Bitter Sweet Love with My Stepbrother CEO-Chapter 25: A Lie Running Out of Time

Dianne stared at her reflection and barely recognized the woman looking back.

Her lipstick was flawless. Her hair fell in perfect waves over her shoulders. Her dress clung to her body in all the right places—expensive, elegant, calculated. Everything about her appearance said composed.

Everything inside her was unraveling.

She pressed her palms against the marble countertop of her bathroom, knuckles whitening as she leaned forward. The room smelled faintly of jasmine and something metallic—fear, if fear had a scent.

Joseph’s face rose unbidden in her mind.

Not angry.

Not pleading.

Not desperate.

Controlled.

That was what terrified her.

When she had revealed the pregnancy claim, she had expected something. Shock. Panic. Guilt. Even reluctant tenderness would have been acceptable.

But Joseph had gone still.

Too still.

He hadn’t clung. He hadn’t promised anything. He hadn’t tried to salvage the engagement with emotional words or rash vows. Instead, he had listened. Absorbed. Then retreated behind a wall of professionalism that no amount of sentiment could penetrate.

He had believed her—at least on the surface.

But belief wasn’t the same as surrender.

Dianne straightened and reached for a glass of water, her fingers trembling enough that some spilled onto the counter. She swore under her breath and set the glass down untouched.

He’s buying time, she realized.

Not for her.

For himself.

And that realization made her stomach twist violently.

Joseph wasn’t scrambling to keep her. He was preparing for the truth—whatever that truth turned out to be.

Lawyers. Procedures. Verification.

She had seen it in his eyes.

This wasn’t a man trapped.

This was a man setting exits.

Her breath came shallow as she replayed their final exchange over and over again—the way he had said he would take responsibility, but never once said he would stay.

Responsibility without attachment.

It was the most dangerous position she could have hoped for.

Because a man like that could walk away without guilt.

Dianne moved into the bedroom and sat at the edge of her bed, phone clutched tightly in her hand.

She opened the calendar.

Hotel incident just a week ago.

She swallowed.

She had chosen the timing carefully. Six weeks was early enough to explain uncertainty. Early enough to avoid immediate medical scrutiny. Early enough to buy space.

But early also meant fragile.

Too early for consistent physical signs. Too early for undeniable proof. Too early to hide behind biology for long.

Her fingers hovered over the screen as she counted days backward and forward again, as if repeating the math might somehow change it.

Six weeks.

That meant questions.

Appointments.

Blood tests.

Ultrasounds that could not be fabricated forever.

Her chest tightened.

She stood abruptly and began pacing the room, heels clicking sharply against the floor. Each step felt like it echoed too loudly, as if the walls themselves were listening.

She imagined the next conversation.

A doctor’s office. White walls. Calm voices.

"Let’s confirm the pregnancy."

The thought made her nauseous.

She pressed a hand to her stomach, fingers curling into the fabric of her dress.

There was nothing there.

Nothing growing. Nothing changing.

Just a lie sitting heavy in her gut, demanding more with every passing day.

She squeezed her eyes shut.

I just need time, she told herself. That’s all. Once the engagement is secure—once the announcement stands—once Joseph is bound—

But the lie interrupted her thoughts like a blade.

Bound how?

Marriage?

Joseph was already pulling away.

A child?

That was the problem.

The pregnancy wasn’t leverage anymore.

It was a ticking clock.

Her breaths came faster now. She walked to the window and pushed it open, gulping in the cool evening air like she was drowning.

Down below, the city pulsed with life—people moving freely, laughing, choosing their own paths without consequence.

Dianne laughed bitterly.

Must be nice.

The thought came to her slowly.

Not as a lightning strike.

But as a whisper.

Make it real.

She froze.

Her mind rejected it instantly, revulsion curling sharp and hot in her chest. She shook her head, hair swaying violently.

"No," she muttered. "No, no, no—"

But the whisper didn’t go away.

It grew louder.

You don’t need him.

You just need proof.

She sank back onto the bed, hands gripping the sheets as if they could anchor her.

Sleep with another man.

The idea made her stomach churn.

A stranger.

Someone whose name she wouldn’t remember. Someone who wouldn’t ask questions. Someone who wouldn’t linger.

A one-night stand.

No history. No trail. No consequences.

Her breath hitched.

It was disgusting.

It was terrifying.

And it was... logical.

Dianne let out a shaky laugh that sounded dangerously close to hysteria.

"This isn’t me," she whispered.

But even as she said it, she knew it wasn’t true anymore.

The woman she used to be would have recoiled at the thought. She would have trusted appearances, family standing, and patience to secure her future.

That woman was gone.

Replaced by someone who understood that survival required sacrifice.

She stared at the ceiling, blinking rapidly as tears threatened to spill—not from heartbreak, but from the sheer weight of what she was becoming.

A child isn’t about love, she told herself fiercely. It’s about security.

Joseph would never abandon his child.

That much, she knew.

He was too responsible. Too honorable.

If she could give him that—if she could give the world that truth—then everything else could be managed.

The engagement could stand.

The scandal could be avoided.

Her father would be appeased.

Her life would remain intact.

The justification settled heavily in her chest, smothering the last flicker of doubt.

Slowly, deliberately, Dianne sat up.

She wiped her eyes, smoothed her dress, and reached for her purse.

If time was her enemy—

Then tonight, she would stop running.

And cross the line she could never uncross.

Her phone rang just as she slipped her heels on.

The sound cut through the room like a blade.

Dianne froze, one foot hovering above the floor, pulse thundering in her ears. She already knew who it was before she looked.

Father.

Her fingers hesitated for half a second too long—then she answered.

"Yes?" she said, pitching her voice carefully, smoothing it into something obedient and light.

"Where are you?" Mr. Jenkins asked. No greeting. No warmth. Straight to the point.

"At home," she replied, which was technically true. "I was just about to head out."

A pause crackled through the line. Dianne imagined him seated behind his massive desk, fingers steepled, eyes sharp with calculation.

"Good," he said. "Listen carefully."

Her stomach knotted.

"When you approach the sixth week," he continued. "That’s when confirmation becomes standard."

Her grip tightened on the phone.

"I want you to schedule a checkup," he said. "A proper one. We need documentation and reports."

Her breath caught, just barely. "Of course," she replied quickly. "I was planning to."

"You should have already," he snapped. "We don’t leave room for uncertainty."

Dianne swallowed. "I’ve been under a lot of stress."

"That is irrelevant," he said coldly. "Stress doesn’t excuse sloppiness."

She closed her eyes.

"By the end of the week," he continued, "I expect confirmation. Clear. Medical. Something we can rely on."

The words settled like a verdict.

"And Dianne," he added, his voice lowering, sharpening. "If this engagement collapses because of incompetence on your part... you understand the consequences."

Her chest tightened painfully.

"Yes," she whispered.

The call ended.

The silence afterward roared.

Dianne stood there, phone pressed to her ear long after the line went dead, her reflection staring back at her from the mirror—pale, wide-eyed, unsteady.

End of the week.

Days.

Not weeks.

Not even one more cycle of lies.

Time wasn’t just running out.

It was gone.

Dianne slid down against the wall, sinking to the floor.

Her breathing came in short, sharp gasps now, panic flooding her system with brutal efficiency. She pressed her forehead against her knees, nails digging into her palms.

Think.

Panic wouldn’t save her.

Fear wouldn’t protect her.

Only action would.

Her father wouldn’t accept delays. Doctors wouldn’t accept excuses. And Joseph—Joseph was already half out the door, his sense of responsibility the only thing keeping him from severing ties completely.

If she failed now—

She squeezed her eyes shut.

No.

She wouldn’t fail.

Slowly, deliberately, she straightened.

The fear didn’t disappear—but it hardened, compressing into something sharp and focused.

Tonight, she decided.

Not tomorrow. Not after another rehearsal of courage in front of the mirror.

Tonight.

If she waited, she’d hesitate again. She’d rationalize. She’d look for softer solutions that didn’t exist.

She stood and crossed the room, movements precise now, almost mechanical. Panic had burned itself out, leaving behind resolve like cooled steel.

Her phone buzzed again—messages from acquaintances, invitations, trivialities.

She ignored them all.

She didn’t need friends.

She needed anonymity.

Dianne changed clothes.

Not into anything provocative—nothing that would draw attention or suggest intention. She chose something understated: dark dress, clean lines, elegant but forgettable.

She applied makeup carefully, but not heavily. Enough to look polished. Enough to blend in.

Her hands didn’t shake anymore.

That scared her.

She studied herself in the mirror, searching for hesitation, for doubt.

There was none.

Only a hollow determination that made her eyes look older than they should.

She chose a bar far from her usual circles—dim, crowded, anonymous. A place where faces blurred together and names didn’t matter.

She grabbed her purse and keys and paused at the door.

For just a moment, a memory flickered—Joseph’s quiet restraint, his refusal to be pulled closer by emotion or fear.

This is his fault, she told herself harshly. If he had just stayed. If he had just chosen me.

The justification tasted bitter—but she swallowed it anyway.

She stepped out into the night.

The bar was loud.

Music thumped through the floor, bass vibrating in her bones. The air smelled of alcohol, sweat, and something vaguely sweet. Conversations overlapped, laughter spilling freely from lips that didn’t know what it was to be cornered by consequence.

Dianne slipped inside and took a seat at the bar.

She ordered a drink she didn’t really want and wrapped her fingers around the glass, letting the cold seep into her skin.

Men glanced her way.

She felt it immediately—the shift, the attention. It came easily. Too easily.

Once, that power had thrilled her.

Now, it felt transactional.

She scanned the room with careful indifference, selecting not by attraction but by absence—no wedding ring, no familiar face, no one who looked like they’d remember tomorrow. And the most important thing, someone that looks like Joseph.

There.

A man at the far end of the bar. Alone. Ordinary. Forgettable.

Perfect.

Her chest tightened—not with excitement, but with finality.

After this, she thought, there is no turning back.

She finished her drink and stood.

As she walked toward him, the noise around her faded into a dull hum. Each step felt like crossing a threshold she could never uncross.

She didn’t think about Joseph.

She didn’t think about love.

She thought about time.

About proof.

About survival.

And as she reached the edge of his table, forcing a smile onto her lips, one truth settled cold and clear in her mind:

She wasn’t chasing desire anymore.

She was racing the inevitable—and praying she could outrun it.