1. Isabel

1

ISABEL

I stare up at the ladies on stage, their bodies glistening as they get doused in water, the droplets cascading down like tiny jewels. The sight is both exhilarating and intimidating, and even though the fear of stepping up there in front of everyone is holding me back, I can’t shake the certainty that I’d emerge victorious. Without a doubt, ten times out of ten, I would win this wet t-shirt contest. That’s the undeniable perk of having Double D’s; they practically guarantee attention and applause.

“You know, I think you should crash this party,” my best friend, Eliza, declares with a mischievous grin, her eyes sparkling with excitement. She throws back a shot of tequila that the bartender had generously poured without a second thought for payment. “Have you seen your tits?” she adds, her voice laced with playful encouragement, reminding me that confidence can sometimes be the most intoxicating accessory of all.

The slur in her words is one thing, but it’s the unmistakable volume at which she yells them that truly garners the attention of the men and women surrounding us. I can feel the lecherous eyes of the men as they take a not-so-sneaky peek at my chest, their gazes lingering far longer than necessary. They’re probably silently answering Eliza’s bold question. ‘Yes, we’ve seen your friend's tits. We agree she’d win this contest,’ they seem to murmur in their minds, their expressions a mix of lust and intrigue.

I smile nervously, a rush of heat climbing up my cheeks, and shoot an angry glance at Eliza, who remains blissfully unaware of the chaos she’s stirred. “Hey, maybe next time, keep your voice down,” I suggest between gritted teeth, my words laced with a blend of irritation and embarrassment. “I don’t need half the bar imagining me naked, thank you very much.” The last part slips out sharper than I intended, but the thrill of the moment and the attention weigh heavily on my shoulders.

Eliza shrugs her shoulders, a playful glint in her eye. “Or maybe you do,” she teases, sending a flirtatious wink toward the bartender, who responds with a charming smile that drips with allure. The sight ignites a pang of envy within me; how I wish I could possess even a fraction of her unshakeable confidence. “You need to branch out, Isabel. Get your groove on. Maybe fuck a stranger or something.”

As if that could ever happen. The day I strip down in front of a complete stranger is the day pigs sprout wings and take to the sky. My brain is hardwired in a particular way, and throughout my life, I’ve never once ventured into bed with anyone I wasn’t deeply acquainted with first. All three gentlemen I’ve shared intimate moments with were boyfriends—individuals I knew inside and out. I can’t say those encounters were life-altering experiences; rather, they felt more like a predictable script than the passionate tales spun in romance novels. After all, isn’t that type of explosive connection reserved for those who are slender enough to bend and twist their bodies in ways I could only dream of?

We watch another inebriated girl on stage, her laughter echoing through the dimly lit bar, as she takes a glass of water straight to the chest. If I had to guess, she’s probably a cute 34B, the kind of girl who could waltz into Victoria’s Secret and find dozens of bras that fit her perfectly, each one more enticing than the last. But in the context of a wet t-shirt contest, she’s simply not what the crowd craves. They clap and cheer, their enthusiasm palpable, but let’s face it—her white tee isn’t sticking to much, rendering her efforts almost futile in the eyes of the onlookers.

“C’mon, babe,” Eliza shouts again, her voice rising above the din, still eyeing the bartender with an intensity that suggests she might be ready to leap onto the bar itself as she talks to me. “Just mosey on up there, take one for the team, and get us $500 in drink credit. Do you know how much money that’ll save us?” Her eyes sparkle with the thrill of the potential reward, and I can see the wheels turning in her mind as she imagines all the cocktails we could indulge in, the night stretching ahead of us like a shimmering promise.

“Let me guess. $500?” I say dryly, a hint of sarcasm lacing my words as I raise an eyebrow at her enthusiasm.

She’s not even listening, her focus entirely consumed by the bartender, who has finally wrapped up his tasks and is now sauntering over to her, a sly grin on his face. I can only imagine the kind of personal attention he might be offering her later tonight, and honestly, I can’t say I blame him. Good for her, I suppose.

I shift my gaze around the bustling bar, scanning the crowd for anyone who might catch my interest, when my eyes unexpectedly land on none other than my stepbrother, Nicholas. He’s lounging against the bar with a lascivious smile plastered across his face, his eyes locked directly onto mine. A chill runs down my spine at the sight of him, a mix of annoyance and intrigue swirling within me. As if sensing my gaze, he pushes himself off the bar and weaves his way through the throng of people, his confident stride bringing him closer to me with each passing moment.

Nicholas is a business tycoon and a decade older than I am. When our parents tied the knot, it became immediately clear that we had little in common. Our lives merged in a way that felt forced, and while our families became one, Nicholas often retreated to his room, sketching out elaborate plans to take over the world each time he came over. With the considerable financial backing of his father's wealth, I’d say he’s made significant strides toward achieving those ambitions.

“Isabel,” he greets me with an easy grin that seems both charming and disarming, “interesting to see you here. I’m surprised you haven’t taken the stage yet. This seems like a contest you could win.” His tone is teasing, and I can’t help but feel a flutter of mixed emotions at his words, both flattered and slightly annoyed by the implication.

Dressed in a suit that probably costs more than I make in a month, Nicholas looks undeniably sexy. It’s a thought I know I shouldn't entertain about my stepbrother, but ever since our parents tied the knot when I was just fifteen, I’ve been acutely aware of how much more attractive he is than anyone has a right to be. Now, standing in front of me at his impressive 6’2”, he carries himself with an air of wealth and privilege, a subtle but unmistakable aura of condescension draping around him like a tailored cape. I can’t deny it; I’m just a little bit turned on.

“Nicholas, you couldn’t handle yourself if I participated in this wet t-shirt contest. I’ve seen the kind of women you date, and frankly, I’m about twice their size.” I reach up and pat his cheek affectionately, my fingers lingering for just a moment longer than necessary. “I’ve got too much tits, ass, and thighs for you, honey. Trust me, you don’t want to see me win this contest.” The playful challenge lingers in the air between us, a teasing dance of familiarity and tension that makes my heart race just a little faster.

He clutches my wrist with an intensity that sends a jolt of desire coursing through me, settling in my most intimate areas. "Oh, sweet Isabel," he murmurs, his voice low and husky, "there's a lot of things I want to see you do." There's a certain edge to his words, a promise that sends a shiver down my spine.

Our relationship has always been laced with a palpable sexual tension, an undercurrent that I've tried to ignore yet can't quite shake off. The line between step-siblings and lovers is a dangerous one to cross, and yet, the thought of exploring that boundary with Nicholas sends my heart racing. The chemistry between us is undeniable, and as much as I try to deny it, there's a part of me that yearns for the forbidden.

I casually pull my wrist away from him, a smile frozen on my lips, masking the flutter of excitement beneath. “Well, submit your requests in writing, and I’ll see what I can do for you in the new year, brother.”

“Hey, Nicholas!” Eliza calls out, having torn herself away from her undeniably attractive bartender, and she intrudes on the moment I’m sharing with my stepbrother. Honestly, it's perfectly alright with me. The tension that had been crackling in the air dissipates like smoke, and even though a part of me is itching to explore the budding romance that Nicholas seems intent on pushing us toward, I find a sense of relief in letting Eliza step in, at least for the moment. “Tell Isabel that she needs to get on stage and enter the wet t-shirt contest. She’s bound to win, and we could really use the $500 in bar credit.” The thought of Isabel, with her confident charm, lighting up the stage fills me with a mix of amusement and anticipation.

Eliza knows that my family is wealthy, but she also understands my deep desire to earn my own money. It’s not that I shun their affluence; rather, I struggle to reconcile my identity with my mother’s decision to marry into it. I’m sure she genuinely loves Nicholas’s dad—he is a great man in many ways—but his absence is palpable, and when he is around, he often comes off as a bit of a jerk. It baffles me why my mother chose to marry him if it wasn’t for his wealth. As a result, I adamantly refuse his handouts, determined to carve my own path.

“I tried, Eliza,” Nicholas says, shaking his head in exasperation and clucking his tongue, a sound that barely pierces through the deafening roar of the crowd cheering for the woman currently dazzling them on stage. “She won’t listen.”

Suddenly, a nearby gentleman, who has clearly been eavesdropping on our conversation, takes matters into his own hands. Without any warning, he douses me in a cold splash of Michelob Ultra. “Hell yeah!” he bellows, his voice rising above the din of excitement. “Look at those tits!” His enthusiasm is both shocking and strangely invigorating, adding to the chaotic energy of the night.

I wasn’t clad in a white t-shirt, but the light pink fabric clings to me in such a way that it doesn’t leave much to the imagination. My jaw drops, and I dart my gaze between Eliza and Nicholas before glancing down at my own front. “Are you fucking kidding me!” The question escapes my lips as a rhetorical shout, loud enough to start attracting the attention of those nearby.

The guy is drawing a crowd, and the atmosphere shifts as more people turn their heads to stare. The hollering grows louder, an infectious buzz rippling through the throng, as onlookers begin to realize that the girl who didn’t even enter the contest has a better rack than the contestants on stage. I can feel the heat of embarrassment creeping up my neck, mortified by the unexpected attention.

But Nicholas springs into action, positioning himself protectively in front of me, his tall frame a shield against the prying eyes of the crowd. The damage is done, though; I’m drenched in beer, the sticky liquid clinging to my skin and clothes like a second layer. The guy who dumped his drink all over me has definitely caught sight of the outline of my impressive double D’s, and the humiliation washes over me like a tidal wave, ringing in my ears with every beat of my racing heart.

Feeling vulnerable and exposed, I tuck tail and run, my cheeks burning with embarrassment. Screw the $500. It’s not worth the mortification I’ve just endured. If I win, Eliza can stay behind and collect the winnings from her good-looking bartender hookup, while I escape this nightmare and find some semblance of dignity.