Semua Bab Brotherzoned: Bab 91 - Bab 100

Isla’s POVI left the café with my latte still untouched. It sat there on the small round table like an accusation—milk already separating at the edges, foam collapsing in on itself, a faint ring forming where my fingers had rested around the cup earlier. I hadn’t taken a single sip. Not because I didn’t want it. Because my body refused to do anything normal after Nero’s voice slid into my throat like a blade.Celeste’s daughter.The words kept replaying in my head, looping, echoing, reshaping themselves every time I tried to pin them down. They didn’t make any sense. They weren’t supposed to make sense. I knew my mother. I knew her name. Quinn. Sharp-edged, cold-eyed Quinn who dragged me across states like luggage and never explained why. Quinn who disappeared for years and returned with gifts instead of apologies. Quinn who taught me how to pack light and leave fast, because staying anywhere too long always ended badly.Who the hell is Celeste though? Why is she now affiliated with

Zayne’s POV 
The name lands like a blade pressed flat against my throat. Not cutting. Just enough pressure to remind me how easily it could deepen.
Celeste….
I don’t speak. I don’t breathe. I don’t move either.
The line stays open between us, charged and humming, and I know—I know—that Isla feels it. That she hears the pause for what it is. Not confusion or distraction but recognition.
I close my eyes slowly.
Behind my eyelids, memories surface uninvited. Italy at night. Gold-lit rooms. Laughter that always felt like a performance. A woman who found me at my most vulnerable moment. A woman who taught me early that disappearance was a skill.
Celeste.
I let none of it reach my voice.
“Why?” I ask instead, carefully neutral.
The word tastes wrong. Too calm, too measured.
On the other end of the line, Isla shifts. I hear fabric move, the faint sound of breath pulled in through her nose.
“I just—” she hesitates. “I heard something. And I wanted to ask you.”
Ask me.
The irony almost makes

Silas’s POVIsla fucking Hart.Standing just inside the doorway, one hand still wrapped around her clutch like she might need it to anchor herself. Her hair is pulled back, loose strands framing her face, skin warm and glossy. She looks… lighter. Softer even. Like someone who slept well and didn’t wake up afraid.That’s new, that lands wrong. Her eyes find mine again.Just for a second. And in that second, something old and sharp opens inside her. Not anger, but disgust.Her face betrays her before she can stop it—the microsecond hitch in her breath, the way her shoulders stiffen, the tension pulling at her mouth before she smooths it out. She recovers quickly. She always did.But I saw it, I always see it. Isabella stands first.“Oh—Isla!” she says warmly, genuinely pleased. “Welcome. Been wanting to see you.”Her voice is normal. Happy. She walks toward her like nothing in this room is complicated. Like nothing has ever been.That’s Isabella.She believes in clean lines. In cause an

Isla’s POV Teo doesn’t step all the way in at first.He lingers just past the threshold like he’s unsure whether he’s allowed to exist in my space, one hand braced casually against the doorframe. The hallway light spills in behind him, outlining his shoulders, casting his face half in the shadow.I gesture toward the chair by the window.“Sit,” I say. “You’re making me nervous hovering like that.”He chuckles softly and obeys, lowering himself into the chair with a sigh that sounds heavier than it should. He leans back, legs stretched out, hands clasped loosely over his stomach.For a moment, neither of us speaks. The silence doesn’t feel awkward. Just… loaded.“So,” he says eventually, glancing up at me. “How’s Zayne?”The way he asks—careful but genuine—loosens something in my chest.“He’s better,” I say. “Healing. Annoyed at being stuck in a hospital bed, but that’s normal for him.”Teo smiles. “Yeah. That sounds like him.”He exhales slowly, gaze dropping to the floor. “I haven’t

Isla’s POV I woke up wrong.That’s the first thing I know—not where I am, not what time it is, not even what woke me. Just that something inside me is misaligned, like a bone that healed crooked without anyone noticing.The ceiling above me isn’t the one I’m familiar with.I stare at it for several seconds before that registers. Pale, unfamiliar lining. A faint crack that curves like a question mark near the corner. The air smells different too—masculine, sharper, like cologne I don’t use and a hint of antiseptic layered underneath.My heart begins to race.I don’t move right away. I don’t breathe too deeply either. I’ve learned, instinctively, that sudden movement gives panic more room. So I lie still and take inventory the way I always do when something feels off.I’m fully clothed. Oversized shirt, soft fabric. No shoes. Bare feet.My stomach drops, I turn my head slowly. This isn’t the guest room.The bed is larger, and firmer. The sheets are tucked too neatly, the pillows aligne