Page 102 of Heartless Stepbrother
The word dropped heavy as stone.
“Do you know when he will be back?” I asked, trying to sound like the question was casual curiosity instead of thinly veiled panic.
“I do not know, Madam.”
No explanation. No hint. No comfort.
She moved away before I could push again, gliding out of the room with the same graceful invisibility. The doorway swallowed her up.
A cold realization slid into me like ice water.
I did not have his phone number.
I had nothing. No way to reach him. No way to know where he went or who he was with or what version of him would return. No way to predict the hour he might reappear in this mansion like a storm breaking open.
His constant presence was a threat I could brace for.
But his absence was a void.
A dangerous vacuum.
A place where imagination stretched too far and too dark.
Where I waited for a footfall that never came, a voice that never spoke, a shadow that never materialized.
Not knowing when he would return felt like standing beneath a chandelier made of knives. The silence above me was heavy, but I could not move. I could not relax. I could only wait for the moment gravity decided to pull it down.
I hated that I cared.
I hated that fear and curiosity blended until I could not tell one from the other.
Most of all, I hated that part of me strained to hear him.
As if my bones could sense him before the rest of me did.
The silence in the dining room pressed against my skull until it felt like a living thing. I ate because I had to. Fork to plate. Plate to mouth. Mechanical. Tasteless. Every bite scraped down my throat like obligation. The staff moved around me with soft footsteps, their presence a reminder that this house watched even when it pretended not to.
I finished quickly, almost rudely. I could not stand the weight of those empty chairs or the looming possibility that Riley might walk in at any moment. Or never walk in again. Both were sharp in different ways.
The instant the last dish was removed, I rose. My pulse quickened with purpose. I left the dining room with my head low, my feet barely kissing the marble. Upstairs. Away. Alone.
Temporary freedom pulsed inside me like a fragile star trying to expand. Riley was gone. The threat was gone. At least for now. The chance to reclaim something that belonged to me flickered, faint but real.
I took it.
In the massive bathroom, I shut the doors and turned the locks with decisive clicks. It sounded final, like sealing myself into a world I controlled.
I twisted the gold faucet until steaming water roared into the claw foot tub. The sound filled the space, drowning out the echo of my own thoughts. I grabbed a bottle of bubble bath, poured it without restraint, watched the water bloom white and lush. Steam curled around my ankles, rose over my skin, touched my cheeks with warm, forgiving hands.
I peeled my jeans off first, tugging them down my legs with a shaky exhale, and the moment the denim left my skin, something in me softened. The tension knotted in my hips eased, slipping away with the fabric. My top followed, lifted overmy head in a slow, deliberate pull, leaving my skin bare to the warm mist that drifted through the room.
The steam kissed along my collarbone, slid over my stomach, curled around the backs of my knees. Each piece of clothing that fell to the marble felt like shedding a layer of pressure I had carried since meeting Riley on the beach.
Naked in the rising heat, my skin prickled, alive again, as if the air itself whispered that I was safe for these few stolen minutes. My body felt new, unburdened, almost weightless.
When I stepped in, the heat shocked me, then claimed me. My breath loosened. I sank until the water hugged my shoulders and my hair floated like light around me. The tub held me as if it understood exhaustion without needing explanation.
For the first time since entering this house, my body stopped bracing for impact.
