My Fake Stepbrother’s Undercover Kiss - Chapter 1: Chapter 1
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My name is Emily Roland, and my life turned upside down sophomore year when Mom decided to remarry. Not only was I getting a stepdad, but he came with baggage—a stepbrother who supposedly promised to "take care of me."
Yeah, right.
That same night, I caught my so-called stepbrother working as a high-end male escort at a club.
I first heard the news during class. The second I found out about my new "family addition," I completely lost it—sobbing into my roommate's shoulder like some tragic rom-com heroine. She dragged me to a bar to numb the shock.
"Emily, your mom's really marrying that guy?" my roommate asked, sliding me a drink. I'd been a mess all day, oscillating between crying jags and silent rage. My friends were low-key worried I'd do something reckless—like pick a fight with Mom and screw myself over.
"Obviously!" I hissed, slamming my glass down. "I met them. Total gold diggers. And now I'm stuck with some random stepbrother? That guy gives me major sketchy vibes."
My friends murmured sympathy, but let's be real—they were just here for the drama.
Then I saw him.
Mid-sip, I froze. There, under the pulsing club lights, was a guy who looked exactly like my future stepbrother—grinding against a crowd of women like he got paid for it.
Spoiler: He did.
"No. Freaking. Way." I jabbed a finger at the stage. "That's him!"
My roommate's jaw dropped. "Wait—that's the VIP escort everyone's obsessed with. Dude's booked solid by cougars for months."
Another friend squinted. "Since when does this place hire mixed-race escorts? That's new."
"Probably because he's stupid good at his job," someone muttered.
I was suddenly stone-cold sober, fumbling for my phone. "I need video proof. Mom's kicking them to the curb tonight."
No way was I letting some escort-turned-stepbrother tarnish our family name. Mom ran a Fortune 500 company—this scandal would be nuclear.
I elbowed through the crowd, snapping pics of his signature move: tilting some woman's chin like a bad romance novel cover. Even the mole on his cheek matched. Bingo.
Sent. Mic drop.
I flopped back on the couch, smug. "Game over. Their stuff's hitting the curb by morning."
Then Mom's voice memo hit my phone.
"Emily, sweetheart... are you sure?" Her tone was ice. "That's not Lucas. I won't tolerate you inventing drama."
The betrayal stung. Was Stepdad gaslighting her?
My friends exchanged glances. "Maybe... it's not him?"
"Bullshit." I stormed toward the stage, shoving past bachelorette parties until I was screaming his name over the bass.
No reaction.
Furious, I hunted down the club owner—Vincent Lowell, a family "friend."
"Uncle Vincent, name your price. I want that escort for the night."
He paled. "He's... not for booking. Guest performer only."
"Then why's he booked by sugar mommies for a month?" I countered.
Vincent sighed. "Fine. Dressing room. Five minutes."
The moment he walked in shirtless—abs glistening, sweat trailing down his torso—my brain short-circuited.
I rallied fast. "Cut the act, Lucas. You're busted."
Silence.
He toweled off, unfazed. "Miss, we've never met. If you wanted my attention..."—a slow once-over—"...this ain't it."
His accent threw me. Lucas spoke like a Harvard grad; this guy sounded straight from a Louisiana bayou.
Then he stepped closer, smirked, and delivered the killing blow:
"Sister, don't blush like that."
Yeah, right.
That same night, I caught my so-called stepbrother working as a high-end male escort at a club.
I first heard the news during class. The second I found out about my new "family addition," I completely lost it—sobbing into my roommate's shoulder like some tragic rom-com heroine. She dragged me to a bar to numb the shock.
"Emily, your mom's really marrying that guy?" my roommate asked, sliding me a drink. I'd been a mess all day, oscillating between crying jags and silent rage. My friends were low-key worried I'd do something reckless—like pick a fight with Mom and screw myself over.
"Obviously!" I hissed, slamming my glass down. "I met them. Total gold diggers. And now I'm stuck with some random stepbrother? That guy gives me major sketchy vibes."
My friends murmured sympathy, but let's be real—they were just here for the drama.
Then I saw him.
Mid-sip, I froze. There, under the pulsing club lights, was a guy who looked exactly like my future stepbrother—grinding against a crowd of women like he got paid for it.
Spoiler: He did.
"No. Freaking. Way." I jabbed a finger at the stage. "That's him!"
My roommate's jaw dropped. "Wait—that's the VIP escort everyone's obsessed with. Dude's booked solid by cougars for months."
Another friend squinted. "Since when does this place hire mixed-race escorts? That's new."
"Probably because he's stupid good at his job," someone muttered.
I was suddenly stone-cold sober, fumbling for my phone. "I need video proof. Mom's kicking them to the curb tonight."
No way was I letting some escort-turned-stepbrother tarnish our family name. Mom ran a Fortune 500 company—this scandal would be nuclear.
I elbowed through the crowd, snapping pics of his signature move: tilting some woman's chin like a bad romance novel cover. Even the mole on his cheek matched. Bingo.
Sent. Mic drop.
I flopped back on the couch, smug. "Game over. Their stuff's hitting the curb by morning."
Then Mom's voice memo hit my phone.
"Emily, sweetheart... are you sure?" Her tone was ice. "That's not Lucas. I won't tolerate you inventing drama."
The betrayal stung. Was Stepdad gaslighting her?
My friends exchanged glances. "Maybe... it's not him?"
"Bullshit." I stormed toward the stage, shoving past bachelorette parties until I was screaming his name over the bass.
No reaction.
Furious, I hunted down the club owner—Vincent Lowell, a family "friend."
"Uncle Vincent, name your price. I want that escort for the night."
He paled. "He's... not for booking. Guest performer only."
"Then why's he booked by sugar mommies for a month?" I countered.
Vincent sighed. "Fine. Dressing room. Five minutes."
The moment he walked in shirtless—abs glistening, sweat trailing down his torso—my brain short-circuited.
I rallied fast. "Cut the act, Lucas. You're busted."
Silence.
He toweled off, unfazed. "Miss, we've never met. If you wanted my attention..."—a slow once-over—"...this ain't it."
His accent threw me. Lucas spoke like a Harvard grad; this guy sounded straight from a Louisiana bayou.
Then he stepped closer, smirked, and delivered the killing blow:
"Sister, don't blush like that."
End of My Fake Stepbrother’s Undercover Kiss Chapter 1. Continue reading Chapter 2 or return to My Fake Stepbrother’s Undercover Kiss book page.