Owned by Her Stepbrother Royal

Prologue

Sierra

Four Months Earlier

Another charity gala, another designer gown, another room overflowing with people pretending to care about causes they only remember when cameras are pointed at them. Crystal chandeliers spill golden light over polished marble floors while a string quartet performs somewhere in the background.

It’s nearly drowned out by forced laughter and the clinking of champagne glasses. Every smile is calculated. Every handshake has a price. And every conversation is another carefully choreographed performance.

I perfected this act years ago, smiling at people I don’t respect, laughing at jokes that aren’t funny, and letting everyone believe I’m exactly the shallow socialite they expect me to be. It’s amazing how invisible intelligence becomes when people decide you’re just a pretty face.

I lift my champagne flute without taking a sip as another politician drones on about philanthropy to a circle of businessmen who probably evade more taxes than they’ll donate tonight.

My attention drifts around the ballroom instead, searching for anything remotely interesting, and that’s when I see him.

Royal Madera.

Even standing across the room, he commands attention without seeming to try.

He’s taller than almost everyone surrounding him.

Broad shoulders stretch the expensive black tuxedo tailored specifically for him, dark hair perfectly styled, his neatly trimmed beard framing a face that belongs on the cover of every luxury magazine lining grocery store shelves.

Women steal glances at him when they think no one is looking, while men greet him with effortless familiarity, eager to shake the hand of one of the heirs to the Madera fortune.

He smiles easily, laughs at something an older woman says, and somehow manages to make every person around him feel like they’re the center of his attention.

“You’ve been staring at Royal Madera for almost a full minute.”

I blink before turning toward one of my friends, Olivia, who smirks knowingly while nudging my arm. Beside her, Daphne follows my gaze across the ballroom before letting out an exaggerated sigh.

“I don’t blame her,” Daphne says. “The man’s unfairly attractive.”

“I’ve heard he’s even better looking up close,” Olivia adds.

“I wasn’t staring,” I lie smoothly. “I was observing.”

Olivia laughs. “Call it whatever you want. If Royal Madera walked over here and smiled at you, you’d forget your own name.”

“I highly doubt that.”

“You wouldn’t be the first.” Daphne lowers her voice conspiratorially. “My cousin met him at a fundraiser last year. She spent twenty minutes talking to him and insisted afterward that he was the nicest man she’d ever met.”

Olivia snorts. “He’s also supposedly LA’s most eligible bachelor. Every gossip magazine has linked him to at least a dozen women.”

“They link every wealthy man to a dozen women,” I point out.

“True,” Olivia admits. “Although everyone says he’s a playboy. That it’s the reason his father prefers his older brother to him.”

I glance back toward him. “Really? Everyone says that?”

“He never keeps the same woman around long enough for anyone to learn otherwise.”

“I’ve also heard he wastes his time working at some tattoo shop,” Daphne says, wrinkling her nose. “Apparently, it’s his little rebellion against his father.”

“His hobby,” Olivia corrects with a grin. “That’s what Marco Madera calls it.”

The comment earns a quiet laugh from both of them, but I barely hear it because something about Royal doesn’t fit the image they’re describing. His smile is perfect, his posture relaxed, and his conversations appear effortless, yet none of it feels genuine.

It reminds me of actors I’ve watched on stage, every expression polished through repetition until it becomes second nature. Then I notice something stranger. Every few minutes, his attention flicks toward the phone in his hand before returning to whoever he’s speaking with.

And while everyone else is captivated by his charm, I begin wondering why a man who looks so comfortable here keeps checking his screen like he’s waiting for something important.

“What?” Olivia asks.

“Nothing.”

“No, that’s your suspicious face.”

“I have a suspicious face?”

“You absolutely do.”

I ignore her because Royal suddenly excuses himself from the group surrounding him. He offers another practiced smile before slipping through a side doorway leading toward the quieter hallway outside the ballroom, and curiosity sparks inside me before common sense has a chance to intervene.

“I’ll be right back.”

Olivia raises an eyebrow. “Where are you going?”

“The restroom.”

The hallway is blissfully quiet compared to the ballroom; the music reduced to a faint murmur behind closed doors. Royal is already halfway down the corridor with his back to me, his attention fixed entirely on the phone in his hand.

I slow my footsteps instinctively, careful not to let my heels echo across the marble floor, and as I close the distance, I finally catch a glimpse of his screen. It isn’t a text conversation. It looks like surveillance footage.

Multiple camera feeds fill the display, each showing a different location, and before I can make sense of what I’m seeing, Royal goes completely still.

Without turning around, he says, “You know, Princess, if you wanted my attention, you could’ve simply asked.”

Heat rushes into my cheeks. He turns then, amusement dancing in warm chocolate-brown eyes that are somehow even more striking up close. His smile widens as realization settles over my expression.

“You followed me.”

“I did no such thing.”

“No?” He slips his phone into his pocket with frustrating ease. “Then what are the odds we both decided this empty hallway was more entertaining than the ballroom?”

“I needed some air.”

“In an interior hallway?”

I fold my arms. “You’re awfully full of yourself.”

“So I’ve been told.”

He steps closer, close enough for the subtle scent of expensive cologne mixed with something warmer and distinctly masculine to reach me.

Up close, I notice details I couldn’t see across the ballroom, the faint scar disappearing beneath his beard, the confidence in the way he carries himself, and the intelligence behind eyes that seem to miss absolutely nothing.

“You’ve been watching me all evening,” he says.

“I was people-watching.”

“And I happened to be one of the people.”

“I suppose.”

His smile deepens. “I’m flattered.”

“You shouldn’t be. I was only trying to decide whether your reputation is exaggerated.”

“And what have you concluded?”

“That you’re exactly what everyone says you are.”

His eyebrow lifts. “Which is?”

“A charming playboy who enjoys hearing himself talk.”

He laughs then, a genuine sound that catches me off guard because it doesn’t sound rehearsed the way everything else about him does.

“I like you.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“I know.”

His voice lowers slightly as he takes another step toward me, leaving barely a foot between us.

I should move. I should remind him that I don’t flirt with men like Royal Madera.

Men who collect admirers as easily as they collect expensive watches.

Instead, I remain exactly where I am, my pulse betraying me as his gaze drifts slowly over my face.

“You know,” he murmurs, “you’re a terrible liar.”

“I don’t lie.” I force myself to stay still despite my hammering heart.

“You’ve been pretending you aren’t attracted to me since the moment you walked into this hallway.”

My heartbeat stumbles. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Of course, you don’t.”

Before I realize what he’s doing, he plants one hand against the wall beside my head, boxing me in without actually touching me.

The movement more exciting than threatening.

The nearness of him steals the air from my lungs.

I lift my chin stubbornly, refusing to let him see how aware I suddenly am of every inch separating us.

“Still think I’m exaggerating my appeal?” he asks softly.

“I think you’re insufferable.”

“And yet you haven’t walked away.”

Our eyes lock, the push and pull fading into something heavier, quieter, and infinitely more dangerous. His gaze drops briefly to my mouth before returning to my eyes, and against all reason, I find myself wondering what it would feel like if he kissed me.

The thought is so unexpected that it startles me, but judging by the way his expression shifts, he must see something change in my eyes because he slowly leans closer. Then his phone vibrates. The sound slices through the moment like a blade.

Royal’s entire demeanor changes in an instant. Whatever easygoing charm he’d been wearing disappears beneath sharp focus as he glances at the screen, and something unreadable flashes across his face before he straightens.

“Duty calls,” he says quietly.

Before I can respond, he offers me one last small smile, turns on his heel, and disappears down the hallway without another word.

I remain where I am long after he’s gone, staring after him as confusion churns inside me. A man doesn’t nearly kiss a woman only to walk away because his phone buzzes unless she’s nothing more than a passing distraction.

I shake my head and smooth imaginary wrinkles from my gown before returning to the ballroom. Royal Madera really is exactly what everyone says he is. A gorgeous playboy who can make a woman believe, if only for a moment, that she’s the only person in the room.