Page 2 of The Billionaire's Obsession

Do you know what it’s like growing up with a stepsister who looks like Isabel? When our parents got married, she was just fifteen years old and I was already twenty-five, an age where I thought I’d be more mature, but in her presence, I felt anything but. I vividly remember the discomfort that washed over me the first time we met. She was so strikingly beautiful for her age, with a grace that belied her youth. I’d come over for dinner, trying to play the role of the supportive older sibling, but as the evening wore on, I found myself retreating to the room they had prepared for me. I often stayed the night, and each time, I would hide away, feeling an overwhelming urge to avoid any accidental encounters with her, especially in her pajamas. The thought of it made my heart race. I could already see hints of her well-developed chest, and a flood of anxiety washed over me. What if she wasn’t wearing a bra? What if I caught a glimpse of those curvy girls bouncing free, without any restraint? The mere idea sent a shiver down my spine, and I didn’t know if I’d be able to handle myself if faced with such a temptation.

I had managed to restrain myself from indulging in any explicit thoughts about Isabel until she reached the legal age of eighteen.It was a grueling three years, a test of patience and self-control, but I was adamant about respecting her boundaries. That fateful night, when I finally allowed myself to succumb to the desires I had harbored for so long, I climaxed with an intensity that left me feeling both ashamed and relieved. God, she was stunning with her voluptuous figure and radiant beauty.

There were a couple of family vacations that my father had arranged, during which Isabel would emerge in a bathing suit that left little to the imagination. I remember having to hurriedly excuse myself on more than one occasion in a desperate attempt to conceal the awkward and untimely erection that had taken me by surprise. I would then retreat to the sanctuary of my hotel room, where I would watch pornography featuring big, beautiful women, trying my utmost to prevent my thoughts from drifting towards Isabel as I sought release. The struggle was real, but I was determined to maintain my resolve, even as the temptation grew ever stronger.

But when she turned eighteen, the dynamics shifted dramatically, morphing into a whole different story that I hadn’t anticipated. She was now considered fair game, having crossed the threshold into adulthood. Unfortunately, it seemed that she didn’t share the same sentiment about being free game. Despite the moral ambiguity of my actions, I found myself flirting with her, feeling a rush of exhilaration each time I did. There was a part of me that reveled in the thrill, devoid of any shame, but her reactions often told a different tale—she would push me away.

Every so often, she would allow me to draw closer, and in those fleeting moments, she would even flirt back, igniting a spark of hope within me. Yet, it felt as if there was an invisible barrier, a line etched in the sand that Isabel had carefully defined. Whenever I unintentionally crossed that line, she would pullback immediately, retreating as if she were a startled deer. I was left in a state of confusion, completely unaware of where that line lay or how to navigate it. All I knew was that, inevitably, when I did cross it, Isabel would vanish, leaving me behind in a cloud of uncertainty and longing.

So I dated around, exploring relationships with women who were a stark contrast to Isabel. I wasn’t entirely sure why I gravitated toward such different types, but I suspected it was because whenever I encountered a girl who mirrored my stepsister’s charm or wit, I couldn’t help but draw comparisons. It became painfully clear that none of them could hold a candle to her. Time and again, I found myself pushing them away, somehow managing to hurt their feelings in the process, and then I’d be left with a gnawing sense of guilt. It was simply easier to pursue girls who bore no resemblance to Isabel; with them, there was little risk of emotional entanglement. I could maintain the illusion of indifference, knowing they wouldn’t expect anything more from me.

I still can’t quite comprehend how I ended up at the same bar as Isabel tonight. It felt like a twist of fate, a sheer accident. A guy at work had casually mentioned the night’s entertainment—a wet t-shirt contest—while expressing his hopes of picking up one of the losers to offer her a thoughtfulconsolationprize. When my gaze finally fell upon Isabel across the dimly lit bar, about fifteen minutes before she noticed me, I found myself captivated, unable to tear my eyes away from her. The way she seemed to light up the room, radiating confidence and charm, brought back a rush of memories that I thought I had buried deep within me.

Isabel was there, effortlessly holding a conversation with her best friend Eliza amidst the lively chatter of the bar. However, Eliza's attention was divided. She kept turning around, hergaze fixed on the bartender, her body language radiating a determination to secure his notice. Eventually, her persistence paid off, leaving Isabel momentarily conversing with an inattentive companion.

Eliza was the kind of girl I often sought out in a futile attempt to distract myself from Isabel. She was slender, blonde, and I suspected she might have been a gymnast in her past, given her extraordinary flexibility. Her physical allure was undeniable and could reduce anyone to fantasizing about the possibilities she presented. Yet, there was a transient quality to her, not in terms of her physical presence, but rather her personality. It was as if she lacked the depth and substance that truly captivated me.

Isabel caught my eye after a few minutes, and I took that as an encouraging sign to walk over and say hello, as well as to stretch my flirtatious wings a bit. It had been a few weeks since I’d last seen her, and she looked as stunning as ever, with her radiant smile and that effortless charm that always drew me in. Too bad the moment was marred. Not just by Eliza, who seemed to be oblivious to the tension in the air, but also by an obnoxious idiot clutching a mug of beer, his determination palpable as he loudly proclaimed his hopes to see if Isabel would truly win the wet t-shirt contest if given the chance.

I have to admit, I was momentarily shocked into silence when I caught sight of her shirt clinging to her body like a second skin. I’d seen her curves before in far less clothing, and yet that familiarity did not lessen their allure; if anything, it heightened my fascination. The way the fabric accentuated her shape made my thoughts wander to more daring fantasies. I wanted nothing more than to peel that beer-soaked shirt off of her and lick her clean, to erase any remnants of the chaos surrounding us. But then, reality kicked back in. As the crowd began to turn, theirexcited cheers ringing out in support of my step-sister to win the contest, I instinctively stepped in front of her, positioning myself like a shield to guard her from their prying eyes. No one needed to see her stunning curves but me; they were a private treasure that should remain just that.

I glanced over my shoulder, intending to take off my shirt and offer it to her as a makeshift cover, but to my dismay, she had vanished into the crowd. Frustration surged through me, and in that heated moment, I did the only thing that seemed reasonable. I swung my fist, connecting squarely with the face of the man who had drenched her in beer. In that instant, I completely lost sight of my usual composure—my business attire and polished demeanor felt like a distant memory, and I certainly wasn’t invincible. I also failed to consider the raucous environment around me, a bar teeming with inebriated patrons who wouldn’t take kindly to my outburst.

His fist met my jaw in retaliation, and just like that, the situation escalated into an all-out brawl. The chaos erupted, fists flying and bodies colliding, as the adrenaline coursed through my veins. A good two minutes later, the bartender—Eliza, the very same woman I had noticed moments before—was forced to intervene. With an exasperated sigh, she stepped in to separate us, her eyes blazing with authority. As she handed me a bag full of ice for my bruising face, she leveled me with a stern warning: if I ever pulled a stunt like that again, I would find myself permanently unwelcome in her establishment.

3

ISABEL

The stale stench of beer and humiliation clung to me like a second skin as I fled from that bar, the neon lights fading behind me. Thank God I didn’t live too far away; the familiar route to my apartment stretched out ahead, lined with the shadows of trees and flickering street lamps. The walk back helped clear my head and dry out my shirt, each step crunching on the gravel underfoot, but it also ignited a simmering anger deep within me.

If Nicholas hadn’t come over to make fun of me, this whole mess probably wouldn’t have spiraled out of control. Eliza and I would have continued our conversation at the bar, lost in laughter and shared stories, and she would have likely left with the bartender when the clock struck closing time, after insisting he drive me home. That would have been that—no awkwardness, no drama. Nobody would have gotten hurt. That jerk, with his smug grin, probably wouldn’t have overheard Nicholas’s stupid jokes about me getting on stage, and he wouldn’t have felt the need to douse me in 95-calorie Michelob Ultra. Even the beer, with its low-calorie label, felt healthier than I did at that moment, a cruel reminder of how far I had fallen.

I let myself into my apartment, the door clicking shut behind me, and immediately peel off the t-shirt I had been wearing along with the skirt, tossing them into the small washer that the complex had crammed into my kitchen as an afterthought. At first, when I moved in, I was thrilled to have a washer at all; it felt like a luxury in my otherwise modest space. But now, I find myself meticulously planning when to do laundry. If I decide to whip up dinner, I can’t run the dryer because it heats up the kitchen to an unbearable level, triggering those annoying heat flashes that leave me feeling more uncomfortable than usual. It’s a whole thing, a delicate balancing act of domesticity.

As I walk around the house in just my bra and underwear, the familiar feeling of self-consciousness evaporates, leaving me with a sense of liberation since no one is around to witness my casual state. I make a beeline for the shower, turning the hot water knob all the way up, determined to wash away the remnants of the night and the embarrassing memory of the entire bar turning to gawk at the fat girl winning the wet t-shirt contest. It’s a thought that sends a shiver down my spine. I really hope Eliza stayed behind to collect our hard-earned winnings. God knows I wasn't going to stick around for that. I need this moment of solitude to cleanse not only my body but my mind as well.

Under the spray of the water, I permit myself to think about how good Nicholas looked tonight. It’s been a few weeks since I’ve seen him, and even longer since I’ve had the pleasure of seeing him in a fully tailored suit that hugged his broad shoulders and tapered perfectly at his waist. He must have come straight from work, the crispness of his attire a testament to his professionalism. I don't know how he manages the grind of the business world because, honestly, I would be bored out ofmy mind, but there’s no denying that the wardrobe suits him perfectly, accentuating every strong line of his physique.

Thinking about the way his chest fills out the suit sends a thrill through me, and before I know it, my hands begin to adventure down my body. They roam over my skin, rubbing my chest roughly, lingering there for just a moment longer as I gather my thoughts of him. I squeeze at the thickness of my thighs, imagining it's him doing it, his touch igniting a fire within me. Nicholas has this aura about him that suggests he’d be rough in bed, and in the fleeting moments that I toy with myself, pretending that it’s him, I grab and squeeze and play with myself the way that I think he would—each caress a tantalizing blend of desire and fantasy, making the mundane reality of the shower fade away.

My breath comes in short, shallow gasps as my fingers explore the slick, sudsy contours of my folds, and I can almost picture Nicholas undoing his jacket button by button, revealing the hard planes of his chest beneath. The tantalizing image is shattered, however, by the distant sound of knocking on the front door. My heart leaps into my throat, yanking me abruptly back to reality. Fear floods my veins, momentarily extinguishing the flames of desire that had been building within me.

Did Eliza not go home with the bartender?

A wave of concern washes over me, and I quickly shut off the water to the shower, straining my ears to hear if the mysterious visitor will knock again. For a few seconds, the only sounds are the gentle drip of water cascading off my skin and the hurried rhythm of my own breath, each inhale laced with anxiety. But then it comes again—the pounding knock from before, now more insistent and louder, reverberating through the stillness of the night.

“Hold on!” I yell, urgency propelling me into action. I need to get my ass out of the shower, dry off, and make it to the door before whoever it is decides to leave—or worse, break in. Who’s knocking on my door at midnight anyway? What could they possibly want at this hour? I curse under my breath as I grab my towel, hastily wrapping it around myself while racing through the drying-off process. Water droplets cling stubbornly to my skin, no doubt escaping my hurried attempts and splattering onto the floor, creating a small puddle that will soon saturate both my bathroom and living room. I can feel the adrenaline coursing through me as I sprint toward the front door, my heart pounding louder than the knock.

A third knock resonates through the air just as I’m a mere heartbeat away from my destination, and I swear under my breath again. If it’s Eliza and she’s forgotten her key once more, I swear I’m going to kick her ass all the way to next week. I press my eye against the peephole and catch a glimpse of a suited chest that stirs my imagination, but something about that face doesn’t sit right with me. It’s enough to make me take a step back, my instincts kicking in, and instead of telling him to screw off, I find myself unlocking the front door, curiosity overtaking my better judgment.

“Nicholas,” I gasp when I finally pull the door open wide, my heart racing as I take in his appearance, “what happened to you?”

He stands there, a stark contrast to the well-dressed man I’m used to seeing, sporting a black eye that’s only going to blossom into a more vivid bruise as time goes on, and a swollen lip that looks painfully fat. The bag of ice he must have received from the bar has melted into a puddle of water, dripping uselessly from his hand. As Nicholas flexes his punching hand, I notice thestate of his knuckles—brutally swollen and smeared with fresh blood. “I told you you’d win the wet t-shirt contest. Good job, by the way,” he manages to joke, though the forced levity barely conceals the wince that flashes across his face, a testament to whatever ordeal he’s just endured.

I usher him inside, closing the door firmly behind him with a sense of urgency. “What happened after I left? Let me get you an ice pack,” I say, trying to mask my concern with practicality. Nicholas has always been a hothead, prone to fiery outbursts, but it genuinely surprises me that he resorted to punching somebody. He’s not the fighting type; he’s the ‘ruin your company’ type, always armed with sharp words rather than fists. But I suppose he didn’t know much about the guy who threw the beer on me, so I guess he did what he could with what little he understood of the situation.

“Cozy little place you have here, Isabel,” he calls out from the living room, which is just around a wall from the kitchen, his voice attempting to sound lighthearted despite the pain etched on his face.

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