7. Holly
HOLLY
The package arrives at my dorm on Thursday afternoon, delivered by a private courier who makes me sign for it like it contains the Crown Jewels. My roommate Jess watches with wide eyes as I carry the large black box to my desk.
"What is that?"
"I have no idea."
The box is matte black with a silver ribbon. No logo, no markings. I untie the ribbon and lift the lid.
Emerald silk catches the light. I lift the dress carefully—floor-length, elegant, with a plunging neckline and delicate straps.
The fabric is impossibly soft, clearly expensive.
Beneath it, nestled in tissue paper, are diamond earrings and a matching bracelet that catch the afternoon sunlight streaming through the window.
A cream card rests on top. Harrison's handwriting—strong, confident strokes.
Wear this tonight. I'm taking you somewhere special. My driver will collect you at 7 PM.
—H
"Holy shit," Jess breathes, coming closer to examine the dress. "Who sent you that?"
"A... friend."
"A friend with serious money. Those are real diamonds, Holly."
I know. My hands shake slightly as I touch the bracelet. This is Harrison's world—sophisticated, refined, expensive. A world I've only glimpsed in stolen moments at his penthouse.
"I need to get ready."
Jess helps me with my hair, styling it in an elegant updo that makes me look older. My makeup is careful—subtle eyeshadow, mascara, red lipstick. The dress fits perfectly, hugging my curves before flowing to the floor. The emerald color makes my skin glow, my brown eyes darker.
The diamonds feel cool against my skin.
When I look in the mirror, I barely recognize myself. I look polished, adult, sophisticated.
"You look like you belong at the Met Gala," Jess says. "Seriously, who is this guy?"
"Someone important."
At seven PM exactly, my phone buzzes. Driver is outside.
The black town car waits at the curb. The driver—older, professional, discreet—opens the door for me without comment. The interior is leather and luxury, a stark contrast to Uber rides and campus shuttles.
We drive into the city, toward the historic district. My nerves build with every mile. Where is Harrison taking me? Why the formal dress?
The car stops in front of the grand opera house. Marble columns, sweeping stairs, elegantly dressed patrons streaming inside. The building is historic, beautiful, imposing.
Harrison waits at the entrance.
My breath catches.
He wears an impeccable black tuxedo, the jacket perfectly tailored to his broad shoulders.
His white shirt is crisp, silver cufflinks gleaming at his wrists.
His black hair—threaded with silver at the temples—is perfectly styled, his beard trimmed close.
Those gray eyes find me immediately, darkening with appreciation.
He looks distinguished. Powerful. Sophisticated.
Every inch the silver fox.
I step out of the car, and his gaze travels slowly down my body, possessive and hungry.
"You're stunning, stepsister."
The word sends heat through me despite the formal setting. Maybe because of it.
He offers his arm. I take it, hyper-aware of the stares following us up the stairs. An older couple pauses, glancing between us with thinly veiled curiosity. A woman in pearls whispers to her companion.
"People are staring," I say quietly.
Harrison's hand covers mine on his arm. "Let them. You're beautiful, and you're with me. That's all that matters."
Inside, the opera house is breathtaking. Gilded architecture, crystal chandeliers, red velvet seats. Patrons in evening wear fill the lobby, champagne glasses in hand, conversations humming.
Harrison leads me up a sweeping staircase to a private box with a perfect view of the stage. The seats are plush, the space intimate.
"Harrison, this is?—"
"Where I want you to be." He settles beside me, close enough that his thigh presses against mine. "I wanted to share this with you."
The lights dim. The orchestra begins.
Puccini's La Bohème . The music swells, romantic and tragic and beautiful. The performers' voices fill the opera house, the story unfolding on stage in Italian I don't understand but feel anyway.
I'm swept up in it—the emotion, the beauty, the luxury of this experience.
Harrison watches me as much as the stage. I feel his gaze, possessive and satisfied, like he's pleased by my reaction.
During a particularly emotional aria—Mimì's confession of love—Harrison's hand finds mine. His fingers interlace with mine, warm and strong.
The intimacy in this public, refined setting feels significant. Like we're crossing another threshold.
I glance at him. His profile is striking in the dim light—the strong line of his jaw, the slight silver in his beard, the lines around his eyes that speak of experience and authority. He's lived a life, built a career, earned his power.
And he wants me.
Harrison catches me staring. He leans close, his breath warm against my ear. "Enjoying the opera, or enjoying looking at your stepbrother?"
Heat floods my cheeks. "Both."
His smile is wicked. "Good answer."
During intermission, Harrison leads me to a private club within the opera house. The space is exclusive—dark wood paneling, leather chairs, champagne service on silver trays. Clearly reserved for wealthy patrons and donors.
Harrison is greeted immediately by several people. Business colleagues, acquaintances from his world. He introduces me simply as "Holly," not specifying our relationship.
I notice the curious glances. The way eyes flick between us, calculating the age difference.
An elegant woman in her sixties approaches, her gown designer, her jewelry real. "Harrison, darling. Who is your lovely companion?"
Harrison's hand settles possessively on my lower back. "This is Holly. She's very special to me."
The woman—Victoria, I catch from another conversation—assesses me with sharp eyes. "I see. How did you two meet?"
Panic flutters in my chest. What do I say?
Harrison answers smoothly. "Through family. And I've been fortunate to spend more time with her recently."
The deflection is masterful—implying intimacy without revealing specifics.
Victoria's smile tightens. "How... nice."
She moves away, and I release a breath. "That was intense."
"She's a gossip. She'll speculate, but she doesn't know anything." Harrison's thumb strokes my lower back. "You handled it well."
"I didn't say anything."
"Exactly. Let them wonder."
A distinguished man in his early fifties approaches, silver-haired and charming, his tuxedo expensive. "Harrison. Good to see you. Business is treating you well, I trust?"
"As always, Marcus."
Marcus's attention shifts to me, his smile appreciative in a way that makes Harrison's hand tighten on my back. "And who is this vision?"
"This is Holly."
Marcus extends his hand. I shake it politely, acutely aware of Harrison's tension beside me.
"A pleasure. Are you interested in opera, my dear?"
"I am. Tonight is my first time at a performance like this."
Marcus's eyes light up. "Your first? How delightful. There's nothing quite like experiencing this world for the first time. Perhaps I could give you a tour of the opera house sometime. I'm on the board of directors."
The offer is clearly flirtatious. Heat crawls up my neck.
"That's kind, but?—"
"She won't be needing a tour, Marcus." Harrison's voice is cold. "She has me."
Marcus raises an eyebrow. "Of course. I didn't realize you two were... together."
Harrison's arm slides around my waist, pulling me against his side. The possessive display is unmistakable. "Now you do."
Marcus's expression shifts to surprise as he reassesses us—taking in the age difference, the implications. "Well. That's... unexpected, Harrison. She's quite young."
Harrison's gray eyes turn glacial. "She's also mine. I suggest you remember that."
The tension is thick enough to choke on. I stand frozen between them, caught in Harrison's possessive claim.
Marcus backs down, raising his hands. "No offense intended. Congratulations."
He walks away, but his backward glance is full of curiosity and judgment.
I wait until he's out of earshot. "You just told him we're together."
"I did."
"He's going to talk. Everyone here will know by the end of the night."
"Let them know."
"Harrison, we agreed to be careful?—"
He turns me to face him, both hands on my waist. "I'm done being careful, Holly. I'm done hiding what you mean to me."
My heart races. "What do I mean to you?"
His eyes are intense, holding mine. "Everything."
Before I can respond, Victoria returns with two other colleagues—a man in his sixties and a woman in her fifties, both impeccably dressed.
Victoria's smile is sharp. "Harrison, we couldn't help overhearing. You and this young lady are involved?"
Harrison doesn't hesitate. "Yes. This is the woman I'm in love with."
The words hit me like a physical blow. My breath catches, heart stuttering. It's the first time either of us has said "love" aloud.
The colleagues exchange shocked glances.
The man—Robert—speaks carefully. "She's very young, Harrison. May I ask how old?"
"Twenty. And before you comment further, I'm aware of the age difference. I'm also completely certain about my feelings."
Robert's eyebrows rise. "It's just... quite a gap. Twenty-nine years?"
"I can count, Robert."
Victoria leans forward, curiosity overcoming discretion. "And how did you two meet?"
I find my voice. "Through family. His father is married to my mother."
The revelation creates a ripple of shock through the small group.
Victoria's eyes widen. "She's your stepsister?"
Harrison is completely unapologetic. "Yes. And the woman I intend to spend my life with. Any other questions?"
The group is speechless, unsure how to respond to such blunt honesty.
Harrison's hand is firm on my back. "If you'll excuse us, the second act is about to begin."
He leads me away, leaving stunned silence behind.
Back in our private box, I'm shaking. "You just told them everything."
"I told them what matters."