He heads home

Nick pulls into the garage just after five-thirty, the sky already turning orange over the hills. The house is quiet when he steps inside no maid in sight (she’s probably still at the hotel, cleaning herself up or crying in the shower), no sign of his mom or Riley. Only Angela’s white Range Rover sits in its spot, telling him his older sister is home from whatever holiday-break errand she was running.

He drops his backpack in the foyer, kicks off his shoes, and heads upstairs to shower off the day’s sweat and filth. But as he passes the second-floor hallway, he hears it: muffled music, low bass thumping from the far end, where the guest suite sits tucked away behind the media room.

Curious, he follows the sound.

The door to the guest bedroom is cracked open just enough for a sliver of light to spill into the dim corridor. The music is louder here some slow R&B track and underneath it, unmistakable rhythmic creaking and soft, breathy moans.

Nick’s pulse kicks up. He edges closer, silent on the plush runner, and peers through the gap.

Angela is on her back in the middle of the king bed, completely naked, long legs wrapped around the waist of a massive, dark-skinned man pounding into her with slow, deliberate strokes. The guy’s back is to the door broad shoulders, Chargers bolt tattoo visible on his calf—and when he shifts, Nick catches the profile: Derwin James Jr., All-Pro safety, face tight with pleasure as he murmurs something filthy into Angela’s ear.

Angela’s head is thrown back, blonde hair fanned across the pillows, mouth open in a silent gasp each time he bottoms out. Her manicured nails rake down his back, leaving red trails.

Nick’s first instinct is shock his perfect, well-behaved older sister, the one who always plays the responsible card, getting railed by an NFL star in their guest room. His second instinct is colder, more calculating.

He slips his phone from his pocket, silences it completely, and angles the camera through the crack. He snaps four quick photos: one wide shot of the bed, two close-ups of Derwin’s face buried in Angela’s neck, and one crystal-clear frame of Angela’s expression—eyes half-lidded, lips parted in obvious ecstasy.

**** gold.

He pockets the phone and backs away soundlessly, pulling the door to its original position so the gap looks undisturbed.

Down the hall, he slips into his own room and shuts the door, leaning against it with his heart hammering.

The pictures sit on his phone like loaded weapons.

He could do nothing let Angela keep her secret, pretend he never saw it.

He could tease her later, watch her squirm when she realizes he knows.

Or he could use it. Leverage. Make demands. Turn the golden child into another toy, just like Michelle. Nick sits on the edge of his bed, thumb hovering over the gallery app, staring at the frozen image of his sister lost in pleasure. He exhales slowly, a dark smile creeping across his face as the possibilities branch out in his mind. Now he just has to decide which path to take.