Razor: A Bad Boy Stepbrother Romance(64)

The truth is, being with him is a huge ego boost for a girl like me. He’s handsome, powerful and mysterious, and I’m a small town girl with dreams of becoming big in the fashion world. Being with him is downright intoxicating. Addicting. And I can never get enough.

There’s just one problem . . . he’s my stepbrother.





Chapter 1


Victoria




A fool. That’s what my mother has always called me for choosing a career in the fashion industry. Why can’t I aspire to work in a real industry with more stability? She’d ask.

“Because that’s always been my dream, Mother,” I’d say.

“Well, sorry to tell you, sweetheart, but dreams don’t pay the bills.”

Then she’d go on to berate me, telling me how much of a mistake I was making with my life. It got so bad that after I graduated from college and got a job as a personal assistant for one of the most popular designers in the city, Christine Finnerman, we had a huge falling out. I don’t know what it was with her and my pursuing my dream of fashion.

Every day, she would call me to tell me that it wasn’t too late to turn around and do something else with my life. She would offer alternatives to my career choice—all of which I hated with a passion. For a while I put up with her not-so-subtle suggestions, but I was infuriated every second that I had to listen to her complaining, and it took great effort to hold it all in. I mean, isn’t it a parent’s duty to encourage their child's hopes, dreams and aspirations? Not so for my mother. She seemed to take a special kind of glee in telling me I was doing it all wrong.

Finally, I could take no more. The feelings that I’d been holding back had boiled over and I soon started getting into shouting matches with my mother, saying things better left unsaid. Of course, none of these arguments ever ended well, and we ended up not speaking to each other for weeks at a time.

It was so bad that when her wedding came about, I didn't go. She was marrying some filthy rich guy that she'd callously divorced my father for.

I figured if she thought I was such a failure, then she wouldn’t want me showing up at her wedding, embarrassing her in front of her high-class guests.

In truth, I also didn’t go because I was still angry about the divorce. My mother had up and left my dad without so much as an explanation, simply stating that she wasn’t happy in her marriage and hadn’t been for a very long time. I thought it had more to do with the new man she was seeing, who had a far, far larger bank account.

After all, my mom has always had a taste for the finer things in life, you understand.

It didn’t seem to hurt my father, however, since he had a new girlfriend half his age within a week of the divorce. My father, it seemed, had already been dipping his toes in the younger pool way before things turned south in his marriage. Perhaps it was the real reason why Mother left him. Whatever the case, despite being angry about the divorce, I didn’t approve of my father’s behavior either. The girl he was with was around my age and dumb as a sack of potatoes. To make matters worse, he had plans to marry her and start a family. Out of distaste, I started shunning my father’s company as well, because when it came down to it, I couldn’t tolerate a girl that was basically the same age as me being my stepmother.

So here I am, in a big city, parentless, with only my dreams and aspirations to guide me.



* * *



A sharp voice snapped me to attention.

“Where is my coffee?”

I froze, a stack of papers filled with clothing designs, measurements and fashion models bundled in my arms. Slowly, I turned around to see Christine Finnerman, my boss, leaning against her desk, her palm resting against the polished wood. She impatiently tapped on her desk with her immaculate nails, making a clack, clack, clack sound.

As usual, she was dressed as sharp as a tack. A white dress wrapped around her matronly frame, fitting her like a glove, and a shiny black belt circled her waist, giving her shapely figure a va-voom appearance. She was wearing black glossy heels I’d contemplate killing my mother for, and not one bit of her shoulder-length hair, which is a striking pepper gray, was out of place.

“I’m sorry, Christine,” I said when I could finally manage, trying to push down the anxiety that was suddenly rushing up my throat. “I was just about to get it. I didn’t expect you to arrive ten minutes early.”

Christine eyed me with contempt reserved for a dog. “One should always be prepared for the unexpected, especially in this industry.” She paused for dramatic effect. Hurry up. I swear she spoke the last words with her mouth closed.

“Right away.”

Scrambling in my three-inch Christian Dior heels—a job perk that I particularly enjoyed—I made my way to my desk that’s in the adjoining room to Christine’s office. I threw the stack down on it, breathing in and out, trying to catch my breath. I was wearing a tight black dress that makes it difficult for me to breathe as well as move because it’s a size too small. Christine told me that at a size eight, I’m fat by industry standards, so I’d started trying to squeeze into smaller dress sizes, hoping that the discomfort would encourage me to lose weight.

Once I thought I could breathe again, I scurried over to the professional Keurig machine that sat in the hallway leading up to Christine’s office. A few seconds later, I’m setting down a steaming mug on her desk.