It felt safer. Or maybe more dangerous. I wasn't sure.
"So," I said, breaking the silence. "Why do you hate this so much?"
"This?"
"Me. Us. The whole step-sibling thing."
He didn't answer right away. Just stared into his glass like it held answers.
"I don't hate you," he said finally. "I just wasn't expecting you. And I don't like change."
I nodded slowly. "Same."
Another pause. Another moment that stretched too long.
"I shouldn't be here," he said, standing abruptly.
"Then why are you?"
He looked at me like he didn't know either.
And then he left.
Again.
But this time, he lingered at the door. "Goodnight, Lauren."
My heart stuttered.
"Goodnight, Ronan."
And when the door closed behind him, I knew one thing for sure: This wasn't just a bad idea.It was the kind of bad idea you didn't come back from.
The rest of the week passed in a blur of awkward dinners, polite small talk with the house staff, and near-silent encounters with Ronan. He was like a shadow- always just around the corner, always watching, but never truly there.
On Thursday night, I heard music. Soft, low, the kind of melody that wrapped around your ribs and squeezed gently. I followed the sound barefoot down the hall, drawn like a moth to a flame.
It led me to a room I hadn't explored yet. Inside was a baby grand piano, sleek and black and beautiful. And sitting at it, hunched slightly with his head tilted in thought, was Ronan.
He played like he wasn't trying to impress anyone. Just letting his fingers tell a story only he could hear.
I stood in the doorway, unmoving, breath caught in my throat.
When he finished, he didn't look up.
"How long were you there?" he asked quietly.
"Long enough to realize you're full of surprises."
He turned his head just enough to glance at me, something unreadable in his expression.
"You play?" he asked.
"A little. Mostly when I'm sad."
"That why you're here now?"
I hesitated. "Maybe
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