The Forbidden Mark Of My Stepbrother

Kelsie Washington woke up to an ache that settled deep behind her ribs. It wasn't one of passion, but of absence, the kind of hollow that comes after a storm has passed. She pushed herself up on the expansive mattress, the Egyptian cotton sheets feeling like ice against her bare skin. The other side of the King-sized bed was empty. Not just empty, but pristine, as if a presence had been meticulously erased, as if the last six hours of turbulence had never happened.

The sound of running water from the bathroom cut off abruptly. Kelsie pulled the duvet up to her chin, her fingers white-knuckling the fabric. The bathroom door opened, and Cornelius walked out.

He was already dressed. His charcoal suit was tailored to within an inch of its life, hugging his broad shoulders. He looked immaculate, untouched, a stark contrast to the disheveled mess she knew she was. He didn't look at her. His attention was entirely focused on fastening the platinum cufflink on his left wrist.

"There is water on the nightstand," Cornelius said. His voice was a low baritone, devoid of the gravelly heat it had held hours ago. It was his boardroom voice. "Be discreet. Emerald lands next week."

The name hit Kelsie like a physical blow to the stomach. The air in the luxury suite suddenly felt too thin to breathe. She swallowed the bile rising in her throat and forced a smile that felt like it might crack her face.

"Received, Brother."

Cornelius paused. His fingers stopped on his cufflink. His jaw tightened, a small muscle ticking beneath the skin, but he didn't correct her. He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a black American Express Centurion card. He placed it on the mahogany nightstand with a sharp click.

"Get something decent to wear," he said, finally turning his gaze to her. His eyes were the color of steel, cold and impenetrable. "Don't embarrass the family at breakfast."

He turned and walked out. The heavy door clicked shut, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the silent room.

Kelsie dropped the duvet and scrambled into the bathroom. She gripped the edge of the marble sink, staring at her reflection. Her hair was a bird's nest. Her lips felt tender, a faint pulse beneath the skin. And there, right on the sensitive curve where her neck met her shoulder, the skin was a map of hypersensitive points, a place she couldn't bear for the collar of her dress to touch. A reminder etched not in color, but in feeling.

She turned on the faucet, splashing freezing water onto her face until her skin was numb. Then she opened her makeup bag. She dug out the thickest concealer she owned. Layer by layer, she painted over the evidence of her stupidity. Pat, blend, repeat. Until the tenderness was hidden, replaced by a beige lie.

She dressed in the cheap floral dress she had worn yesterday. It felt flimsy and pathetic in the