Page 89 of Heartless Stepbrother
Riley stepped ahead, his shoulder brushing mine as he passed. “Come on,” he said, not looking back. “You need to know where everything is.”
I followed because my legs didn’t seem to know any other option.
The moment I stepped inside, my breath caught.
The entryway was cathedral-high, sunlight streaming through glass walls that stretched two stories up, warming stone floors polished to a mirror-sheen. An iron-and-glass chandelier hung from above in geometric tiers, modern, striking, impossibly elegant.
And silent.
So silent I could hear the soft shift of Riley’s footsteps as he led me forward.
“This is the main living area,” he said, sweeping a hand toward an open expanse of minimalist furniture arranged with museum-level precision. Long low sofas in warm cream, a fireplace framed in dark steel, art on the walls that looked more expensive than whole apartments.
He didn’t speak like he was showing off.
More like he was stating facts.
His domain.
His rules.
His world.
“And over here,” he continued, guiding me down two steps into a sunken room lined with glass, “is the lounge.”
I followed, my gaze drifting over the deep leather chairs, the bar stocked with bottles glowing amber under recessed lights,and a built-in bookshelf filled with hardcovers arranged by color.
I tried to imagine living here.
I tried and failed.
“It’s… beautiful,” I whispered.
Riley glanced over his shoulder, his mouth curving at one corner. “It’s functional.”
Of course he’d say that.
We moved toward the dining area next, long table, clean lines, black oak, then the chef’s kitchen gleaming with stainless steel and marble spanning the length of the room.
“Staff quarters are through there,” he said, nodding toward a corridor we didn’t enter. “They stay out of sight unless needed.”
Something in the way he said it made a shiver slide down my spine.
He kept walking. I kept following.
Every space was more breathtaking than the last, but all of it felt curated, intentional. Like the house had been designed to look effortless without a single detail actually being left to chance.
Riley paused at the base of a sweeping staircase, one hand resting on the railing.
He watched me for a long second, long enough that the silence turned thick.
“Time to show you upstairs.”
But the way he said it made my pulse jump.
Like upstairs meant something more than a tour.
The staircase curved up in a smooth arc, the glass railing catching the late-afternoon light. I tried not to stare, but the whole place felt like a museum of money and control.
