Chapter 4: Sweet Sixteen

On the day of my Sweet Sixteen—the big birthday party when a girl turns sixteen—I got a grand gift from my mother.

The house was decked with gold balloons and pink streamers, a celebration meant to make any girl feel like a queen. But underneath, everything felt brittle and forced.

She personally sent me to my stepbrother’s room.

She handed me a key, whispered instructions, her breath sweet with expensive wine. My stomach twisted with dread.

I could blame no one but myself.

At that moment, I understood: I was just another piece in her endless game.

If anyone was to blame, it was that I was too beautiful—more delicate than Mom had been, stirring pity.

People often remarked on it—Aunt Linda at Thanksgiving, the neighbor across the street, even my old music teacher. Their words were daggers disguised as praise.

Those were Mom’s own words. She also said my stepbrother had feelings for me.

She spoke as if it was a compliment, like being wanted was the highest mark of success.

Because the way he looked at me wasn’t how a brother looks at a sister.

She said it like she was handing me a wrapped present, not setting me up to be used.

It was the gaze of a man for a woman.

That line echoed in my mind long after she left.

Mom wanted me to repeat her old trick—to seduce my stepbrother and make him stumble.

She wanted to be the governor’s wife, wanted the Golden Boy to be the next heir.

Her ambitions had no limits, and I was her chosen weapon.

What Mom didn’t know was that, deep down, I was relieved.

Relieved, because the alternative was even worse—the walls closing in from every side.

Walter had hinted more than once.

Late-night conversations, too-long glances, hands lingering on my shoulder. His intentions were clear, and the threat hung heavy in the air.

I was grown, while Mom was aging.

Her beauty faded, and Walter was hunting for the next bright thing.

Walter even asked if I wished to replace my mother.

His words made my skin crawl. The idea was grotesque—I wanted to vanish into the floor.

I was disgusted.

Nausea churned in my stomach, sweat cold down my back.

I knew I could avoid it for a while, but not forever.

No amount of silence or avoidance could keep him at bay.

So, half resisting, half yielding, I followed Mom’s wishes and climbed into my stepbrother’s bed.

I moved like a sleepwalker, the air in his room thick with expectation and the weight of history pressing down.

I thought, this time Walter wouldn’t fight his son for me, right?

It was a gamble—a desperate hope the lesser evil would win out.

Being with my stepbrother was better than being with Mom’s man.

At least with him, I could pretend there was a choice.

What kind of person is my stepbrother?

He was everything I wasn’t—confident, admired, the golden boy. People stopped to watch him enter a room.

Everyone said he was as bright as the moon, with both character and looks.

Teachers bragged about him. Girls at school wrote his name in notebooks, hearts dotting every ‘i.’

He could read at three, write essays at five, and though not yet twenty, was already involved in state affairs.

He handled meetings with the calm of someone twice his age. People respected him, and for good reason.

The family elders all praised him.

Even the old-timers grudgingly admired his intelligence.

So, facing such a stepbrother—one who stood up for me when I was bullied—I gave him a chance.

I’d watched him defend me, stand between me and the world’s cruelty, more times than I could count.

As long as he refused me, I would keep my distance.

It was a test, for both of us—a way to see if we could survive this storm, or if I’d have to run again.

Those filthy, shameful things would never touch him.

I swore to myself I’d never let my mother’s poison infect him.

But he did not push me away.

The silence between us was thick, electric. He met my gaze, and for a moment, I saw the same fear in his eyes that haunted mine.

That night, Mom drugged me and threw me into his room.

The world spun. My limbs felt heavy, my mind slow. I tried to fight, but everything blurred at the edges.

The next morning, I woke in my stepbrother’s arms.

His breathing was steady, his hand tangled in my hair. The sunlight streaming in made everything too bright, too real.

I cried silently for a long time.

The tears came without sound, soaking his shirt and my pillow. I shook, but he just held me, his own eyes shining with unshed tears.

Not for myself, but for him.

He deserved better than this. I wanted to apologize, to take it all back, but the words stuck in my throat.

He was finally dragged into the mess.

My mother’s web had claimed him too, and there was no way out.

My life of heavy sin began from here.

I crossed a line I could never uncross. The guilt became a shadow, following me everywhere I went.