Page 78 of Jealous Stepbrother
Florence.
The word rings in my head like a cathedral bell, relentless, echoing, shaking everything loose inside me. My Scarlett. Across an ocean.
Out of my reach. Out of my control.
I press my forehead harder to the glass, my breath fogging the window. The lights of San Francisco bleed into streaks as the plane lifts, but I’m not really here. I’m already chasing her.
The panic sharpens into something else. Something I know better than anyone: resolve.
I open my laptop, my fingers flying faster than I can think.
A single message to my assistant takes care of my immediate professional stumbling block.
Cancel the meetings in California. Reschedule everything. Every collection fitting, every investor call. I speak to no one until further notice.
My entire world is stripped to the bone in minutes. Because none of it matters without her.
Then I pull up flights, scroll past the detours, the delays.
I need the fastest route. Rome tonight, Florence by morning.
I book the first direct flight ticket I find. Hell, if I have to sell another piece of my soul, I’ll be there.
Then with nothing but time on my hands until I land at JFK, I replay the camera feed, die every time I see her face tight with determination and pain. But with each replay, my resolve also calcifies.
Because it really is that simple.
Scarlett Rockwell is my heartbeat. My life’s blood. My oxygen.
There’s no me without her.
So she mightthinkshe’s free of me. Think she can breathe without me. And God, maybe she should. Maybe I deserve the empty bed, the silence, the punishment.
But I can’t do it. I can’t exist in a world where Scarlett doesn’t look at me, doesn’t fight me, doesn’t love me in her secret, forbidden way I intend to crack wide open and celebrate in the light.
I slam the laptop shut, chest heaving.
“I’m coming for you, my beautiful girl. And this time…I’ll get it right. I have to.”
Scarlett
The airin Florence is warmer than I expected.
Outside my nothing-fancy hotel on a narrow street, laundry sways above my window like flags of surrender. The sheets are crisp, the walls painted sun-bleached yellow.
It should feel like freedom, but instead, it feels like self-imposed exile.
I collapse onto the bed and stare at the ceiling fan turning lazily overhead. My phone lies on the nightstand, switched off.
I promised Mom I’d message when I landed, and I did. That’s all anyone needs to know for now. I can’t bear to hear the voicemails I know are waiting like a bomb and a comfort blanket.
His voice will undo me.
So I shower instead, scrub until my skin feels new, then dress in jeans and a loose blouse, hair pulled back into a ponytail.
Pretend I’m just another girl, halfway through an internship, playing tourist on the side and seeing the world.
Outside, Florence unfolds like a painting. Terracotta roofs, cobbled streets, the shadow of the Duomo rising impossibly grand against the sky.
