Becky Rivera stood in front of the floor-length mirror, frowning at the reflection.
The black dress clung to her body like second skin—strapless, with a sharp slit that flirted with scandal. It was elegant, sure, but in a way that felt like she was playing dress-up in someone else's world.
Her world wasn't cashmere throws and Bordeaux wine and penthouse views. It was cheap takeout, thrift store jackets, and walking barefoot in college dorm halls.
Now, she was expected to play the role of a polished adult. Ethan's stepdaughter. Whatever that meant.
She wasn't even sure why she agreed to this.
Actually—she knew.
Because he'd asked.
Or rather, he'd said it as a statement over breakfast.
"I need you at a dinner I'm hosting Friday night. It's professional, formal. Wear something appropriate."
No please. No question. Just expectation wrapped in a well-tailored suit.
Her mother would be out of town for a business retreat, of course. So it would be just Becky, Ethan, and six of his cold-eyed associates. Probably discussing concrete ratios and steel beams and whatever else architects obsessed over.
Still, something inside her refused to say no.
Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was spite.
Or maybe… it was because she wanted to see how he looked when he wasn't just her mother's husband—but the man everyone else respected.
Ethan Cross, forty-one, stood exactly six feet tall. Hair always perfectly combed back, streaked faintly at the temples with gray that somehow made him hotter, not older. His face was clean-shaven, strong-jawed, every expression calculated but rarely warm.
He was brilliant. Rigid. Obsessively private.
And yet, there were moments—quiet ones—where she caught a flicker of something else.
And that terrified her.
She slipped on a pair of nude heels and walked into the dining area where he was already pouring wine into six long-stemmed glasses.
He turned.
And stared.
Not long. Just two seconds.
But Becky caught it—his eyes trailing down the silhouette of the dress, the exposed collarbone, the curve of her waist.
He said nothing, of course.
Just cleared his throat and handed her a bottle. "Can you place this on the center of the table?"
She took it with a slow smirk. "No compliment? Not even a 'you clean up well, kid'?"
He leveled her with a look. "You already know you look good."
Her breath caught for just a second. Not because of the words—but because of how he said them. Like he wasn't supposed to say them at all.
The doorbell rang.
Ethan's entire posture changed—shoulders straighter, jaw set, a politician sliding into his public skin.
Becky stepped back into the kitchen as he opened the door to a trio of sharply dressed professionals. Laughter, air kisses, and casual talk of quarterly profits filled the air.
Over the next fifteen minutes, the rest of his guests arrived. Men in tailored blazers, women in heels and sleek buns, all exuding the kind of money that didn't need to brag. Becky floated between them like a ghost. She shook hands, smiled too tightly, and poured wine when prompted.
Ethan introduced her with the same monotone politeness he reserved for weather reports.
"This is Rebecca. My wife's daughter."
No warmth. No pride. Just the facts.
Becky bit her cheek to keep from rolling her eyes.
Dinner began with champagne toasts and talk about the latest urban project Ethan's firm was bidding on—a multimillion-dollar community design that would span seven city blocks. Becky listened quietly, poking at her steak, her mind drifting.
Across from her, a woman named Celeste—a corporate executive in a glossy green sheath dress—leaned closer to Ethan with every minute. She laughed at his dry humor. Touched his wrist. Talked like they were the only two people in the room.
Becky hated her instantly.
She hated how Ethan allowed it, too.
Like it didn't matter that his stepdaughter was watching.
Becky drained her second glass of wine.
Then her third.
Halfway through dessert, someone asked her what she did.
"I'm studying literature," she said, dabbing her lips with a cloth napkin. "But I'm considering switching to architecture, since apparently it makes people unbearably smug."
The table went quiet.
Ethan looked at her slowly. "Rebecca."
Becky lifted her wineglass. "What? I'm just saying—no offense to all the brilliant minds here—but listening to people argue over door frames and window angles for an hour is a special kind of hell."
Nervous laughter rippled around the table.
Celeste raised an eyebrow. "I take it you're not a fan of your stepfather's work?"
Becky turned to her, sweetly venomous. "I'm a fan of modesty. But hey—maybe I just don't get the genius of minimalism."
Ethan's voice was calm, but firm. "Rebecca. That's enough."
She stood abruptly. "You're right. It is."
And with that, she left the table, the scrape of her chair echoing like thunder in the glass-walled space.
She walked down the hall, into the guest bathroom, and locked the door behind her.
She leaned against the sink and let the shame settle in.
What the hell was wrong with her?
Why did she care who Ethan talked to?
Why did her heart pound like she'd just been betrayed?
She stared at her reflection.
Messy, flushed, too much emotion in her eyes.
A knock came at the door.
It wasn't a guest's knock.
It was his.
"Rebecca."
She opened it after a beat.
Ethan stood there, calm but tight-lipped.
"What was that?" he asked quietly.
Becky scoffed. "Don't pretend you didn't love every second of it. You finally got to see me play the embarrassment card. The unstable college girl in the corner."
"I invited you here because I thought you could handle a formal dinner."
"Well, maybe don't expect so much from someone who was never supposed to be part of your life," she snapped. "You don't even want me here."
He didn't flinch.
"That's not true."
She laughed bitterly. "Then what is, Ethan? You barely talk to me unless it's to give a rule. You avoid eye contact like I'm radioactive. You act like I'm intruding when you're the one who married into my family."
He exhaled slowly. "It's complicated."
"Try me."
Silence stretched.
Then he stepped closer—too close.
"I married your mother because I needed something stable. Calm. I didn't expect you—a whirlwind who pushes every button I've got. You're not simple, Becky. And I'm tired of pretending I don't see it."
Becky's voice dropped. "Then stop pretending."
His eyes locked on hers. Intense. Unreadable.
Their faces were inches apart. The tension—thick, dangerous.
She could feel his breath.
Then someone called from the dining room. "Ethan?"
He blinked. Stepped back.
"Go get some air," he said roughly. "I'll handle the guests."
She didn't argue.
She didn't even look back.
---
The balcony was cool, the city alive beneath her feet. Becky leaned against the glass railing, her skin humming, her wine buzz fading into something sharper.
She didn't know how to name it.
Shame? Confusion? Desire?
All she knew was that Ethan Cross—her stepfather by marriage—had looked at her like a man at war with himself.
And it had nearly unraveled her.
He joined her ten minutes later, a tumbler of scotch in hand.
The city lights lit his face in gold and shadow.
"I told them you weren't feeling well," he said. "They've left."
Becky stared straight ahead. "Did you tell them I was an ungrateful brat, too?"
"No."
Silence again.
She finally turned to him.
"I didn't mean what I said at dinner. About your work."
"I know."
"You're brilliant. Even if you're impossible."
He smirked faintly. "You're not exactly a walk in the park."
She smiled—just barely. "Still want me living here?"
His answer was immediate.
"Yes."
Her heart skipped.
"Why?"
He looked at her, serious. "Because the silence was worse before you came."
And then he walked inside, leaving her alone on the balcony, breathless.
---