Page 6 of Jealous Stepbrother
The words slam into me like a physical hit. All my excitement curdles.
My stomach drops. “You—” My voice fractures. “You have no right.”
“I have every right,” he says, walking toward me. “I made the call. Pulled the strings. Put your name on the top of the pile.”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
“That’s the point.” He’s close enough now that I can smell him—bergamot, cedar, and something darker I remember from a bed in Montauk. “You think you have to ask me for the things you want. You don’t. You just have to take them when I hand them to you.”
“You’re insane.”
He raises his hand, coasts a knuckle down my hot cheek. “I’m invested.”
I take a step back, my heels hitting the glass wall behind me. “You can’t just insert yourself into my life again after you disappeared for?—”
“Scarlett.” My name is a warning and a promise. “I didn’t insert myself. I’ve been here the whole time.”
My skin prickles. “You’ve been?—”
“Watching,” he finishes. “Making sure you didn’t waste what you have. Making sure you didn’t give it to anyone else.”
I can’t breathe. “You’re disgusting.”
He smiles faintly. “And yet, you’re here. Come in. Sit down. Let’s get this show on the road, shall we? Finally?”
That last word terrifies me, probably more than anything else that has unfolded in the last five minutes. I push past him and head for the elevator. “No.”
I turn on my heel and leave. My heels clack across polished stone, the echo of my rage and humiliation bouncing off the sterile walls.
This can’t be happening.
It can’t, it can’t, it can’t.
Outside,the Manhattan air hits like a slap.
I walk until my feet hurt, until the pulse in my ears dulls, until I can get my stepbrother’s scent and aura out of my consciousness long enough to think.
I’ll just… find another internship. Another path. I’ve done harder things.
Except, when I start calling around, no one’s hiring. Not even the ones who just this morning sent emails to remind me that I was still first on their yet-to-be-finalizedintern intake if I changed my mind.
By the third cool rejection, the truth starts to seep in like a slow poison.
By the fifth, Iknow.
Asher didn’t just open his trap door for me.
He slammed every other safe one shut.
I wander for two hours before I find myself in a grimy café near Canal Street, clutching a lukewarm coffee and staring blankly at my inbox.
Asher Masterston has struck with the precision and deadliness of a cobra once again.
Just like the last time he destroyed me.
The urge to jump in a rideshare and go home is strong. As is the urge to unpack this shock still reeling through me. My mom and I are close, despite the slight strain when I chose to changecourses mid-sophomore year. But home means my stepfather, too.
And these days we’re not as tight.
