《Kissed My Ex's Brother 》全部章節：第 61 章 - 第 70 章

Third person pov Adrian's sleek black Bentley glided through the rain-slicked streets of the city, the wipers cutting steady arcs across the windshield like a metronome counting down to an inevitable confrontation. Elena sat rigid in the passenger seat, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, staring out at the blurred neon lights streaking past. The silence between them hung heavy, thicker than the downpour hammering the roof, suffocating every breath. He stole glances at her the sharp, defiant line of her jaw clenched in anger, the way her fingers dug into her own biceps as if she were physically holding herself together to keep from shattering right there. The air smelled of wet leather and tension, and Adrian felt it coiling in his gut like a spring ready to snap.He couldn't stand it any longer. His hands tightened on the leather-wrapped steering wheel until his knuckles whitened. "Elena," he said finally, his voice low and rough, almost lost under the engine's steady hum.

Elena's POVA few days later, I stood in front of my full-length mirror, fingers smoothing the sleek emerald gown over my hips, watching how the fabric hugged my curves just right, making me feel powerful, untouchable. I'd moved on from Alex honest to God, I had. Dated Adrian, let him drown out every last echo of my ex with those endless, intense nights where he'd whisper promises against my skin until I forgot my own damn name. But that betrayal? The way he'd cheated me without blinking? It lingered like a bruise that never quite healed. Deep down, under all the "I'm over it" bullshit I fed myself, I wanted him to taste it too the sharp sting of watching someone you once had slip through your fingers forever. And my stupid heart? It still carved Adrian's presence like a junkie needing a fix, aching for him to be close even when my head screamed to keep him at arm's length. He was telling the truth this time, I knew it somewhere in my bones. Probably always had been. But why make

Alex's POVMan, what the fuck just happened? My brain's still reeling from that absolute shitshow of a wedding my wedding, supposed to be the perfect day, turned into a public execution. One minute I'm shaking hands, grinning like an idiot while guests toast my future, and the next? Boom my fiancée's legs up around some random asshole on the big screen for everyone to see. Live. Raw. Her moans blasting louder than the jazz band. I can still hear them echoing in my head, that sick twist in my gut when I realized it wasn't a prank, wasn't a hack gone wrong it was real, and it was mine to deal with. How does a day start with rose petals and champagne and end with me calling off the whole thing in front of God and half the Hamptons? I stood there frozen at first, watching her nails dig into that guy's back, thinking this can't be happening, not to me, not today. But it did. And now? I'm just... numb. Driving aimlessly through the lot, tux still choking me, trying to piece together how

Elena's POV Sunday mornings always had a way of feeling softer than the rest of the week, like the whole city had agreed to slow down for a few hours and pretend it wasn’t always racing toward something. I had been in that half-lazy, half-bored mood since I woke up, the kind that made coffee taste better and thoughts drift longer than they should. I had curled up on the sofa in a loose lounge set, one leg tucked under me, coffee in one hand, phone in the other, scrolling through nothing in particular while the sunlight poured through the windows and warmed the room in patches. I had briefly considered calling Lila and dragging her out somewhere for brunch or a walk, maybe even some random shopping trip just to kill time, but Lila was buried in work and had already sent me three different apologetic messages before nine in the morning. I had replied with a dramatic speech about betrayal, busyness, and the collapse of society, then gone right back to scrolling through my phone

Elena's POV The second that waitress draped herself over Adrian's shoulder like a cheap scarf, her fake assets two inches from his face, something inside me snapped not a clean break, but the kind of jagged shatter that leaves you bleeding and furious. I'd spent the entire dinner perfecting my ice-queen routine, tossing barbs at his over-the-top flowers, that sinfully perfect dress he somehow magicked up, every single one of my favorite dishes arriving like he'd hacked my brain for the menu. All an act, of course, because no way was I letting him see how his low rumbling voice made my stomach flip or how leaning close enough to smell his cologne had my thighs pressing together under the table. I didn't *want* to show jealousy God, I fought it hard, cold shoulder locked and loaded because forgiveness? Not on the table. But feelings from before? They stuck like fucking glue, impossible to scrape off no matter how much attitude I threw. And this skank? Touching *my* man? Hell no. He