Page 2 of Chasing After You
And that’s what made it dangerous.
Because the Halbrookes might not have loved him—not really, not like I did—but they sure as hell wanted to control him. And they knew exactly how much he loved me.
Which meant they knew exactly how to hurt us both.
It started subtly, like most things in the Halbrooke house. A quiet rearrangement of schedules, a polite suggestion here and there. Victoria began giving me more responsibilities—chores that were just inconvenient enough to keep me occupied, but framed as “important” tasks meant to help me become “part of the household.” Organizing the wine cellar, managing inventory for the caterers, overseeing estate maintenance reports that had nothing to do with me. Things a seventeen-year-old had no business doing. Especially not one who was supposed to be your son, not an employee.
“You’re nearly an adult now, Joshua,” Victoria said one morning over her coffee, not looking up from her tablet. “It’s time you started contributing more meaningfully to the home.”
That same week, Dorian’s schedule mysteriously bloomed with new activities. Horseback riding lessons with a private instructor. French tutoring twice a week. Etiquette classes, piano recitals, and charity events that dragged him out of the house on weekday evenings. Always supervised, always with a driver or staff member nearby.
Never with me.
At first, Dorian was excited to try new things, thrilled in the way only a child who had been isolated too long could be. But the novelty wore off quickly. I saw it in his eyes—the way they dimmed after every forced smile, every praise-heavy compliment from a tutor who didn’t honestly care about him, but just wanted to get on his parents’ good side. He came home tired, quiet, withdrawn. Our time together was being slowly stolen, minute by minute, day by day.
When I asked Victoria about it, she gave me that soft, patronizing smile she reserved for reporters and those she considered idiots. “He needs structure, dear. You wouldn’t want him to fall behind, would you? He’s a bright boy and has to be mindful of his future, unlike other…” She looked me up anddown, barely concealing a sneer. “… moreaveragechildren. He’s destined for great things.”
The message was clear.
They weren’t trying to enrich his life—they were trying to wedge a wall between us. To untangle our bond before it became too strong.
What they didn’t understand—what they never would—was that they were too late.
They could flood his life with distractions, dress him in silk and gold, surround him with every empty luxury money could buy, but I was still the one he sought out when the door clicked shut at night.
Just like tonight. I had already been in bed for hours, sleep escaping me, twisting and turning beneath my blanket with my real parents on my mind, when I heard the door crack open.
“Dori, is that you?” I mumbled sleepily into the darkness.
“Yeah,” he said quietly, his light footsteps padding across the room towards me. “Can I sleep in here tonight?”
I nodded and lifted the blanket. He climbed onto the mattress before getting comfortable and curling into my side. He let out a small puff of hot air on my chest.
“They won’t be happy if they find you in here.”
“It’s not like they’ll check,” he muttered. “I hate them, Josh. I hate it here. I want it to just be me and you.”
“I know, but they’re your parents, Dori.” I brushed the hair from his face. “Don’t say you hate them. They love you, even if it’s hard to see that sometimes.”
“But they’re supposed to be your parents, too.”
“Oh…” I paused, unsure how to proceed. “Well… They are.”
He grumbled, “Then why can’t they treat you like a son?”
A sharp pang of loneliness struck my heart.
I took a big breath, blowing out slowly. “They’ve given me a home, and you, Dorian. I can’t ask for more than that. You’ll understand when you’re older.”
“I’m thirteen, I’m plenty old enough to understand.”
I softly chuckled, “Last time I checked, thirteen was pretty far from adulthood.”
Dorian didn’t laugh. He stayed curled against me, silent for a long moment. His fingers twisted in the fabric of my shirt like he was holding on to something more than just cloth.
“I wish I were older than you,” he whispered.
My brow furrowed. “Why?”
