Chapter 206: My Hot Sister

Her legs

stretched in ballerina-like arrogance—one elongated, toes pointed like a dagger, the other bent, knee grazing the velvet. The shorts rode up, exposing the

lush curve of her inner thigh

, a shadowed hollow promising secret. Muscles flexed beneath the skin,

toned

yet unbearably soft.

The tank top

was a deliberate tease.

Lingerie disguised as sleepwear

. It hung loose, gaping at the armholes to flash the side swell of her breast—

full, heavy

, the skin luminous against the wine-red satin. When she shifted, the fabric drifted, offering a

glimpse of taut nipple

hardening under the cool air.

A breath, a stretch, and the silk would

surrender

.

Her hair

was a midnight avalanche,

jet-black waves cascading

over one shoulder, brushing the upper swell of her breast. Each strand caught the light like obsidian wire, framing a face that’d make saints curse.

The smirk

—that wasn’t teenage insolence. It was

dynasty carved into flesh

. Knowing. Calculated. It deepened as she sensed your gaze, transforming casual cruelty into

predatory amusement

. Sharp jawline tightened, highlighting the

feral elegance

of her bone structure.

Full lips

—painted a subtle, bitten-crimson—parted slightly. Moisture clung to the lower curve, glistening. A silent dare.

Her eyes

—the

ultimate weapon

. They lifted from the trash TV flickering on the screen, dark and fathomless.

Not just watching.

Conquering

. They held the depth of rotting orchids and the heat of smoldering embers. When she blinked,

lashes thick as spider legs

brushed her cheeks—delicate, yet lethally seductive.

The couch wasn’t furniture anymore; it was a

throne of supplication

. Emma lounged with the lazy entitlement of a goddess bemused by mortal worship. One hand rested near her thigh, fingers

long, elegant

, nails painted a deadly crimson. The other toyed with the hem of her shorts,

knuckles brushing the skin just below the fabric

—a whisper of touch, a promise of more.

The worst part?

She knew every sin her body inspired. Knew the heat rising in any man’s throat. Knew you’d sell your soul to trace the path her fingers took. And the smirk bloomed wider—a

scarlet invitation to damnation

—as she arched her back just slightly.

The satin stretched tighter across her breasts. The TV nonsense became background static.

In that moment, Emma wasn’t just watching. She was

reigning

. A paradox wrapped in sin:

movie star allure

,

middle-girl charm

, and the

soul of a siren

who’d drag you under with a smile.

"Well, look who finally decided to join the land of the living," she said, eyes glued to the screen where some influencer was wailing about a brand deal like it was the fall of Rome. Honestly, if melodrama were an Olympic sport, this girl would be a gold medalist.

"Hey, sleeping beauty needs her rest," I said, sinking into one of the leather chairs like a king claiming his throne. "So—what’s the crisis today? Somebody canceled for inhaling oxygen without a sponsorship?"

Emma snorted. "Close. This girl’s crying because her skincare collab gave her acne. Shocking twist: chemicals aren’t the cure for bad life choices." She finally turned toward me, one eyebrow cocked like she was evaluating whether my jawline had improved in the past five minutes. "You look less like a corpse than usual. Good night?"

"Something like that." I let my eyes drift around the room, taking in the glow like a man in a perfume ad. "Where are Mom and Sarah?"

"Shopping." She said it like she’d just committed a felony. "Mom wants to ’properly furnish’ the house, whatever that means. Sarah went to stop her from buying furniture so fancy we’d need an instruction manual just to sit on it."

Half a second of panic hit—shopping meant money, and money always meant stress if they went with little money. Then ARIA’s voice brushed my ear like silk: "Relax, boss. They’re using the cards linked to your Limitless account. Current damage: $847 at Williams Sonoma. Your mother has apparently discovered professional-grade spatulas."

Right.

Limitless.

Literally.

I looked back at Emma, really looked. The satin pajamas made her glow like she was the centerpiece of some moody ad campaign, but her eyes whispered secrets.

Since the Trent mess, she’d gone all recluse chic: less laughter, fewer friends, zero hallway TikTok dances. Just Emma, beautiful but detached, trying to convince the universe she was social while clearly auditioning for

The Bachelor: Emotional Trauma Edition.

It pissed me off. I’d crushed Trent like the cockroach he was, but the cracks he left behind? They lingered, and they were messy.

"You hungry?" I asked, standing with the sort of swagger that implied I might also be a professional threat.

Her eyes flicked up—suspicion first, then genuine shock. "You’re cooking? Like... real food? Not toast?"

"Don’t act so surprised," I said, rolling my sleeves like a man about to duel a Michelin-star chef in a staring contest. "I’ve got skills now."

"Hell yes." She sat up, spark in her voice like I’d just promised her a lifetime supply of chocolate. "I’ve been surviving on cereal and Uber Eats. Mom’s too busy crying over ottomans to feed anyone."

The kitchen was cathedral-level culinary porn—black cabinets, marble countertops, stainless steel monsters that could probably cook an ox in two minutes flat.

Twenty minutes later, I plated salmon so perfect it could seduce Gordon Ramsay into tears, with lemon butter, roasted asparagus, and wild rice ARIA had coached me through like a Michelin-star tutor with a caffeine addiction.

Emma took a bite. Her eyes widened like I’d just performed wizard-level alchemy. "Holy shit. Peter... this is restaurant-level. Since when do you know how to cook like this?"

"YouTube University," I lied, straight-faced. "Turns out you can learn anything if you’ve got free time and a kitchen that costs more than most people’s mortgages."

We ate in rare silence, the influencer’s meltdown on TV filling the background like unintentional comedy. And for once, Emma didn’t look withdrawn or broken. She looked like my sister again—mouth full of salmon, cheeks flushed, happy.

And yes, I did enjoy the fact that I’d basically performed a small miracle while looking ridiculously hot doing it.

"This place is insane," she said eventually, gesturing around with her fork like she was auditioning for a lifestyle influencer’s meltdown reel. "Like I keep expecting someone to pop out and say it’s all a mistake and we have to go back to the apartment."

"No mistakes," I said firmly, trying not to smirk like I’d just dropped a spoiler for a Netflix original and everyone else was too dumb to get it. "This is ours now. You deserve this, Em. All of it. Every overpriced, Instagrammable inch."

She looked at me with those sharp eyes, and for a flash I caught the old Emma—curious, intelligent, the kind of person who’d read the fine print on a Kardashian divorce settlement just for fun. Not buying my bullshit but still loving me anyway.

"You’re different," she said quietly, like she was trying not to wake the ghosts of my past screw-ups. "Not just the money and the house. You’re... I don’t know. Stronger. Like you finally figured out who you’re supposed to be."

If only she knew. "Maybe I just needed something worth fighting for," I said, tossing it out with the same confidence Jay-Z drops album titles: unbothered, untouchable, slightly iconic.

Emma smiled—a real smile, not the polite mask she’d been wearing like Lindsay Lohan at a court hearing. "Well, whatever changed, I’m glad. You feel like my brother now, you know? Instead of just... existing in the same space."

That hit harder than it should have. I mean, I’m a monster and a narcissist, but apparently I could still give

feels

like a rom-com hero who’d had one too many energy drinks. "I’ll always be your big brother, Em. No matter what happens, that’s never changing."

She reached over and squeezed my hand like she was testing if my masculinity was FDA-approved. "Good. Because I kind of like having someone who can cook like this taking care of me."

We settled back into watching TV, Emma curled against my side like when we were kids—the less awkward, less "why is he narrating everything like it’s his personal documentary" version of us.

For the first time since the Trent incident, she felt like herself again. Maybe money couldn’t fix everything, but it could sure as hell create the space for healing—and fund a kitchen that made young millionaires cry tears of envy.

And if anyone ever tried to hurt her again? They’d get a front-row seat to the Peter Carter show: starring me, main character, villain, and literal nightmare, all rolled into one.