His new stepsister His biggest threat (Claire and Elijah) novel Chapter 98

**TITLE: Betrayal Births by Joseph King**

**Chapter 98**

**Claire’s POV**

Elijah had been standing in my room for what felt like an eternity, enveloped in an almost palpable silence that made the very air around us seem to hold its breath, waiting for him to finally break the stillness.

—

With his arms crossed over his chest—his bare skin distractingly exposed, and those grey sweatpants hanging low on his hips as if they were designed to defy gravity—he surveyed the chaotic pile of dresses strewn across my bed. His expression danced between disbelief and a hint of amusement, as if he were witnessing the aftermath of a fashion disaster.

Since entering, he hadn’t uttered a single word. No greeting. No inquiry about my early morning text that had likely startled him awake. Just silence. He stood there like a statue that someone had forgotten to finish, his gaze fixed on the disarray I had created.

And as unfortunate luck would have it, this unfinished sculpture was undeniably attractive.

I forced my gaze upward, determined to avoid the embarrassment of lingering too long on his physique. Planting my hands defiantly on my hips, I challenged him, “Are you going to just stand there like a bewildered wardrobe ghost, or…?”

His eyes shifted to meet mine, moving slowly and with an annoyingly deliberate intent. A faint smirk curled at the corners of his mouth—innocent enough to feign naivety, yet broad enough to reveal that he was thoroughly enjoying my predicament.

“You called me,” he replied, his tone casual.

“Yes,” I groaned, tilting my head back in exaggerated frustration. “For help. Actual help. Dress-related help. Not whatever this—” I gestured vaguely at him, “—whatever this topless judgment stance is.”

The smirk on his face widened, sharpening into something more mischievous.

Of course it did.

He didn’t bother to defend his position. Instead, he reached out, plucking the first dress from the heap and holding it up between two fingers as if examining a rare artifact. Then, with a flourish, he presented it to me.

“Well?” he asked, his voice deep and smooth, almost teasing. “We need to start somewhere, don’t we?”

I blinked, momentarily caught off guard by his sudden seriousness. “You’re actually going to help me choose a dress?” I asked, my skepticism evident.

He raised an eyebrow, challenging me with a look that said, Do you see anyone else here?

I wanted to voice my annoyance at his presence. I also wanted to ask why he looked like he had just rolled out of bed and arrived here at lightning speed. But instead, I snatched the dress from his hand and muttered something incoherent as I retreated into the bathroom, my heart racing for reasons I refused to acknowledge.

And that was the moment when the chaos truly began.

**Dress One:** Rose-gold with a daring high slit.

I stepped out, smoothing the silky fabric nervously.

Elijah’s eyes roamed over me—slowly, deliberately—before finally returning to my face.

“You look like you’re about to accept an award,” he remarked, his tone teasing.

My lips twitched in amusement. “An award for what, exactly?”

“Best Betrayal in a Drama Series,” he quipped, a glint of mischief in his eyes.

I gaped at him, incredulous. “That’s not even a real award!”

“It should be,” he countered with a smirk. “Next.”

I stomped back into the bathroom, determined to find something better.

**Dress Two:** Black velvet, sleek and sharp.

This one was probably my favorite so far. I stepped out and did a little spin, hoping to impress him.

He tilted his head critically, his expression shifting. “You look like a villain who knows she’s a villain.”

“That’s—Elijah, what does that even mean?” I exclaimed, exasperated.

“It means you’re plotting something,” he replied flatly. “And wearing that, everyone would believe it.”

In a fit of frustration, I hurled the dress at his chest before retreating once more.

**Dress Three:** Lilac, layered, sparkly, and fluffy—like something out of a fairy tale.

I stepped out, bracing myself for his reaction.

He blinked rapidly, as if trying to process what he was seeing.

“You look like a cupcake,” he stated, his tone utterly serious.

I gasped in disbelief. “A cupcake?”

“A very fluffy cupcake,” he elaborated, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

“I hate you,” I shot back, feeling my cheeks flush.

“No, you don’t. Next.”

“Don’t do this to me,” I whispered at the zipper, as if it could hear my plea.

I tried angling my arm back in a different way, stretching my fingers to grasp the tiny metal tab. The dress twisted awkwardly around me. I growled under my breath, tugging again.

Nothing.

I could almost feel Elijah listening outside the door—quiet, patient, probably smirking at my struggle. Of course, he was smirking.

I attempted a new strategy: bracing myself against the bathroom counter and leaning forward to loosen the fabric.

It didn’t loosen.

“Oh my God—why—” I muttered, wrestling with the dress as if it owed me money.

The zipper dug into my skin.

The fabric bunched uncomfortably.

My patience evaporated.

At one point, I got so frustrated that I stomped my foot, nearly losing my balance.

The dress rustled loudly, my hair falling into my face. I was breathing heavily, not from exertion but from irritation—and the stupid zipper still refused to budge.

“I swear,” I whispered furiously, “if you don’t cooperate, I will rip you off my body and burn you.”

Still nothing.

I closed my eyes, exhaled dramatically, and tugged one last time.

Nope.

Absolutely stuck.

A soft knock came from outside the door—a single tap—Elijah’s version of asking, Are you drowning in there?

I glared at the door, even though he couldn’t see me.

Then I yanked the zipper again.

And the gown remained obstinately immovable.