Lahat ng Kabanata ng My Bestfriend’s Brother : Kabanata 101 - Kabanata 110

Zayne’s POVDr. Romano has that look on his face, the one he gets when he’s already decided the outcome and is now just easing you into it, like the truth needs cushioning.He flips through my chart, nodding to himself, humming faintly under his breath. The room smells like disinfectant and something metallic, a smell I’ve come to associate with waiting. With pain that has an expiration date but never quite tells you when it’s done with you.“Well,” he says finally, closing the file. “You’ve healed remarkably well.”I don’t smile. I’ve learned not to celebrate too early.“The internal bruising has been resolved. No signs of infection. Mobility is improving faster than expected.” He glances at me over his glasses. “You’re lucky.”Lucky. I almost laughed.He moves closer, adjusting the IV line, checking the monitors one last time like he’s trying to convince himself more than me. “I’ll still want you to take it easy for a while. No strenuous activity. No stress if you can help it.”“Th

Zayne’s POVThe call cuts out without warning.“Isla?”I pull the phone away from my ear, stare at the screen like it’s betrayed me personally. No signal, one bar flickers and disappears.My chest tightens. Today of all days?Something cold and vicious slides down my spine. I can’t wait, I’m already moving.Teo is standing near the foot of my bed, arms crossed, jaw tight like he knows something’s coming even before I say it. “Give me your keys,” I say.Teo blinks. “What?”“Your car keys,” I repeat, already closing the distance between us.“What do you want me to move around with?” he snaps. “Zayne, you’re not even—”I grab his wrist. Hard.He stiffens, eyes flashing. “Don’t.”I ignore him.I pry his fingers open, metal biting into my palm as I yank the keys free. He swears, lunges forward, but I’m already turning away.“Zayne!” he shouts after me. “You can’t just—”I shove the door open.The hallway is bright and loud. Nurses call after me, someone yells my name, but it all blurs tog

Zayne’s POV I see her car before I see her. The damage hits me first.The rear window is gone—completely shattered, jagged edges reflecting the harsh sunlight like teeth. Bullet holes pepper the side panel, ugly and unmistakable, the metal warped inward as if it had tried and failed to protect her. The side mirror is missing. The trunk is dented so deep it looks like it took a fist from God.My chest caves in.I slam the brakes so hard the car jerks to a stop behind her, tires screeching as I throw it into park and shove the door open.I don’t even remember getting out. I’m running.“Isla—!”My voice cracks before I reach her.She’s still in the driver’s seat, hands locked around the wheel like it’s the only thing keeping her sane. Her shoulders are shaking violently. Her head is bowed, hair falling forward, glass dusted through it like glitter from hell.She looks so small. So broken. I wrench the door open.“Isla.”She flinches like she’s been struck, then she looks up. And when sh

Zayne’s POVI must’ve heard wrong.That was the only explanation my mind could offer, a misfire, a distortion, the echo of exhaustion blending into something it wasn’t. Because there was no way in this universe where Isla Hart stood in my apartment, still shaking from nearly being hunted down, and calmly said she’d already booked a flight home.“Say that again,” I tell her.My voice doesn’t rise. It drops, flat and controlled. Dangerous in its calm. She doesn’t look at me.“I already booked a flight back,” she says again, softer this time. Like she’s testing the words against the air. Like she regrets them the second they left her mouth.My jaw tightens.“We’re all leaving with the private jet by the weekend,” I say. “After Sienna’s final wedding party.”Silence follows. Not defensive or confrontational. Just… still. That’s worse. I watch her closely now, because this is the moment where people usually lie. Or cry. Or lash out.Isla does none of that. Instead, her eyes drift slowly, d

Zayne’s POV I wake up to heat.Isla is pressed against me, bare and warm, her body fitted to mine like she was made to be here. Her breathing is slow, deep. Completely out.Her chest rises and falls softly, and every time she shifts—even just a fraction—her nipple brushes mine in a way that makes sleep impossible.I don’t move, I just watch her.Morning light filters in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, turning her skin golden. Her lashes rest against her cheeks, her mouth slightly parted like she’s dreaming of something good. There’s a crease between her brows that wasn’t there before she fell asleep—something leftover from the night, from fear, from adrenaline.I reach out without thinking, thumb tracing that crease until it smooths out. She relaxes instantly. That does something ugly and permanent inside my chest.I’ve watched her sleep before—once, twice, more than I’ll ever admit—but this is different. This is knowing exactly how she breathes when she feels safe. This is see