Page 76 of Jealous Stepbrother
But then it disintegrates, and I’m not surprised at all when it never lands.
Because Asher Masterson has become the air I breathe, and I’m beginning to fear I’ll die without him.
The wheels hitthe tarmac with a jolt that shakes through my spine. I’m here in Florence. A place I’ve dreamed about, studied in textbooks, sketched from glossy spreads and online galleries.
It should feel triumphant, liberating. Instead, the hollowness in my chest makes the victory ache.
I pull my suitcase through the terminal, keeping my head low, ignoring the phone that won’t stop vibrating in my hand.
His name lights the screen over and over, a drumbeat of obsession I can’t escape.
Asher. My brother, my torment, my everything.
Youneedto remember what he’s done.
The man who hid my pills, who canceled my future before it began. The man I left anyway. My thumb hovers over “accept,” but I shove the phone into my bag, throat tight.
The taxi driver drops me at a small hotel off thePiazza della Repubblica, its stuccoed façade weathered but elegant.
Inside, I mumble through the check-in, swipe my card, and take the key.
The room smells faintly of lavender and old stone. I collapse onto the bed, curl into myself, and let the tears come until my throat is raw and my lashes are stuck together.
“This is right,” I whisper fiercely into the pillow. “You’re free now, Scarlett. You can think. You can breathe.”
So why does freedom feel like splintered glass in my lungs?
Hours later, I force myself outside.
The city is drenched in honey light and narrow streets winding toward domes and towers that scrape the sky.
I wander past the Duomo, stand on the Ponte Vecchio as goldsmiths lock up their shops. The Arno glitters like melted bronze.
All around me, tourists laugh and couples kiss. The very air smells of espresso and hope.
My sketchbook itches in my bag, begging me to capture it all.
And still, behind every marvel, behind every breath, the whisper follows me.
Are you sure you haven’t made a mistake?
CHAPTER 21
FLORENTINE INFERNO
Asher
My gate number is flashing final call, but I’m pacing the corner of San Francisco International like a man with no destination.
My phone is still cold in my hand, screen lit up with nothing but silence, and every frantic cell in my body is in free fall.
Scarlett isn’t answering.
Something is veryfuckingwrong.
By the time I board, I’ve already logged onto the penthouse feed.
Sure, it’s yet another invasion of her privacy, but fuck if I don’t do it anyway, because the alternatives of blind panic and deep dread are unbearable.
