Bitter Sweet Love with My Stepbrother CEO-Chapter 36: What Stayed with Me

(Joseph POV)

Same floor-to-ceiling windows. Same desk polished to a mirror-like sheen. Same faint scent of paper, ink, and coffee that never quite leaves this place no matter how late it gets.

And yet, it feels different.

I loosen my tie and lean back in my chair, staring at the city lights beyond the glass. Cars move below like veins of light, flowing endlessly, purposefully—never stopping long enough to question where they’re headed.

A year.

It’s been a full year since everything changed.

I didn’t mark the days the way I thought I would. I didn’t count them down like a prisoner waiting for release. Instead, time moved quietly, almost respectfully, as if it knew better than to rush what needed to settle.

My work never changed. Contracts still came. Meetings still piled up. Crises still demanded attention.

What changed was who stood beside me through it all.

Yvette.

I remember the first meeting she led as acting head—her shoulders held a little too stiff, her fingers clenched just slightly as she spoke. She was calm, but there was a tremor beneath it, one she thought no one noticed.

I noticed.

I notice everything when it comes to her.

Now, she sits at the head of the table like she was born there. Her voice doesn’t waver. Her gaze doesn’t dodge. When she speaks, people listen—not because of her name, but because she makes sense.

She learned faster than anyone expected.

Faster than I expected.

Sometimes, when I catch her mid-sentence, explaining a decision with that quiet conviction she’s grown into, I think—It wouldn’t be bad if she stayed.

The company would be safe with her.

Thriving, even.

But that thought never lingers long.

Because I know.

I know what she really wants.

And loving her means never pretending otherwise.

There’s a particular moment that returns to me often.

A board meeting, months ago. Tension thick in the air, voices sharp with disagreement. I remember watching Yvette sit there, hands folded calmly on the table, letting everyone speak.

She didn’t interrupt.

She didn’t rush.

When the room finally quieted, she spoke once—and everything aligned.

Not because she was forceful.

But because she was clear.

That was when I realized it.

She wasn’t surviving this role anymore.

She was growing through it.

The change wasn’t loud. It didn’t announce itself. It showed in the way she walked now—head held high, steps confident but unhurried. In the way she smiled more freely, laughed more easily.

She was radiant.

Not because she had power.

But because she had direction.

And that terrified me in ways I never admitted out loud.

Because direction meant movement.

And movement meant she might leave.

I wanted to pull her closer.

I wanted to anchor her here.

But I didn’t.

Because I promised myself I wouldn’t be the reason she stayed small.

Instead, I learned to want her happiness more than her presence.

Some days, that felt noble.

Other days, it felt unbearable.

There are moments—quiet ones—when the dreams come back to me.

A child’s laughter.

Small fingers curling around mine.

A warmth in my chest I don’t have words for.

I don’t understand them. I don’t try to. I tell myself they’re echoes of exhaustion, of stress, of emotions I haven’t sorted through yet.

But every time I wake from them, the first name that forms in my mind is always hers.

Yvette.

I’m reviewing documents when my phone vibrates against the desk.

I almost ignore it.

Almost.

Then I see her name.

Yvette

My fingers still before I even realize it. My breath catches—not sharply, but deeply, like my body knows before my mind does that this moment matters.

I open the message.

I passed the admission 💗☺️

That’s it.

No explanation.

No grand announcement.

Just a simple sentence, followed by two emojis that feel entirely like her—soft, hopeful, quietly joyful.

For a long moment, I just stare at the screen.

Pride hits first.

A powerful, grounding pride that swells in my chest and spreads outward, steady and warm. Of course she passed. Of course she did. She worked too hard not to.

Then comes something deeper.

She told me.

Out of everyone she could have informed—Brent, her friends, her mentors—she told me.

Not because she owed me anything.

But because she wanted to share it.

My throat tightens, emotion pressing dangerously close to the surface. I lean back in my chair, letting out a breath that feels like it’s been waiting a year to escape.

I type a reply, erase it. Type again.

Nothing feels adequate.

So I keep it simple.

I knew you would.

I send it before I can overthink.

As soon as the message disappears, I realize something that makes my chest ache in the best and worst way all at once.

She’s moving forward.

And I am proud enough to smile...

and selfish enough to wish, just a little, that I could walk every step of that future with her.

Even if all I’m allowed to do for now...

is watch.

That afternoon I don’t remember deciding to leave early.

One moment, I’m staring at my screen, cursor blinking at the end of a sentence I’ve already read three times. The next, I’m standing, slipping my phone into my pocket, shrugging into my coat as if my body has made the choice for me.

I check the time.

Still early enough.

I tell myself I’m just stepping out for air. That I need a moment away from fluorescent lights and unfinished thoughts. But the truth settles quietly in my chest as the elevator descends.

I want to see her.

Not because I need reassurance. Not because I want to interfere with her future.

But because this moment—her passing the admission—feels too important to let pass with just words on a screen.

The doors open to the street level, and the city greets me with its usual chaos. I step outside, hands tucked into my pockets, letting the noise wash over me. My feet carry me forward without much thought, turning left, then right.

I stop when I see it.

The flower shop.

It’s small, tucked between a café and a tailor’s, its window crowded with color. I’ve passed it countless times without paying it much attention. Today, it feels like an answer waiting for a question.

I stand there for a moment, watching a florist inside arrange a bouquet with careful hands.

I know exactly which flowers to choose.

The bell above the door chimes softly as I step inside.

The scent hits me immediately—fresh, green, alive. The florist looks up, offering a polite smile. "How can I help you?"

"I’m looking for something simple," I say. "But meaningful."

She nods knowingly, already moving. "For a celebration?"

"Yes," I answer. "An achievement."

She gestures toward a section near the window. "Do you have a favorite flower in mind?"

I don’t hesitate.

"White peonies," I say.

The florist pauses, then smiles wider. "Good choice."

As she gathers them, my mind drifts backward—years ago, a younger Yvette standing in a garden during a hotel event, eyes lighting up at the sight of blooming peonies. She’d crouched beside them, fingers hovering as if afraid to touch.

"They look strong," she’d said. "But soft at the same time."

I’d laughed then, teasing her for overthinking flowers. She’d stuck her tongue out at me, indignant.

I pay for the bouquet and take it carefully, fingers tightening around the stems.

Some things don’t fade with time.

Some things stay.

By the time I reach her office floor, the sky outside has deepened into evening.

The hallway is quieter now, footsteps echoing faintly against polished floors. I slow as I approach her door, suddenly aware of how fast my heart is beating.

This is ridiculous, I think.

It’s just flowers. Just congratulations.

And yet, my hand hesitates midair before knocking.

I breathe in once, then knock lightly.

"Come in," her voice calls from inside.

I open the door.

She’s at her desk, focused, a pen tucked between her fingers as she reviews a document. Her hair is slightly loose now, jacket draped over the back of her chair. She looks tired—and somehow even more beautiful for it.

She looks up.

"Joseph?" Her surprise is immediate, eyes widening. "I didn’t expect—"

I step inside and close the door gently behind me, holding out the bouquet.

"For you," I say.

For a moment, she just stares.

Then her expression shifts—softening, eyes shining with something that makes my chest tighten painfully.

"You... remembered," she says quietly.

"Of course I did," I reply. "I didn’t forget. I was attentive—even when you were just my adoptive sister."

The words slip out before I can stop them, honest and unfiltered.

She laughs softly, shaking her head, cheeks flushing. "You always say things like that."

"Only when they’re true."

She takes the flowers carefully, as if they’re fragile, lifting them slightly to breathe in their scent. The smile she gives me then is genuine, unguarded.

And worth everything.

"Congratulations," I add, voice gentler now. "I’m proud of you."

Her gaze lifts to meet mine, something warm and emotional flickering across her face. "Thank you," she says. "It means a lot... that you’re here."

The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s full—charged with everything we’re not saying.

I clear my throat. "Would you... like to go out to dinner? To celebrate. Nothing formal. Just us."

I brace myself without realizing it.

She doesn’t answer right away. She sets the bouquet down carefully on her desk, fingers lingering on the petals.

Then she looks at me and smiles.

"I’d like that," she says.

Relief and something dangerously close to hope flood through me.

"I’ll wait," I say. "Take your time."

She nods, gathering her things with a little more brightness in her movements. As we step out into the hallway together, side by side, I’m acutely aware of how natural it feels.

How right.

We walk toward the elevators, our shoulders nearly brushing.

Neither of us rushes.

I glance at her profile—the calm curve of her smile, the quiet confidence in her posture—and feel the familiar ache return. The yearning doesn’t fade.

But it doesn’t overwhelm me either.

Because this time, it isn’t about holding on.

It’s about walking forward—together, if she’ll let me.

And if not...

I’ll still be grateful I got to stand here, in this moment, watching her bloom.