Watch Me Love Your Stepbrother: Rejected, Pregnant , And Claimed

As I walked through the doors, I felt like I had walked into a wrong movie set.

Every single head in the lobby turned to look at me. It wasn’t because I looked beautiful—it was because I was an absolute walking fashion disaster. I was wearing Giulia’s blazer gown. Giulia was tall with broad, model-like shoulders. I, on the other hand, was petite with big boobs.

Before leaving the apartment, I had used four massive safety pins to hold the fabric together at my waist so my breasts wouldn’t completely burst the buttons.

Compared to the other applicants sitting in the lobby—all wearing tailored couture and flawless makeup—I looked like a thumb in a pack of middle fingers.

After a few seconds of staring, everyone collectively snapped their eyes back to their own laps. Nobody wanted to make a scene. After all, this was the most cutthroat logistics empire in Milan, and nobody dared to behave anyhow here.

The receptionist didn’t even look up from her monitor. She just pointed a manicured finger toward the elevator on the left. "Floor forty. HR is waiting."

The interview with the HR manager was short.

Signora Rossi didn’t ask me stupid questions about my five-year plan. Instead, her eyes kept drifting down to the awkward, pinned-up fit of my borrowed blazer. I kept my chin up anyway.

"Your resume shows a huge gap in corporate experience, Miss Brenner," she said, tapping her pen against the desk. "And yet, your Italian is completely flawless."

"I learn fast because I have to," I replied evenly. "And I handle high-stress environments well. I have a four-year-old daughter—I am very used to surviving on zero sleep and dealing with difficult people."

The HR manager exchanged a glance with the assistant sitting beside her.

"Honestly, Miss Brenner, the last three assistants we hired had degrees from Oxford, and they all left crying within a week," Signora Rossi said, closing my folder. "We don’t need a perfect resume. We need someone who won’t break under pressure. You’re hired."

I actually smiled, my hands relaxing against my lap. "Thank you. I won’t disappoint you."

"Don’t thank me yet," the HR manager said, her expression turning completely serious. "There is one final detail. You start right now. You’ll be reporting directly to the top floor."

I nodded slowly. "That’s fine."

Then she lowered her voice.

"A word of advice, Miss Brenner."

I frowned.

"Don’t argue with him. Don’t take anything he says personally. And whatever you do, don’t stare at him for too long."

The assistant beside her snorted softly.

Signora Rossi shot her a look.

"I’m serious."

"What happens if I stare?" I asked.

The assistant smiled.

"You forget what you were about to say."

Signora Rossi ignored her.

"His standards are impossible. His patience is worse. If you survive three months, you’ll break a company record."

She slid a keycard across the desk.

"Top floor. Last office at the end of the corridor."

I reached for the card.

"And his name?"

"Mr. Laziel Monroe."

Monroe.

The smile slipped from my face before I could stop it.

No.

There were thousands of Monroes in the world. It couldn’t be the same family. There was absolutely no way Helix’s bloodline reached this deep into Milan. It was just a coincidence. I tried to convince myself.

But I had learned one brutal lesson five years ago. Monroe men don’t just change your life—they ruin it. And apparently, I was about to walk straight into the jaws of another one.

The private elevator opened onto the forty-fifth floor.

I walked down the corridor. At the very end stood a door.

I stopped. My hand shook slightly as I raised my knuckles and knocked.

Nothing. No voice telling me to enter.

I waited three seconds. I knocked again, harder this time. Still, absolute silence.

Maybe he’s out, I thought. Maybe I can just leave the HR paperwork on his desk and run back to the elevator.

I opened the door.

The words Excuse me died in my throat, as my eyes widened.

The man in the chair had his head flung back, his eyes closed.

A woman was kneeling beside the CEO’s chair, her face buried straight in his lap.

One of his hands rested lazily in her hair.

He was getting a blow job.

Instinct took over. I spun around so fast.

"I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry, I didn’t know—" I stammered.

"Stay right there," a voice commanded.

"Get out," the man barked.

A second later, the blonde woman hurried past me. She didn’t look at my face; she was too busy desperately smoothing down her wrinkled skirt and wiping a smudge of lipstick from her chin with the back of her hand. But as she yanked the door open, she threw a glare over her shoulder—clearly disgusted that a girl in a pinned-up, monstrously oversized suit had just ruined her position under the desk.

The door clicked shut behind her, leaving me completely alone with him. I prayed the floor would open and swallow me.

"Turn around."

I slowly faced him.

And forgot every warning Signora Rossi had given me.

Dark hair.

Dark blue eyes.

The kind of face people wrote novels about and regretted later.

His tie hung loose around his neck. The top buttons of his shirt were undone, revealing tanned skin and the faint outline of a tattoo disappearing beneath expensive fabric.

He looked less like a CEO and more like a very dangerous mistake.

His gaze swept over me slowly.

From Giulia’s oversized blazer.

To the safety pins straining at my waist.

Back to my face.

One dark eyebrow lifted.

"So you’re the replacement."

"I’m sorry about earlier. I should have waited outside."

His expression didn’t change.

"If you faint every time a woman leaves my office, this job won’t last long."

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

"Sit down, before those pins give up and take out my eye."

I pulled out the chair opposite him, "I’m ready to begin, Mr. Monroe."

He let out a chuckle that sounded more like a threat than amusement. "We’ll see how long that lasts."