Page 79 of Jealous Stepbrother
I wander without direction and let the city swallow me whole. Order an espresso I barely sip. I write in my sketchbook, linesthat don’t look like much until I realize I’m drawing his profile, his mouth.
His beautiful eyes.
I tear the page out with a fiercely stifled sob and crush it in my fist.
And I keep walking.
Across bridges, past statues, through narrow streets that open into sudden bursts of light. And the whole time my chest feels hollow.
Every laugh of strangers, every pair of lovers leaning close feels like a reminder of what I’ve left behind.
I tell myself I did the right thing.
That I need to decide who I am without Asher breathing down my neck, without his hands, his demands, his obsession that feels more like a wildfire than a shelter.
But when night falls and I return to the hotel, I’m shaking. I lie down on the stiff bed, curl into myself, and the silence roars.
I’ve run all the way across an ocean, and still, I feel him everywhere.
I’m cold without his wildfire.
Still, my phone stays dark.
It’sboth torture and a relief when Monday rolls around.
Because this wasn’t how I envisioned this particular start of the week when I left House of M’s studio with my lover on Friday. But I’m up and moving instead of hugging my pillow and sobbing.
Casa Bellandi, the Florence design house, is tucked behind an ivy-clad archway, the kind of place that feels less like an office and more like a secret garden.
A receptionist ushers me through a corridor lined with sketches, bolts of silk spilling like waterfalls from racks.
I try to steady my breathing.
This is what I came for.
Not to run, but to stand on my own. To prove to myself—maybe to Asher too—that I’m more than someone who follows his rules.
The creative director, elegant in a way only Italians can be, studies my portfolio with a sharp, thoughtful gaze.
Her comments are precise, encouraging, but never indulgent. “You have an eye for detail. A hunger,” she says, tapping her finger against one of my sketches. “I can see it.”
Something loosens in my chest.
For a moment, I can almost forget the weight of Asher’s voice, his touch. I can imagine a future where I carve my own place in the world.
When I step back onto the street at the end of a surprisingly short day with zero angst or an overbearing mentor scowling at me, Florence is alive around me.
Vespas buzz, church bells toll.
I clutch the folder to my chest and breathe in the air as if it might keep me afloat.
But even then, a whisper claws at me.
He should be here. He should see this.
I miss my overbearing lover.
Desperately.
