Ceo Rockstar
Copyright© 2026 by Cory King
Chapter 4: A Sister’s Welcome
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 4: A Sister’s Welcome - A tech CEO wakes up as a female rock star in 1999, navigating groupies, rival musicians, and raw new desires before her band’s breakthrough.
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa Mult Coercion Consensual Drunk/Drugged NonConsensual Reluctant Lesbian BiSexual Heterosexual Fiction Isekai Time Travel Body Swap Sharing Sister BDSM Group Sex Cream Pie Double Penetration Facial Massage Masturbation Oral Sex Sex Toys Public Sex
The flight back to New York was a blur of recycled air and turbulence.
Mikey slept with his head against the window, mouth slightly open, his unwashed hair falling across his face in a way that made him look younger than his years. Viv watched the clouds scroll past and tried to organize the chaos of the last forty-eight hours into something resembling a plan.
She had a father. Daniel Robert Cheng, piano teacher, husband, father of two. She had a half-sister in Seattle and a half-brother somewhere in Europe with a backpack and a Eurail pass. She had a mother who’d lied for twenty-five years and a band waiting for her in Brooklyn and an album dropping in thirteen days.
And this body was finally starting to feel like hers.
The landing gear descended with a mechanical whine. Below them, the Manhattan skyline resolved out of the February haze, the Twin Towers catching the late afternoon light, the bridges spanning the greywater, the city she’d built a career in during some other life. Viv Chen’s life. CEO of Parallax. Fifteen billion in market cap. A corner office with a view of Bay Ridge that she’d never actually looked at because she’d been too busy reading quarterly reports.
That life felt distant now. Fictional. A movie she’d watched once and mostly forgotten.
“Weather’s shit,” Mikey said, waking up as the plane touched down. “Welcome home.”
They collected the duffel bag from baggage claim and caught a cab to Brooklyn. The driver played something with accordion and regret on the radio, Lex let the city wash over her, the potholes on the BQE, the graffiti on the warehouses, the particular quality of February light in New York that looked like the sky had been scrubbed with steel wool.
Richie was waiting outside her apartment building when they pulled up.
His ponytail was tighter than usual, which meant he was stressed. His pupils had the tell-tale dilation of someone who’d been self-medicating since breakfast. The cigarette between his fingers had burned down to the filter without him noticing.
“Where the fuck have you been?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “The label called. Three times. NME wants to reschedule the cover shoot. Tommy says you recorded half the album in one night and then vanished. Jake’s losing his mind. Coachella rehearsals start in eleven days, and you...” He gestured at her. The gesture was not flattering.
“I had a family thing,” Viv said. She handed her duffel bag to Mikey, who took it without comment and started up the stairs. “It’s handled.”
“Handled. Handled.” Richie’s voice climbed half an octave. “You disappear for two days without telling anyone, and your response is ‘it’s handled’?”
“Richie.” She stepped closer. The body didn’t know how to do this, but Viv knew, he how to loom without looming, how to project a calm that made people uncomfortable. “The album is done. The tracks are in the can. I’m here now. I’ll do the NME interview, I’ll do the cover shoot, I’ll be at rehearsal on Monday. What else do you need?”
He blinked. The cocaine-addled machinery behind his eyes was recalibrating, trying to find an angle to push that she hadn’t already defused. “The promo schedule. There’s a press junket on Tuesday. Rolling Stone wants a quote. KROQ called about an in-studio. And the album’s getting buzz, actual buzz, not the manufactured kind, and you being MIA is not helping the narrative.”
“The narrative,” Viv repeated. “What’s the narrative?”
“Mysterious frontwoman returns from the brink. Second album that’s better than the first. Comeback kid makes good.” Richie lit a fresh cigarette from the stub of the old one. “You know the drill. Tragedy sells. Triumph sells better.”
“I’ll give them triumph.” She pushed past him into the building. “Tuesday. I’ll be ready.”
The apartment was exactly as she’d left it. Christmas lights unlit. Bass propped against the milk crate. The answering machine still blinking with the message she’d already heard. She pressed delete without listening to it again. Margaret’s voice, cigarette-roughened and careful, erased back into the void.
Mikey had set her duffel bag on the bed. He was standing by the window, examining the brick wall six inches away like it might offer some commentary on the situation.
“You should sleep,” he said. “You’ve been running on adrenaline for two days.”
“So have you.”
“I’m used to it. Clean and sober doesn’t mean well-rested.” He turned from the window. The exhausted-protective squint was back, but softer now. The conversation in the motel room had shifted something between them, some wall that had always been there, invisible, now visible by its absence. “Call me if Richie gets worse. I’ll handle him.”
“You always handle him.”
“Someone has to.” He paused at the door. “Emily called. Your sister?? Daniel must have given her this number.”
Lex’s chest tightened. “When?”
“While we were on the plane. She left a message. Said she’s flying out tomorrow.” Another pause. “She sounded excited. Nervous. Like she’s been waiting to meet you her whole life without knowing it.”
Mikey left. The door clicking shut sounded louder than it should have. The apartment settled into its familiar silence, and Lex stood in the middle of the room, trying to process the fact that her sister, her half-sister, was flying to New York in less than twenty-four hours.
She had no idea how to be a sister. She’d been an only child in both lives. She’d never shared a bathroom or borrowed someone’s clothes or fought over the last slice of pizza. She’d never had someone who shared her DNA and her father’s cheekbones and the particular ache of growing up not knowing something essential about yourself.
Her eyes drifted to the bass in the corner. Sticker-covered case. Frayed strap. The instrument that Lex had poured her pain into for years, long before Viv had shown up to inhabit the aftermath.
She picked it up. Sat on the edge of the bed. Her fingers found the frets without conscious direction, and the body’s muscle memory took over, a bassline she didn’t recognize, something slow and minor-key, the kind of thing that might become a song if she worked at it long enough.
The phone rang.
She considered not answering. But the ringing was insistent, and her fingers had stilled on the strings, and she was suddenly very tired of sitting alone in a dark apartment with nothing but her thoughts for company.
“Hello?”
“Alexandra? It’s Emily. Your, I mean, I’m Emily. Daniel’s daughter. Our father’s daughter.” The voice was young and slightly breathless. A tremor of nerves underneath the surface brightness. “I hope it’s okay that I called. Dad gave me your number. I know we don’t know each other, but I’ve been thinking about it all night, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it, and I figured, life’s too short, right? To wait for the right moment?”
Lex found herself smiling. “Life’s definitely too short.”
“I’m flying to New York tomorrow. I know that’s insane. I know we’ve never met, but I have a week off from grad school, and I thought, if you’re willing, we could maybe have coffee? Or dinner? Or something? I don’t want to impose. I just, I’ve never had a sister before.”
“Neither have I.”
“Right. Of course. God, I’m rambling. I always ramble when I’m nervous. David says I sound like a hummingbird on espresso.”
Lex laughed. That laugh again, the one that was becoming hers. “Coffee sounds good. When does your flight get in?”
“Eleven-thirty. JFK.”
“I’ll pick you up.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to.”
Silence on the line. Then Emily’s voice, quieter now. “I spent my whole life thinking I was the oldest. David’s big sister, that was my role. And now I find out I have an older sister who’s in a band and lives in New York and looks exactly like Dad. I don’t know how to be someone’s little sister.”
“I don’t know how to be someone’s older sister,” Lex said. “Maybe we can figure it out together.”
“Together. I’d like that.” A muffled announcement in the background, airport PA, something about a gate change. “I have to go. I’m still in Portland, catching a connecting flight. But I’ll see you tomorrow. Alexandra, Lex, whatever you want me to call you.”
“Lex. Call me Lex.”
“Lex. I’ll see you tomorrow, Lex.”
The phone clicked. Dial tone. Lex sat on the edge of the bed with the bass in her lap and the receiver in her hand, and the apartment was quiet, and the Christmas lights were dark, and something in her chest was opening like a door she hadn’t known was locked.
The next morning, she woke to February sun cutting through the grimy window and the realization that she had nothing to wear.
Not literally. Lex’s closet was a grayscale avalanche of ripped band tees and leather jackets and jeans in various stages of distress. But nothing that said I’m meeting my long-lost half-sister for the first time and want to make a good impression without looking like I tried too hard.
She settled on black jeans, the ones with the least number of holes. A fitted sweater, charcoal, cashmere-soft. The Docs, because some things were non-negotiable. A swipe of eyeliner, less than usual, more intentional. The serpent ring on her index finger because it felt like armour.
Mikey’s van was idling outside. He’d insisted on driving her to JFK, citing traffic and Richie-related stress and the fact that he wanted to meet Emily before anyone else got their hands on her.
“Richie’s going to freak when he finds out you have a sister,” he said as they merged onto the BQE. “He’ll want to work it into the press narrative. Long-lost family reunited through rock and roll. Tragedy, triumph, album release.”
“Richie can work it into the narrative if Emily’s okay with it. I’m not going to use her as a marketing tool.”
“Look at you. Boundaries.” Mikey glanced at her sideways. “Old Lex didn’t have boundaries. Old Lex would let everyone walk all over her and then write bitter songs about it afterwards.”
“Maybe I’m tired of bitter songs.”
“Could’ve fooled me. ‘Choking on the Static’ is the bitterest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“That was the old material. The new stuff will be different.”
Mikey took the exit for JFK and didn’t reply. But the corner of his mouth twitched in a way that might have been approval.
Emily’s flight was early.
Lex was standing at the arrivals gate, holding a cardboard sign she’d scribbled on in the car, EMILY CHENG in Sharpie, with a crooked heart drawn next to it, when a young woman emerged from the jetway and stopped dead in the middle of the walkway.
She was shorter than Lex. Dark hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. High cheekbones that matched Daniel’s, that matched Lex’s, and eyes that were exactly the same shape and colour as the ones Lex saw in the mirror every morning. She was wearing a University of Washington hoodie and jeans and carrying a backpack that looked like it had been through several wars.
“Lex?” Her voice was the same as it had been on the phone, bright, breathless, vibrating with nervous energy.
“Emily.”
They stood there for a moment. Two women with the same cheekbones and the same dark eyes and the same father who’d spent twenty-five years not knowing one of them existed. The space between them was charged with something Lex didn’t have a name for, recognition, maybe. Or possibility.
Emily moved first. She crossed the distance between them in three quick strides and threw her arms around Lex’s neck. The hug was fierce and immediate, the kind of hug you gave someone you’d been waiting to meet your whole life.
“I know we’re strangers,” Emily said into Lex’s shoulder. “I know this is weird, but you look exactly like Dad, and I’ve been looking at his face for twenty-two years, and looking at you feels like coming home.”
Lex hugged her back. The sensation was unfamiliar, not the hug itself, but the context. She’d hugged people before. She’d hugged business partners after closing deals, hugged dates after pleasant evenings, hugged friends at parties. But she’d never hugged a sister. She’d never felt someone’s heartbeat against her chest and known that it was beating in time with hers because they shared the same blood, the same father, the same history of being lied to by Margaret Voss.
“It’s not weird,” she said. “Or maybe it is. But I don’t care.”
Emily pulled back. Her eyes were wet. “Mikey. You must be Mikey.” She turned to him without missing a beat, extending her hand. “Lex’s drummer. Dad told me about you. Said you were the one who came with her to Portland.”
Mikey shook her hand. “That’s me. The drummer. And apparently the emotional support animal for this whole operation.”
“The best bands always have one.” Emily wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her hoodie. “Okay. I’m crying at an airport. This is not how I planned to make a first impression.”
“Airport reunions are legally required to involve crying,” Lex said. “I think it’s an FAA regulation.”
Emily laughed, a bright, startled sound that was nothing like Lex’s sardonic rasp. It was the laugh of someone who’d grown up in a stable home with two parents who loved her and a brother she’d fought with over the last slice of pizza. It was the laugh of someone who’d never stood on a fire escape and wondered if jumping would be easier.
Lex found herself envying that laugh.
They collected Emily’s bag from the carousel, a battered suitcase held together with duct tape and determination, and drove back to Brooklyn. Emily sat in the back seat with her face pressed to the window, narrating her observations of New York in a running monologue that required no response.
“The buildings are so tall. Is that the Empire State Building? No, wait, that’s the Chrysler Building. I did a project on Art Deco in undergrad. Oh, look at that bridge. Which bridge is that? I’ve never been to New York. I’ve never been anywhere except Seattle and Portland and once to Vancouver for a debate tournament. David’s the traveller. David’s in Prague right now. He doesn’t even know about you yet. Dad said he’d tell him when he calls next. I don’t know how David’s going to react. He always wanted another older sibling. He said being the youngest was boring because no one ever looked up to him.”
“You’re going to hyperventilate,” Lex said.
“I know. I’m sorry. I talk a lot when I’m nervous.”
“Don’t apologize. It’s refreshing.”
Emily’s coffee order, oat milk latte with two pumps of vanilla, which she relayed to Lex with the gravity of someone delivering state secrets when they stopped at a café in Williamsburg, became the first piece of information in the mental file Lex was keeping: SISTER. The file grew over the next several hours.
Emily was in her second year of a literature PhD at the University of Washington, specializing in Gothic fiction. (“The creepy stuff? Really?” Lex asked, and Emily said, “The creepy stuff is the best stuff. It’s about what we’re afraid of. What we hide. What we bury in the basement and pretend isn’t there.” Lex thought about Margaret, about the lies, about the father who’d been buried for twenty-five years, and didn’t disagree.)