A Brothers torment.

The bass from the living room stereo vibrated through the floorboards of the hallway, a low-frequency hum that synced perfectly with the headache throbbing behind Trent’s eyes. He sat on the edge of his bed, scrolling through his phone, the blue light washing out his features.

 It was the usual post-game fallout. The university’s football team had crushed the state rivals, and the victory party was currently raging downstairs. But the chatter on his social feed wasn’t about the touchdown passes or the defensive line. It was all about Natalia, his twin sister.

 Trent paused on a video posted to a private story, grainy and vertical. It was Natalia, alright.

 She wasn’t in a swimsuit. She was wearing the tight, sequined corset of the "Velvet Gavel" VIP staff, a tray of shots balanced on one hand while she laughed at something a linebacker said. The caption read: Our lucky charm knows how to serve.

 He tossed the phone onto the duvet. They knew. The whole damn team knew. That explained why she’d suddenly become the most popular girl on campus, invited to every mixer and after-party, the "swim team sweetheart" who mysteriously had connections to the city’s underworld elite. They didn’t know she was doing it to fund her Olympic training; they just knew she was the girl from the velvet room.

 A soft, frantic knock rattled his door.

 Trent didn’t answer immediately. He let the silence stretch, forcing her to wait. He knew what was on the other side. He knew what she looked like under that oversized hoodie she was probably wearing.

 "Trent? Please, open up."

 Her voice was a breathless whisper, stripped of the posh, polished tone she used for their parents. It was the voice she used at the club.

 He stood up and unlocked the door.

 Natalia slipped inside, shutting the door with a click that seemed deafeningly loud against the thumping bass downstairs. She looked wrecked. Her blonde waves were pulled back into a messy bun, her face scrubbed clean of heavy makeup, but the smell of expensive perfume and stale smoke still clung to her skin. She wore baggy sweatpants and a university hoodie—her uniform for hiding in plain sight.

 She leaned back against the wood, her chest heaving, those XL breasts rising and falling rapidly beneath the cotton fabric.

 "They're downstairs," she whispered, her blue eyes wide and darting to the window. "Half the defensive line is in the living room. They kept looking at me, Trent. The way Johnson looked at me... he knows."

 "I know they know," Trent said, his voice flat. He walked back to his bed and sat down, watching her. "I saw the video, Nat. You’re trending on the team's private story. You’re the mascot now."

 Natalia flinched as if he’d slapped her. She wrapped her arms around herself, hugging her athletic frame. "It's not funny. If Mom and Dad find out—if the swim coach finds out I’m stripping at the Gavel, I’m off the roster. I’m done."

 "Then you shouldn't have stolen VIP uniforms with hidden microphones in them," Trent said, crossing his arms. "And you shouldn't have let your rival get photos of you on the pole."

 She froze. The color drained from her face. "You know about the microphones?"

 "I know about the microphones," Trent said. "I know about the blackmail. I know the club owner is wired into half the city's corporate board, including my partners. And I know you’re currently sitting on a pile of evidence that could get you killed if the owner finds out."

Natalia stared at him, the realization dawning that her twin brother wasn't just a nerdy hacker. He was the only person in the house who wasn't asleep at the wheel. She pushed off the door and took a hesitant step toward him, the fear shifting into something else—desperation mixed with a familiar, calculated flirty heat.

 "I didn't know who else to go to," she said, her voice dropping an octave. "I need help, Trent. I need someone to make the blackmail go away. I need someone to get rid of those uniforms before the manager realizes they're gone. And I need you to cover for me tonight so I can sneak back out to return the ones I still have."

 She stopped at the foot of his bed, her fingers toying with the hem of her hoodie. She knew he had seen her at the club. She knew he had watched her. The thought made a delicious shiver run up her spine.

 "What do I get out of it?" Trent asked, his eyes dragging over her body. "Fixing this isn't free, Nat. I have to wipe the rival's drives, hack the club's security cameras and inventory, and lie to Mom and Dad. That's a full-time job."

 Natalia bit her lip, her blue eyes locking onto his. She slowly lifted the hem of her hoodie, revealing the taut, athletic skin of her stomach. "I can make it worth your while. I have secrets, Trent. Intel from the VIP room. Things your business partners say when they think a stripper isn't listening."

 She let the hoodie drop back down but took another step closer, invading his personal space.

 "And," she added, her breath hot against his ear, "I owe you a few private shows. Without the bouncers. Just us."

 Trent looked up at her. "Start talking. Who's on the tapes?"

 Natalia hesitated, her gaze flicking toward the muted television screen before settling back on him. "It’s Harrison," she whispered, naming the CEO of the tech firm Trent was courting for investment. "He isn't as clean as his portfolio suggests. I have footage from a private date—dinner, drinks, and... other things. His rivals would pay a fortune to see him compromised like that."

 She reached out, her fingers brushing against his knee, a subtle electric current that seemed to hum in the silence of the room. "But that’s not the real goldmine. It’s his wife. She’s a regular at the Gavel, and she doesn't come for the men. I have lap dances and private sessions with her that would blow up the whole marriage. Harrison cares about his image more than his money. If he thinks that’s getting out, he’ll fold."

 She leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. "I have the videos, Trent. Leverage that belongs to you if you help me scrub my existence from the digital grid."

 "And the rival?" Trent asked, his voice rougher now, his eyes fixed on her lips. "The one with the photos?"