All Chapters of A Night With My Stepbrother : Chapter 21 - Chapter 30

His voice. It threaded through her like warm silk and regret. She didn’t speak right away. She wasn’t sure she trusted her own voice. Or her heart. “I—I know I should’ve called sooner,” Alessandro said. “I wanted to. A thousand times.” “You didn’t.” She hated that her voice came out so soft. “You just vanished.” There was a sigh, hushed and distant, like he was standing by an open window. “I got swallowed up. Work, family, trying to keep everything from crumbling. But it doesn’t mean I forgot you.” “That’s not comforting,” she said. Her thumb traced the edge of her phone. “No,” he admitted. “It’s not. I’m not calling to comfort you, Isabel. I’m calling to ask… can you come over?” She closed her eyes, her pulse stammering. “Why now?” “Because I need to see you. I can’t explain it over the phone. But I’ll make time for you this time. That’s a promise.” Isabel wanted to hang up. She wanted to say no. But a small, traitorous part of her—hopeful, scared, still bruised—whispered, g

The fluorescent lights buzzed relentlessly overhead as Isabel pushed through the heavy door of the drugstore bathroom. The stale, antiseptic smell hit her like a wall, sharp and sterile, a harsh contrast to the turmoil twisting her insides. She gripped the small box in her hand tightly, fingers cold and trembling as if they belonged to someone else. The moment she locked herself inside the cramped stall, a suffocating wave of silence settled around her. She sat down slowly on the edge of the toilet, the cold plastic biting at her skin, and took a deep, uneven breath. Her heart hammered painfully against her ribs, so loud she could almost hear the blood pounding in her ears. The test lay on the corner of the tiny sink, mocking her with its stillness. Her eyes were dry, but the panic bubbled fiercely beneath her skin, like a storm barely contained. Her hands fumbled with the wrapper, pulling the thin plastic stick free with shaking fingers. She stared at it, unsure, as if it might c

The late afternoon sun slanted through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Alessandro’s office, casting long golden beams across the sleek mahogany desk. Outside, the city hummed with restless energy, the distant blare of horns and murmurs of millions of lives intertwining like the endless threads of a tapestry. But inside this glass tower—his sanctuary, his fortress—Alessandro De’Luca felt an unfamiliar weight settle on his chest. He sat behind the desk, fingers poised above the keyboard of his laptop, scrolling through emails with the usual efficiency. Business proposals, investor updates, legal briefs—mundane but necessary. The sharp scent of expensive leather from his chair mingled with the faint aroma of espresso from the machine in the corner. Everything was as it always was. But Alessandro’s mind wasn’t. The last few days had been a whirlwind. Isabel’s sudden disappearance, the cold silence that followed, the chaotic emotions crashing through his chest like an untamed storm—anger

The rain tapped steadily against the windowpanes of Isabel’s apartment, a relentless percussion that matched the pounding in her chest. The gray light filtered through the curtains in dull sheets, draping the room in a melancholic haze. Outside, the city was washed clean but heavy with storm clouds, mirroring the turmoil brewing within her. Isabel sat curled on the faded sofa, her phone clenched in trembling hands. The message from the night before still glowed on the screen, an open wound: “You thought you could have him? Think again.” She hadn’t slept. Her thoughts were a whirlwind of fear, confusion, and a heart aching with desperation. A sudden knock at the door shattered the fragile quiet. Her breath caught. Her heart slammed against her ribs. She wasn’t expecting anyone—not at this hour. Another knock, more urgent. She set the phone down, voice barely a whisper. “Who is it?” “Isabel. Open up.” The voice was sharp. Commanding. Alessandro. She hesitated. Her mind scra

Jenna Mile’s apartment was immaculate—almost obsessively so. The kind of clean that made the air feel sterile, like a room that hadn’t been lived in, only curated. Pale gray walls. Minimalist decor. One couch. One coffee table. A glass of untouched wine sweating quietly beside her laptop. The dim light of early evening bled through the curtains in slanted beams. Rain tapped against the windows in a soft, almost soothing rhythm. But the quiet was deceptive. Beneath it buzzed a storm far more dangerous than the one outside. On the screen in front of her, paused at the exact frame she liked best, was a video of Isabel and Alessandro. In his penthouse. Laughing. Then kissing. Then touching. Jenna pressed play again. The intimacy was unbearable. Not for the people in the video—but for her. She watched as Alessandro leaned into Isabel, his hand sliding over her waist with the kind of possessive tenderness Jenna had never received. She watched it all. Every kiss. Every stolen look.