My Boyfriend’s Billionaire Sisters Ran 5 ‘Cruel’ Tests on Me. I Thought I Passed, Until I Realized Who They Were Actually Testing.
The Public Execution
The studio lights were hotter than the boardroom had been, baking the makeup Stella’s team had aggressively plastered onto my face. I sat on a high stool in the center of the Hastings’ private media room, which looked suspiciously like a legitimate broadcast set. Three cameras pointed at me like the barrels of sniper rifles.
Stella, the third sister and the family’s resident media mogul, paced the perimeter. She wore a headset and a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
“We call this the ‘Thick Skin’ test, Amara,” Stella said, her voice amplified by the room’s surround sound. “If you’re going to be a Hastings, you’ll be scrutinized by millions. Every flaw, every mistake, every skeleton in your closet will be dragged out for public consumption. We need to know you won’t crack.”
Caleb stood in the shadows behind the cameras, arms crossed. He looked nauseous. I wanted to catch his eye, to find some anchor, but he was staring at the floor.
“Let’s begin the livestream simulation,” Stella announced. A red light blinked on the center camera.
She didn’t start with softballs. She started with the eviction.
“Sources say your mother is three months behind on rent again,” Stella purred into her microphone, circling me like a shark in a blazer. “Tell me, Amara, is it true you’re dating my brother just to secure a roof over your head? Or do you actually enjoy the taste of charity?”
My hands gripped the edges of the stool. “My mother’s finances are private. And I pay my own way.”
“Do you?” Stella laughed, a sharp, brittle sound. “With a diner waitress salary? Please. But let’s dig deeper. Let’s talk about the man who taught you how to run.”
The air left the room.
“Your father,” she continued, her voice dropping to a theatrical whisper. “He walked out on your twelfth birthday, didn’t he? Left a note on the fridge and never came back. If your own father couldn’t find a reason to stay, why should Caleb?”
Something inside me snapped. It wasn’t a loud crack; it was a silent severance of the tether that held my temper in check. I had spent two days being polite. I had smiled while they mocked my clothes, my background, my worth. But she had dragged my father’s ghost into this room, and she was using him as a prop.
I looked at the camera, then directly at Stella. The fear evaporated, replaced by a cold, jagged defensive instinct—the kind you develop when you have to fight for every scrap you own.
“You talk a lot about loyalty, Stella,” I said. My voice was steady, too steady. “For a family that prides itself on image.”
Stella paused, eyebrows raised. “Excuse me?”
“I read the files from the board meeting this morning,” I said. The memory of the documents I’d scanned to save their subsidiary flashed in my mind. Buried in the footnotes of the ledger, I’d found something odd. A recurring payment to a shell company in the Caymans. “The ‘Hastings Charity Initiative’ isn’t a charity, is it? It’s a funnel.
You’re using it to bypass inheritance taxes on the estate. Specifically, the funds meant for Caleb’s trust.”
The room went dead silent. The red light on the camera seemed to burn brighter.
“You’re stealing from your own brother to prop up your media network,” I said, the words tumbling out faster now, fueled by adrenaline. “So before you ask why my father left, maybe ask why you’re robbing the only person in this room who actually loves you.”
Stella’s face drained of color. She ripped the headset off. “Cut the feed! Now!”
The technicians scrambled. The hum of the equipment died down, leaving a ringing silence in its wake. I felt a surge of triumph—a dark, intoxicating rush. I had won. I had shut her up.
I turned to Caleb, expecting to see him impressed, maybe even grateful that I’d exposed the truth.
Instead, he was looking at me with pure horror.
He wasn’t looking at his sister. He was looking at me like I was a stranger. Like I was dangerous. He took a half-step back, his hand instinctively covering the pocket where he kept his wallet, or maybe his heart.
“Caleb?” I whispered, the adrenaline crashing into sudden nausea.
He shook his head, turning away from me. I had proven I could fight like a Hastings, but in doing so, I had become exactly what he hated about them.
