Submit to My Billionaire Stepbrother

I barely slept that night, replaying the kiss over and over in my mind. The momentary softness of Nate's lips, the way he'd hesitated before pushing me away—it gave me a dangerous kind of hope that I couldn't extinguish no matter how hard I tried.

Morning arrived with harsh sunlight streaming through my curtains. I dressed with unusual care, selecting a modest blue blouse and pencil skirt that made me look older, more professional. More worthy, perhaps, of being taken seriously.

I could hear voices as I approached the dining room—Mom's light laughter, Richard's deep baritone, and the cool, controlled tenor that made my heart skip. Nate was already at breakfast.

I hesitated in the doorway, suddenly unsure. After last night's confrontation, how was I supposed to act? Normal? Apologetic? Defiant?

Nate solved the problem by completely ignoring me as I slid into my seat. He was immaculate in a charcoal suit, scrolling through his phone with one hand while lifting a coffee cup with the other. Not a flicker of acknowledgment crossed his face.

"Good morning, sweetheart," Mom said, passing me the orange juice. "You look nice today."

"Thanks," I murmured, stealing another glance at Nate. Nothing. It was as if last night had never happened.

Richard lowered his newspaper, his eyes crinkling with what passed for warmth in the Blackwood household. "Emily, I've been thinking. You're studying business management, aren't you?"

"Yes, sir," I replied, straightening slightly. Richard rarely addressed me directly.

"Well, it seems to me that some practical experience would be valuable. What would you think about interning at Blackwood Enterprises? Nate's division could use some fresh blood, couldn't it, son?"

The room went still. My breath caught in my throat as Nate slowly looked up from his phone, his expression unreadable. His eyes flicked to me for a fraction of a second, then back to his father.

"I don't think that would be appropriate," he said, his voice flat and cold.

"Why not?" Richard frowned. "The girl needs experience. It would look good on her resume."

"My department isn't a charity case for family members," Nate replied, setting down his coffee cup with deliberate precision. "I hire based on merit, not nepotism."

The words sliced through me like a blade. I felt heat rush to my face as three pairs of eyes turned in my direction.

"I'm sure Emily is quite capable," Mom interjected quickly, her smile strained. "But perhaps another division might be more suitable?"

"Or another company entirely," Nate added, standing abruptly. "I have meetings all morning. Excuse me."

He left without another glance, the tension in the room thick enough to choke on.

"Well," Richard said after an uncomfortable silence, "perhaps we'll revisit this another time."

I nodded mechanically, but inside I was seething. The humiliation burned like acid in my stomach. How dare he dismiss me like that? Without even considering that I might actually be qualified, that I might actually have something to contribute?

I finished breakfast quickly, muttering excuses about a study group, and hurried out to my car. I knew Nate's schedule—a pathetic admission, but true. He always left for work at precisely 8:15, which gave me just enough time to intercept him.

I positioned myself near the exit of the underground garage, my heart pounding as I waited. Minutes later, the sleek black Aston Martin appeared, slowing as it approached the ramp.

I stepped directly into its path, forcing Nate to brake sharply. His expression through the windshield was thunderous as he recognized me. For a moment, I thought he might simply accelerate around me, but instead, the driver's window slid down silently.

"Move," he commanded, those blue eyes glacial.

"Why did you do that?" I demanded, stepping closer to the car. "Why humiliate me in front of your father?"

"I don't have time for this, Emily."

"Make time," I shot back, surprising myself with my boldness. "You didn't even consider it. You just shut me down completely. Why?"

Nate's jaw tightened. "Because you're not qualified."

"You don't know that! I'm top of my class. I've been studying business since—"

"That's not the qualification I'm referring to," he cut in, his voice dangerously low. "You lack the emotional discipline required in my world. You proved that last night."

I flinched, but refused to back down. "I can do whatever the job requires. I can be professional. I can separate personal feelings from work."

Something shifted in his expression—a flicker of interest, perhaps, or amusement at my audacity.

"Anything?" he repeated, the word carrying a weight I couldn't quite decipher.

"Yes," I insisted, stepping even closer. "I can do anything the other interns do. Probably better."

Nate's eyes traveled over me slowly, deliberately, in a way that made heat bloom across my skin. "Anything at all?"

The atmosphere between us changed, charged with something electric and dangerous. I suddenly realized what I'd said, how it could be interpreted, but instead of backtracking, I doubled down.

"Yes," I whispered, holding his gaze. "Anything."

His lips curved into a smile that was neither kind nor gentle. "You have no idea what you're offering, little Carter."

"I'm not little," I snapped, frustration and desire making me reckless. "And I'm sick of watching you parade women through our house like they're disposable. All those women, and none of them seem to satisfy you for more than a night."

I'd gone too far. I knew it the moment the words left my mouth. Nate's expression hardened, and in one fluid motion, he was out of the car, towering over me, backing me against the concrete wall of the garage.

"You're jealous," he stated, not a question but an accusation. His hand came up to grip my chin, forcing me to look at him. "A child playing at adult games."

"I'm not a child," I whispered, my pulse racing at his proximity. To prove my point—to prove something to both of us—I reached for his free hand and boldly placed it against my breast.

Time suspended. Nate's eyes widened fractionally, his fingers reflexively curving against the soft flesh beneath my blouse. I could feel my nipple hardening against his palm, my body betraying how desperately I wanted this—wanted him.

"This is what you want?" he asked, his voice a rough whisper. "To be like those women?"

"No," I answered truthfully, my courage surging from some unknown place. "I want to be the only woman."

Something dark and hungry flashed across his face, his hand still pressed against me, neither retreating nor advancing. We stood frozen in that moment, balanced on the knife's edge between propriety and sin, between rejection and surrender.

And in his eyes, I saw the first crack in his perfect armor—a glimpse of the desire he'd been fighting all along.