All Chapters of Forbidden Romance With My Stepbrother : Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

Malia The rest of the afternoon dragged, each class blurring together in a haze. By the time the last bell finally rang, I felt wrung out. Not because of homework or lectures, crazily enough, none of that had even stuck in my head, it was because I had spent every single class trying not to think about the way Maverick’s leg had nudged mine under the cafeteria table and how my body responded, or the way Ethan had smiled at me like we were still perfectly fine. Both things tangled together in my chest until I barely knew what I was feeling. I shoved my books into my bag and let myself get swept along in the crowd spilling into the hallway, already picturing the quiet of the bus ride home. It wasn’t the most glamorous of rides, but it was familiar and predictable, exactly what I needed right now. I didn’t need anything that made my heart try to hammer out of my ribs. When I stepped outside, he was already there. Maverick was leaning against his car like he had been wait

Malia Sunday mornings in this house were always quiet, but this one felt almost too calm. No clinking of pans from the kitchen staff, no chatter from my mom drifting down the hall. They’d gone out for their buffet with Mr. Sinclair, and since the cook didn’t come in on Sundays, it was me rattling around the house like I was pretending to be independent. I padded into the kitchen still in my pajamas, hair shoved into a messy knot, determined to make something as simple as toast and eggs. I wasn’t exactly starving, but the act of cooking felt like a distraction, something to do with my hands and my mind so I wouldn’t keep circling back to last night, to the way Maverick had looked at me when he dropped me off. I cracked the first egg a little too hard against the bowl, muttering under my breath when the yolk almost spilled over the counter. The pan hissed when I poured the oil in, and for a second it almost felt normal and then he walked in. Maverick strolled into the kitchen

Malia The morning sunlight fell across the kitchen table, warm and golden, but the air between me and my mother was anything but warm and golden. She sat across from me with her mug of tea, scrolling absent-mindedly through her phone. I pushed my cereal around in the bowl, and lifted an empty spoon pretending to eat. “You know,” she said without looking up, “you’d think a girl your age would have figured out how to get ready on time without needing a chauffeur.” The spoon froze halfway to my mouth. I swallowed down the sting before it showed. Only when was she asking me to tag along for a concert? Of course we have gone back to finding me inadequate. I forced a shrug. “Good morning to you too mum.” Her eyes flicked up just long enough for the corner of her mouth to curve in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Don’t be smart, Malia. It doesn’t suit you.” I bit down on the inside of my cheek. There was no point in answering her she’d already won. My chest tightened with the

Malia Friday night crept up on me faster than I’d expected, and somehow I still found myself standing in front of the mirror, tugging at my clothes like I was heading somewhere that actually mattered. It was just dinner. That’s what I kept muttering under my breath, like repetition might trick my brain into believing it was just dinner and nothing else. Except every time I looked down at what I was wearing, something felt wrong. Too casual, then too formal, then too obvious. I changed my fit twice, then a third time, then stood glaring at the heap of discarded clothes on my bed as though they’d betrayed me personally. My mom’s voice drifted up the stairs at one point, sharp and clipped about the laundry I hadn’t done, and I rolled my eyes at the ceiling. Is there ever a day in my life where I get things right? I pulled on a skirt that I thought looked effortless until I caught my reflection and groaned. My hair didn’t sit right, my shirt looked like I’d ironed it with

Malia The drive there felt like sitting in a pressure cooker. My mother had her hands at ten and two on the steering wheel, her jaw set in away that meant she wasn’t angry, but she was looking for a reason to be. Beside her in the passenger seat was her colleague Harlow, I think, though I wasn’t introduced properly until I slid into the back seat and she turned with a rehearsed smile. “Oh my goodness,” she said, reaching for the seatbelt, “is this your daughter? She looks so grown up. What a beautiful young lady.” I muttered a thank you, tugging at the hem of my short dress. It wasn’t anything special, just the first thing I’d pulled from my closet when Mom ordered me to “get dressed for the concert.” Apparently jeans weren’t appropriate, so here I was, squirming under the fabric and someone else’s approval. “She finally decided to put in some effort,” my mother said smoothly, eyes still on the road. The words landed sharp. Harlow laughed, not catching the sting, but I