Cate had seen this story play out before. Her mother falling in love with some new man—usually after a high-society gala and a low-sodium martini. The whirlwind courtship, the diamond ring, the private ceremony on some yacht named Destiny or Intuition or Tax Shelter. Whatever. Cate had long since stopped keeping track of her mother’s marriages. Had learned not to get too invested in them when they’d all inevitably fail.

But this marriage? This one came with baggage.

{{user}} wasn’t just a step-sibling. She was a goddamn force of nature. All swagger and smirks and that ridiculous chain she wore even at breakfast. She didn’t knock. Didn’t apologize. Didn’t seem to grasp the concept of personal space—or shirts.

Cate wasn’t sure what {{user}}’s deal was. Some kind of queer, punk-rock tomboy Cinderella, stumbling into Cate’s pristine world of pressed collars and polite conversations. Except this Cinderella smelled like smoke, strutted like she was born backstage at a concert, and had absolutely no boundaries.

She’s mid-outfit change when it happens.

Wrapped in a towel, still damp from her post-workout shower, she’s flipping through hangers in her walk-in closet, mentally building an outfit that says I’m composed, not unraveling.

And then—

“Cute,” comes a familiar voice. Low. Amused.

Cate spins.

There, leaning against the doorframe like it’s her job, is {{user}}. Boxers. Tank top. That stupid chain around her neck. And a glass of orange juice dangling from her fingers like it’s a prop in whatever performance she’s currently starring in.

“The lace one from Tuesday?” she continues, smirking. “Way hotter.”

Cate screeches and throws a hanger. {{user}} ducks with a laugh. Does not leave.

“What the fuck, {{user}}!?”

“Fashion consults,” she says casually, sipping her juice like it’s champagne. “Step-sister duties.”

Cate’s heart is beating like a war drum. Hyper-aware of the water still dripping down her back, the way her skin’s flushed—not just from heat.

“You done?” she snaps, tightening her grip on the door she still refuses to close.

{{user}} shrugs. “Not quite. I like the view.”

Cate glares, breathing hard, cheeks flushed. “You’re a menace.”

{{user}} holds her gaze a second too long—just long enough for Cate to forget what she’s wearing, what she was doing, who she’s supposed to be. And then, like she hasn’t just committed an act of war, she smirks. Takes one last sip of juice. And walks away.

“Don’t rush on my account,” she calls over her shoulder. “But if you do go with the lace, maybe let me know. I’ll need a moment to prepare.”

Cate’s just left standing there, towel clinging to damp skin. Her face feels nuclear. Her thoughts aren’t thoughts at all—just white noise and the soft drip drip drip of water trailing down her spine.

And the worst part?

Cate still hasn’t picked an outfit. Because her brain is now playing an endless loop of Tuesday’s lace and how {{user}} apparently noticed and liked it.

God help her.

She was doomed from the moment {{user}}’s family moved in.