FIVE YEARS LATER

*I died the moment Richard said those words.*

"Your brother is coming back home from Houston." His face held something I couldn't fathom—it was like he was in mourning. His head was slightly down, eyes fixed wearily on the laptop on his desk.

I stood rigid, like someone had drained all the blood from my body.

*Zayn Blackwood is coming home.* I repeated it in my mind, and I nearly collapsed against Richard's desk. I felt suffocated and I had to fan myself with my hand. It was as if the AC in his office had stopped working.

"Zayn is sick, Emery," he continued, and that was when I understood the look on his face. Something bad had happened.

"Sick?" I should say that out loud for him to hear, right? But tell me why my mouth suddenly felt glued together. Why I felt this stupid rush of heat I feel every night just by scrolling online to catch a glimpse of my hot hockey stepbrother.

"Hmm." God, that wasn't supposed to be a response.

Richard looked at me like I was losing it or something, but behind his gaze I saw that sad look—that look that screams *I hope this isn't happening.*

My weight kept shifting from one leg to another as I tried to stay calm.

*Breathe in, stay calm, Emery.*

But I couldn't. I was in a panic, I can't lie.

"He's—" I tried swallowing to clear my throat, and damn, it was dry as a desert.

"He has a brain tumor and he needs personal attention." His voice turned quiet, his eyes wet with tears. "My son is dying... He's only got six months to live." He finally broke down in tears.

A heavy pang hit my chest.

*I probably didn't hear him correctly, right?*

The words didn't quite process at first. Then my legs began to shake. *Zayn was dying? My not-so-brotherly stepbrother who had made my teenage life a living hell was dying?*

Six months. The words kept bouncing around in my skull. That wasn't enough time to fix five years of running away from him. Hell, it wasn't enough time for anything.

Wait. Why the hell was I thinking like that? I should be thinking about treatment plans, specialists, clinical trials. That's what doctors do.

But I wasn't just his doctor. I was...

What? What was I to him?

I should've felt pure sympathy. Instead, all I felt was that old teenage confusion, the hate from prom night tangled up with something darker I'd never admitted.

"How severe is it? How long has he been diagnosed?" I burst out, finally finding my voice.

"A few days ago. We found out a few days ago." He wiped his tears and looked up at me desperately. "You can be his personal doctor, right, Emery?" His voice cracked. "He won't see anyone else. He doesn't trust outside doctors poking around. But you're not a stranger, he wouldn't mind. And you're qualified. Please, you can take care of him, can't you?"

I clutched my black dress tightly. Accepting this meant one thing: Zayn would be my personal patient. The man I couldn't stop comparing to those hot male leads in the fantasy books I read would be my patient. And the distance I tried so damn hard to build, making myself into a doctor who finally got recognized by Blackwood Sports—would probably be nothing the moment he's back.

But what choice did I have now? Richard was looking at me like I was his last hope.

"I'll be his personal doctor," I said after what felt like an eternity.

A hint of hope flashed in Richard's eyes, and I was somehow happy I'd accepted.

"He's already at the airport, Emery. You should wait for him at home. I'll join you soon," he said.

My eyes widened. *So soon?* I thought it would be... shit. How do I face him this soon?

"Alright, I'll take my leave." My hands were trembling as I walked out of his office. The moment I got outside, I exhaled sharply.

Running away crossed my mind, but I quickly brushed it off.

As I walked toward the elevator, I remembered prom night in my senior year. Zayn had caught a glimpse of my dress when I left my door open. The next thing that happened was my parents canceling my night. He'd told them I was boy-crazy and I'd probably get raped in my short dress. An ankle-length dress. God.

Five good years, and I still had these mixed feelings about him.

The fifteen-minute drive back home felt like two minutes. Even the universe was in his favor.

My mother was already dressed in a red flowing gown, instructing the maids on what to do. She was so lost in the tasks, she didn't notice I'd slipped in. I didn't want to talk about any of this, so I made my way upstairs quietly.

Unfortunately for me, my dazed brain didn't tell me to stop at my room. Instead, I headed directly to his room, the one that had been shut since two weeks after my eighteenth birthday.

I told myself I was checking on his room out of medical concern. But standing outside his door, I knew that was a lie. Even now, even with everything, part of me still wanted to be close to anything that belonged to him.

Without thinking, I pushed the door open and walked inside. I expected it to be stuffy, maybe dusty. But my mother had probably wiped it clean.

I stepped inside and closed the door quietly.

"Phew." A breath escaped as I looked around his room.

A phone suddenly rang, making me flich.

I squinted and walked closer. There was actually a phone on the bed.

But that wasn't why my face had settled into a big frown.

My face?

It was displaying on the home screen.

*This is definitely not me, right? It's... my freckles.* I touched my face like the freckles had disappeared.

Then the call ended, and my eyes nearly popped out.

I didn't take this picture. No, I've never worn a bikini like that before.

"You still love intruding in my privacy, dear stepsister."

*That voice.*

The phone fell from my hand, and my head snapped toward the bathroom door.

Zayn.

God. Zayn. I was breathless. He was staring at me. My eyes betrayed me and wandered down to his waistline, a towel wrapped around that waist I'd dreamed about circling my legs.

He started stepping closer.

"I..." Shit. Say something.

He'd gotten closer now. He picked up his phone gently from where I'd dropped it without a word and turned away.

I stood there foolishly. Where was all that composure I'd promised myself I'd have?

"Why do you have my... I mean, that's me. Why is my always-grumpy stepbrother using my picture as..."

His hand went to his towel. "You won't want to watch me undress, right? Get out of my room."

I walked forward. "No! I won't get out until you tell me why you have my bikini picture... the one I never took... on your phone."

His breath came out ragged. "Please, just... go out."

Did I just feel restraint coming from him?

Something shifted in his eyes. Desperate. Wild. Like he'd been drowning and I was the only air left.

"Don't make me cross the boundaries, Emery." He closed the gap between us. "I guess five years wasn't enough. You're still so damn beautiful."

*Beautiful?* My brain latched onto that word and forgot everything else.

"What... are you trying to—" He slid his hand around my waist, and I lost my breath completely.

His body pressed against mine, his long black hair dripping water right onto my neck.

"I have crazy things I want to do to you, Emery. Don't test my patience." He paused and stroked the side of my face gently, as if he'd been waiting for this moment for an eternity. "I want to make you plead my name." He leaned close to my ear. "And moan softly."

Did I just hear my stepbrother say that?

He actually lusts over me?

"Say the word, Emery, and I'll make you see stars—"

"You're sick, Zayn. Let's—"

"Fuck my sickness."

This is it. My body was aching so badly, especially with him pressed against me like this.

If I say yes, then what happens to the medical life I just built? Everything?

This wasn't right. There's supposed to be patient boundaries, ethics, my whole career. I knew all the reasons to step back. But his breath on my neck made me forget every single one.

"Fuck it..."

His head was buried in my neck, breathing in my scent.

Heat spread between my thighs, embarrassing as hell and completely out of my control.

I opened my mouth to speak... but a knock came fast.

"Zayn? Emery?" My mother's voice called through the door as it burst open.

I pushed Zayn off the moment the door opened. Our chests were still heaving, his eyes locked on me. He didn't even flinch at the knock.

My mother entered the room, her gaze sweeping over us like she'd caught something.

I swallowed hard. *Please, don't let her see the blush on my face.*

"Zayn," she said, staring at him with that loving look she always gave him.

He didn't spare her a glance.

Well, that wasn't strange. He'd been like that since we moved into the house.

Did he actually think we stole his place with his father? Yes, my mother acted like a leech sometimes.

But wasn't it time he moved on from the past? Unless he didn't really hate us. Just like I never really hated him.

*Oh god, where are my thoughts spiraling to again?*

"Your father is already downstairs waiting for you both." She announced this after Zayn had ignored her completely.

He moved to his bag on the bed and pulled out fresh clothes.

"Emery, come help set the table." My mother said as she left.

I dashed after her. If I stayed any longer, I might actually suffocate from the heat building between my thighs.

His eyes burned into my back. I knew he was watching.

Something felt different and urgent. Like we were both running out of time.

I let out a heavy breath as I followed my mother downstairs. Richard was already waiting at the dining table, and it didn't take long before Zayn joined us.

We locked eyes, and my breath caught.

Dressed in a half-buttoned shirt and black joggers, he looked unfairly good. He didn't look sick. Hell, he looked like a Greek god walking straight out of my fantasy books—the kind of man who'd pin a woman to a dining table and make her forget her own name.

My cheeks burned. *My brain was never helpful.*

"Son." Richard's voice pulled me from my filthy thoughts.

Zayn broke eye contact with me, and only then did I realize he'd been staring too.

"I'm sorry."

I looked at Richard, pity flooding my chest. His face was twisted like he was trying not to cry.

"I'm fine." Zayn said, but Richard was already tearing up. "Dad, really. I'm totally fine."

Zayn moved to the seat beside me. I should've felt relief, but all I could see was a dying man. Someone who had only six months left. Every second ticking brought him closer to his grave.

"You're not fine, Zayn. You're..." Richard choked on his tears. "God."

The weight of the room pressed down on me. My chest felt so tight I thought I might be having a heart attack.

For the past few years, I'd buried myself in work just to earn my place in the Blackwood company. I'd carried so much rage. But right now? I just felt sad.

"I always survive. This won't be any different." Zayn muttered, but I saw his jaw lock. The way his hand trembled slightly on the fork he was holding. None of it escaped me.

"Please, Richard. If you're breaking down in front of the kids, what about the rest of us?" My mother coaxed him back into his seat, her hand patting his shoulder gently.

"Tomorrow morning," Richard exhaled, composing himself. "You'll examine him, Emery. I want to see for myself how bad the tumor is. A room's been set up in his private suite." He was talking to me now.

*A room?*

"Not an—"

"It'll be safer here, Emery. The hospital is too crowded. I've sorted everything out. You don't have to worry about being sanctioned."

Okay, I wasn't afraid of getting in trouble. But being alone in a room with Zayn wasn't a good idea. Not when I'd just realized he wanted me too.

When did he start seeing me as a woman instead of his charity stepsister?

The same question I'd been asking myself since I left his room earlier.

I shook my head and stabbed the steak in front of me.

Then I felt it. The warmth of a hand on my leg. No—my thigh.

I jerked my head up in shock.

*Zayn. Oh shit.*

His hand was sliding up my thigh.

"Fuck." *No, that wasn't supposed to come out loud.*

Our parents' heads snapped toward us. I made an awkward coughing sound.

"The steak... pepper." His hand circled the bare skin of my thigh. He wasn't moving up to where I was already drenched. He just kept teasing that spot—twisting, drawing circles, rubbing slowly. The scrape of silverware against plates felt deafening.

"Pepper?" My mother looked at me, confused. "The steak wasn't made with any pepper."

Zayn chuckled quietly.

He dragged his chair closer with his free hand. My mother was sitting directly across from us.

*God, thank you for this massive table.*

*Wait—I was supposed to push him away!*

I gritted my teeth, biting down a moan that threatened to escape. The taste of blood touched my tongue.

He wasn't even looking at me. His eyes stayed on his plate. He wasn't eating, just sipping juice with that infuriating calmness.

"Zayn..." I whispered, gripping my fork so hard my knuckles turned white.

His jaw tightened. For half a second, his hand stilled on my thigh. Then his fingers resumed their torturous circles, slower this time, deliberate.

"Eat up, son. Would you like more vegetables?" Richard asked.

I let out a sound, not quite a moan, but close enough.

His hand had moved closer to my center. He wasn't touching it yet. His fingers only grazed the edges.

I caught the slight hitch in his breathing. His pupils were wide when he finally glanced my way, just for a second. Then that maddening control snapped back into place.

Goosebumps raced up my arms. My thighs clenched involuntarily under his touch.

"Laila!" My mother called for our cook. "Did you make Emery's steak separately and add pepper?" Laila appeared and shook her head.

"Your face is so red. Should I get you some water?" I could only nod. "Get her rice instead," she told Laila.

"She should have the steak." Zayn's voice was smooth and controlled. "The meat looks fresh. Tender. Savory." His hand slipped into my wetness, and he finally looked at me. "Soft."

The word rolled off his tongue like he was caressing it.

His chest rose and fell just a fraction faster than normal, it was the only crack in his perfect composure.

"I'm done eating. Dad, have a good rest, Dad." He said it so casually.

Before I could process what was happening, his hand slid away from my thighs and he stood up.

Without looking back, he headed upstairs.

Fear crept in immediately.

My pulse thundered in my ears as I looked at our parents, oblivious and chatting quietly.

Tomorrow I'd have to put my hands on him again. I'll examine him, tough him.

Only this time, I wasn't sure I'd be able to stop.

CHAPTER FIVE

EMERY

The next morning came in a blink. I rolled off my bed, my eyelids looking like they'd been painted with dark brushes.

I couldn't sleep a wink. No, I didn't dare close my eyes.

Not when Zayn had decided to sleep in the room next to mine.

I could hear his shower running when I closed my eyes, and I couldn't help imagining what it would be like to be in there with him.

My stomach churned as I remembered last night.

*Emery, god, what's wrong with you? He's your stepbrother. Your patient, at that.*

With that thought, I braced myself and freshened up. Within minutes, I was done.

The moment I stepped out of my room and the cold air hit me, I forgot everything I'd just told myself.

I could hear my parents speaking downstairs. They were waiting, anxious for the results.

Embarrassment slammed into me. I was supposed to be professional, treat him, fight for his life with him.

Not make silly fantasies and get wet over my stepbrother.

With a deep breath, I dragged my feet toward the room they'd prepared for us.

He was lying on the bed, probably waiting for me.

"You're here," he said. His eyes locked on me, pinning me in place.

"Hmm," I managed to say as I walked closer.

I looked around. Just like Richard said, everything was in place. Medical stuff lined the walls, monitors, IV stands, the whole setup.

I walked toward the IV line and checked it.

His eyes followed my every movement.

"You're late. Did you even sleep at all?" He said it with his eyes still stuck on me.

*Please, don't care. Can't you see I'm trying my best here?*

"Unless you couldn't stop thinking about our little escapade last night."

My face went hot. I snapped my eyes to him, and that stupid smile tugged at his lips.

"Ah—um—"

*Stop this, Emery!*

"The doctor in Minnesota must have given you a report. Do you have it?" I changed the topic fast, pinching my thigh so the words would come out right.

"There." He pointed to the table.

I grabbed the folder and opened it.

The words hit me like a punch.

Glioblastoma. Stage IV. Inoperable. Six to eight months.

My shoulders dropped.

This was really bad. The worst kind of brain tumor you could get.

I kept reading. Radiation didn't work, and chemo barely touched it. The thing was sitting in a spot where surgery would kill him faster than the tumor would.

Six months.

Maybe eight if he got lucky.

I looked back at him. How the hell was he so calm? He looked thinner, yeah. His face was sharper. But he was just lying there like nothing was wrong with him.

He was dying.

And I was supposed to fix this.

I put the folder down and forced myself to focus. I checked the IV, and the montor. Do the job, Emery.

But when I touched his wrist to check his pulse—

"I've always wanted you."

My hand froze.

"What?"

"You heard me." His voice went lower. "I've wanted you since the first day you walked into this house."

I tried pulling my hand back. He grabbed my wrist and held it there.

"Zayn, I'm working—"

"I don't care if I'm selfish." His grip got tighter. His thumb brushed my pulse point, trembling just slightly. "I'm dying, Emery, and I still want you. But I need to know if you can do this with me. Can you actually fight for whatever time I have left?"

His eyes burned into mine.

"Can you face our parents when they find out? Because I can't stop wanting you. And I'm done waiting."

My lungs seized.

Every part of me screamed *no*. This was insane, wrong, impossible.

But I looked at him, and all I saw was someone who had maybe half a year left.

Someone who'd spent years pushing me away because he thought that's what he had to do.

And now he was asking me to stop running too.

I nodded. Just a tiny movement.

But he saw it.

His hand went to the back of my neck and yanked me down. Our mouths crashed together, messy and desperate and nothing like last night.

This was everything. Years of wanting, all at once.

When we broke apart, I was shaking.

"We need to go downstairs," I whispered. "They're waiting."

"Let them wait."

"Zayn—"

"Fine." He let go, and I stepped back, trying to fix my hair, smooth my clothes.

We went downstairs together, my heart still thumping loudly.

That's when I heard Zayn's uncle, Logan talking.

"I've found a solution."

We both stopped at the top of the stairs.

"What solution?" Richard asked.

"The heir," Logan said, his voice smooth. "Zayn needs an heir before... well. Before... otherwise his legacy dies with him."

My blood went cold.

I looked at Zayn. His jaw locked.

We moved closer, quiet, staying just outside the living room where they couldn't see us.

"An heir?" My mom sounded surprised. "Logan, that's... how would that even work?"

"I already figured it out. I know someone who's willing to help, a young woman who's ready to carry Zayn's child. IVF. All very respectful."

Silence.

Then Richard's voice came out, thick and broken. "You want my son to have a child he'll never meet?"

"I want your son to leave something behind. Isn't that what matters?"

Zayn's hand found mine in the hallway. He squeezed so hard it hurt.

"I think..." Richard's voice cracked. "I think that's beautiful, Logan. Thank you."

"We agree," my mother said quickly. "It's the right thing."

I felt everything collapse.

We'd just started, and it was already over.

"I have someone ready," Logan went on. "Her name's Leilani. She's a lovely girl. And if Zayn doesn't want to get... involved... Emery can help with the samples. Isn't she a professional doctor?"

He said it like he knew exactly how unprofessional I'd already been.

I thought I was going to throw up.

Zayn pulled me back, away from the door, back upstairs.

I wasn't sure if he was dragging me away from the conversation... or dragging me toward a future I wasn't ready for.

We didn't talk until we were in the exam room with the door shut.

"Zayn—"

"Don't." His voice was sharp. "Don't say it."

"But your dad just—"

"I know what he said." He turned to face me, and his eyes looked wild. "And I don't care. I'm not doing it."

"You might not get a choice."

"I always have a choice." He stepped closer. "And I choose you."

"This is your legacy. Your father wants—"

"My father doesn't get to decide how I spend my last six months." His hands grabbed my face. "You do. Say yes. Say you'll stay, no matter what."

I stared at him.

This was crazy. This would destroy everything.

But I opened my mouth and said it anyway.

"Yes."

His smile made my chest hurt.

"Good. Then let's go meet my fake fiancée my uncle got me.”