All Chapters of Addicted to My Stepbrother : Chapter 51 - Chapter 60

I froze.​“What did you just say?”​I could swear I heard you say something just now. My heart was still hammering from the orgasm, body still fluttering around the thick cock buried inside me, but those three words had cut through the heavy air like a blade.Julian’s eyes snapped open. A raw, jagged flicker broke across his face just a split-second gap in the armor before he shoved it shut. He dragged himself out of me in a slow, wet pull, leaving the heat behind to empty air. A thick streak of white slid down my thigh, smearing into the dark leather.​“Nothing,” he muttered, his throat tight. “I didn’t say shit.”​“You did. I heard you.”​“You’re hearing things." He grabbed his jeans, shoving himself inside with a sharp, rasp of the zipper. His jaw muscle jerked, the skin twitching over bone. “Fix your clothes.”I stayed straddling him, skirt still bunched at my waist, underwear shoved aside, his release sliding warm against my skin. I didn't move an inch. “Julian…”“I said nothing.

I kept my hand in my pocket, feeling the warm plastic of the drive.Andrew looked up as I reached the stairs. He didn’t smile. He took a slow drag from his cigarette and waited for me to come down.I stepped out of the study and pulled the heavy door shut behind me. The latch clicked softly.The hallway was dim. A few lights along the floor were still on.At the top of the staircase, I stopped.Andrew stood below, in the middle of my studio. My canvases were stacked against the white walls, still packed in their crates.He had a glass of amber liquor in one hand. He swirled it slowly, staring at the empty wall where my paintings would hang on opening night.“You’re still pacing,” he said before I reached the second landing.I said nothing. I kept walking down.My bare feet pressed against the cool wood as I made my way toward him.“I thought you’d be packing,” Andrew said. He turned around slowly. “Or sitting by Julian’s bed.”“He’s asleep,” I said.“Good. He needs his rest.” Andrew t

​I stood near the entrance of the downtown gallery as guests began filing through the glass doors. Crystal glasses clinked somewhere behind me. Cameras flashed along the left wall, catching faces before the next guest stepped inside. The sharp scent of expensive perfume mixed with the faint metallic smell of fresh paint from the temporary walls. I smoothed a hand over the black silk of my dress and watched the room fill, one familiar face after another.​Maya appeared beside me with her tablet. "Press is already set up along the left wall. Investors are gathering near the bar. Board members are taking the front-row seats you assigned."​"Good." I kept my eyes on the entrance. "Any sign of the family yet?"​"Not yet. But Andrew’s car just pulled up outside."​I nodded once and glanced toward the doors. My fingers curled around the edge of my clutch before I loosened them again. The music played softly beneath the low murmur of conversation, cameras continued flashing, and somewhere nea

The silence in the gallery was heavy enough to make it hard to breathe. All the cameras turned back to the stage as I let the words hang in the air. Andrew’s face had lost all its color. He looked less like the untouchable head of the Cross family and more like a man standing at the edge of a trap. Beside him, Margaret stared at the blank screen, her chest rising and falling beneath her expensive coat, her fingers tightening around the edge of the fabric.“What else could there possibly be?” My mother’s voice cut through the quiet. She stood up, smoothing her skirt with slow, careful movements. “You’ve made your dramatic point, Tamara. Turn the lights back on and stop embarrassing yourself before you ruin everything we’ve built.”I didn’t look at her. I kept my eyes on Andrew, watching his jaw twitch. “I’m just getting started, Mother. Or would you rather I went straight to the documents showing how you helped him hide the records?”A sharp intake of breath rippled through the front r

The room hadn't even settled from Derek's collapse when I pressed the remote again.​Rows of figures flickered across the monitors. Columns of wire transfers, long strings of routing numbers, and a single, crisp certificate of incorporation for Ashgrove Holdings, dated eleven years ago. At the bottom, two signatures bled into the digital parchment side by side, the ink pressed down with the exact same heavy, deliberate hand.​Margaret's cane hit the floor with a sharp crack that made everyone flinch. Her head turned slowly, the heavy stone of her gaze locking onto my mother.​"Victoria," she whispered, the name dropping like lead. "What is this?"​It wasn't a question. It came out flat, dangerous, the kind of quiet that comes right before something shatters.​My mother's chin lifted. "Margaret. Not here."​"Not here?" Margaret's voice cracked upward, and the calm she'd worn all night: the cane, the pearls, the practiced stillness all of it slipped at once. "There is a decade of financ