All Chapters of My Brother's Best Friend's Secret Baby: Chapter 71 - Chapter 80

Rosalie's POV The painting titled The Return sold the very next morning. I didn't see the sales notification until I was at school, between classes, standing in the hallway outside the art room with a cup of coffee growing cold in my hand. The app had sent an automatic message. Payment received. The buyer was hidden behind an unfamiliar username connected to what looked like a management company. I assumed it was either a small gallery, an assistant buying on behalf of a collector, or a broker representing a private client. Three hundred dollars. I stood there in the middle of the hallway, staring at my phone, overwhelmed by an emotion I hadn't expected. It wasn't just the excitement of making a sale, though that was certainly real. Three hundred dollars was a meaningful amount of money to me. It was something much bigger than that. It was the feeling of creating something honest and watching the world embrace it. Of taking something deeply personal, born in the sol

Rosalie's POV The call came on a Tuesday morning during my planning period. I was sitting at my desk in the art room, taking inventory of the supply closet before submitting the list to the school office by Friday. I was counting jars of tempera paint and rolls of painter's tape while trying to estimate how many glue sticks twenty-three first graders could reasonably go through in a month, which always turned out to be far more than anyone would expect. The phone rang. The caller ID showed the main office. "Ms. Rosalie." The principal's voice carried that measured tone I'd come to recognize whenever she had bad news to deliver. Calm. Gentle. Like someone who'd rehearsed her words just enough. "Could you come to my office when you have a moment? Before your next class, if possible." "Of course," I said. I set my inventory sheet aside and headed down the hall. Her office was at the front of the building, just beside the main entrance. I'd only been there twice before.

Aiden's POV She texted me at 8:45 that morning. [The social worker will be here at ten. I'll call you afterward.] That was it. There was no request for help or an invitation. She'd told me the time simply because she knew I'd need to know it. It was a language that had quietly developed between us over the past few months. An unspoken understanding that certain pieces of information mattered to the other person, a conversation that no longer required lengthy explanations. I read the message, slipped my phone into my pocket, and sat down at my desk. I opened the contract I was reviewing for Marcus. I read the same paragraph four times without absorbing a single word. At 9:50, I gave up trying to work. The thought of going over there had crossed my mind. Not to go into the apartment. Just to park somewhere nearby, somewhere she wouldn't see me. It was exactly the kind of thing that would've made her furious. And I'd considered it anyway because sitting aroun

Rosalie's POV Jeffery had been in town for three weeks now, and he showed no signs of leaving. According to him, he'd taken time off because he'd accumulated too many vacation days and had nowhere else to go. He'd just met a niece he'd barely known existed, and he had a sister he hadn't really spoken to in seven years. Apparently, his commanding officer had been understanding about the unusual family circumstances. Or maybe Jeffery had simply known exactly what to say to convince him. Probably a little of both. Either way, he was here. Crashing on my couch, which was far too short for him even if he'd never admit it, and raiding my pantry with the ferocious appetite of a soldier determined to make up for years of surviving on military rations. Lucy had declared that he was the best thing that had happened to her in a long time. The feeling was obviously mutual. From the very first day, he'd started calling her "my boss," a title she'd accepted without batting an eye, as t

Aiden's POV Jeffery texted me on a Friday morning. The message was short. [Marsh Street Diner. Noon. If you want.] That 'if you want' changed everything. It was the invisible line between an order and an invitation, his own way of reaching out. I'd known him for fifteen years. I knew exactly how he operated. Brief. No unnecessary words. Just enough ambiguity to let him back out without losing face if I turned him down. I texted back. [I'll be there.] The diner on Marsh Street was the kind of place that had occupied the same corner for thirty years and probably hadn't seen a fresh coat of paint in at least twenty. Formica tables. Cracked vinyl booths patched together with thick strips of tape. A counter lined with stools and an old coffee machine that seemed to run on pure attitude. At lunchtime, the place was packed, just like every neighborhood diner at noon. The same regulars came in on the same days, sat in the same booths, and ordered the same meals without ever