All Chapters of A Night With My Stepbrother : Chapter 51 - Chapter 60

The walls of the small rented room had begun to feel like they were breathing, closing in on her with every ragged breath she took. The four corners seemed to whisper the echoes of her lawyer’s devastating ultimatum. Testify. Publicly. The words were a cage. To do it would be to step into the blinding, brutal spotlight she had fled, to have every intimate, painful detail of her life with Alessandro and Jenna dissected by lawyers and leered at by the public. To not do it was to risk being devoured by the monstrous lie Jenna had unleashed. The fear was a physical weight, crushing her chest. She needed air. She needed space. She needed a place where the world wasn’t made of accusations and traps. An old memory surfaced, fragile and precious as sea glass: a hidden cove her mother had taken her to a lifetime ago, when problems were skinned knees and melted ice cream, not life-shattering scandals. It was a long shot. The world had a way of paving over forgotten places. Driving the be

The sleek, modern lines of Jenna Miles’s apartment, once a testament to curated perfection, now felt like a crime scene waiting to be discovered. From the back seat of a discreet black sedan parked half a block down, Alessandro and Isabel watched. The early morning sun glinted off the building’s windows, hiding the tension thrumming inside the vehicle. Isabel sat stiffly beside him, her hands folded in her lap, her gaze fixed on the building’s entrance. She wore a simple trench coat, a shield against the world and the lingering chill of the morning. The resolve that had solidified on the beach was still there, a steel core beneath the anxiety, but her face was pale. This was the reckoning, and it was uglier than any fantasy of revenge. Alessandro’s own posture was deceptively relaxed, but his jaw was clenched tight enough to ache. On his lap was a slim, encrypted tablet. On its screen was a live feed, courtesy of a bodycam worn by the lead investigator he’d handpicked for this—a gri

The air inside the private antechamber of the De Luca Enterprises headquarters was thick enough to choke on. It was a silence woven from tension, grief, and the grim resolve that follows a death—in this case, the death of a family. Through the heavy doors, the muffled roar of the gathered press corps was a distant storm, waiting to be unleashed. Alessandro stood before a full-length mirror, adjusting the knot of his tie. The suit was immaculate, charcoal grey and razor-sharp, armor for the battle ahead. But the man reflected back at him was unfamiliar. The cold, arrogant CEO was gone. In his place was someone older, wearier, his eyes shadowed by the horrific betrayal of his own mother and the weight of the apologies he could never fully give. But in those same eyes, there was a new, unshakeable clarity. Isabel stood by the window, her back to the room, watching the media swarm on the street below. She wore a simple, elegant dress of deep emerald green, a color of strength and re

The message about her father was a stone dropped into the still, clear waters of her newfound peace, sending ripples of anxiety through the calm. “It’s about your father.” The words were ominously vague. Was he hurt? In trouble? The sender was a number she didn’t recognize, a voice from the life she’d deliberately left behind.All the old instincts—to run, to hide, to protect the fragile new life inside her from any more of her family’s chaos—flared instantly. But the woman who had knelt at her mother’s grave, who had claimed her own strength, knew that running was no longer an option. Her past, with all its broken pieces, needed to be faced. To be whole, she had to mend what could be mended.With a trembling finger, she called the number back. A man’s voice, rough and weathered, answered. “Yeah?”“This is Isabel Buster. You texted me about my father.”“Isabel. Joe Henderson. I own the construction crew your dad’s working for down at the old Miller place.” There was a pause, the soun

Eight Months Later. The first thing Isabel was aware of was not the sound, but the silence. It was a deep, velvety quiet, broken only by the distant, rhythmic sigh of the sea and the soft, snuffling breaths of the baby asleep on her chest. It was a silence she had learned to cherish, a balm after the cacophony of her old life—the screaming headlines, Jenna’s venomous accusations, the cold echo of Vivian De’Luca’s marble halls. Soft, peach-gold light filtered through the sheer linen curtains, painting shifting patterns on the worn wooden floorboards. A salt-kissed breeze drifted in through the open window, carrying the scent of damp earth and blooming jasmine. It was a far cry from the sterile, controlled air of Alessandro’s penthouse, a world away from the frantic energy of her college dorm. Here, in this modest whitewashed cottage on the coast, the air itself felt alive and gentle. She lay still for a long moment, savoring the weight of her daughter, Sofia, a warm, sleeping bu