Page 1 of Chasing After You (Twisted Desires #3)

Josh

Eight Years Earlier

Sometimes, when it was late at night and the house was quiet, I liked to pretend that my parents were alive.

It was a silly thing to do, especially at seventeen, but I couldn’t help but dream of how my life would have turned out if not for the car accident that had taken them from me.

I thought of them daily; it was hard not to when I saw my mother’s ivy-colored eyes every time I looked in the mirror and heard my father’s booming laughter still ringing in my ears.

If I tried hard enough and shut my eyes tight enough, I could almost feel my mother’s gentle caress on my cheek. I longed for her to hold me again. I longed for stupid dad jokes and movie nights spent on the living room floor of our old home.

Most of all, I longed to wake up in the morning to be told it had all just been a bad dream.

I was eleven when they died, twelve when my first foster family said goodbye from their porch as the social worker walked me to her car, and thirteen when the Halbrooke family adopted me.

The Halbrookes hadn’t even fostered me before the state gave me to them.

I’m sure they were given all of my records and stuff, but they only sat down with me for ten minutes before declaring they wanted me.

Thirteen-year-old me was too excited to hear that a family wanted to adopt me—that someone wanted me—that I didn’t question it.

Looking back, it made me nauseous to think about how they acted like they were picking out a puppy, not a human child.

Victoria and Daniel Halbrooke—or Mom and Dad as they liked me to call them—came from old money. Daniel was a career politician; Victoria was his arm candy.

They dressed the part too—him in perfectly tailored suits that smelled of Colombian cigars and money, her in pearls, knee-length dresses, and floral perfume that clung to your skin no matter what soap you used to wash the scent away.

Their mansion sat prettily behind gated fences and topiaries in the city’s finest neighborhood.

I learned to sit up straight at dinner, to keep my elbows off the table, to say “sir” and “ma’am” with just enough deference.

Victoria would smile at me as if I were a prized show dog doing tricks.

Daniel, when he wasn’t at the Capitol or on some business trip, would pat my shoulder with all the warmth of a campaign handshake.

I told myself it didn’t matter. I had a roof over my head, clothes that weren’t from a donation bin, and chef-prepared meals.

The only thing that I lacked was their affection, but there was something that made up for that.

My little brother’s love.

Dorian Halbrooke was my life.

My reason to get out of bed.

That first day, when Mom and Dad brought me home, I was mesmerized by the shy little boy waiting for our return.

Dorian’s black hair looked glossy and soft to the touch.

He was four years younger than I, the quiet to my loud, the thinker to my doer.

His pale skin and ethereal features reminded me of a pixie from the fantasy books my mother used to read to me, lulling me into nights of sleep filled with fantastical dreams of adventure.

When my new Mom and Dad explained that it was my job to watch over Dorian and keep him entertained and safe, I accepted it.

Even as a thirteen-year-old, I had already understood that they’d only adopted me to raise their child.

Dad was obsessed with the idea that his campaign would somehow suffer if they hired a nanny.

He was convinced that it would hurt his family-first public image.

Dorian clung to me. He’d follow me from room to room, wordless at times, content just to sit near me while I did homework or read.

At night, he’d creep into my bed after a nightmare, pressing his cold, thin fingers against mine until sleep reclaimed him.

I became his anchor, and in turn, he became my purpose.

There was a purity to Dorian that sometimes scared me.

He looked at the world with wide, glassy eyes, like he didn’t understand how cruel it could be.

And maybe he didn’t—Victoria and Daniel kept him in a bubble of wealth and curated perfection.

Tutors came to the house instead of school buses.

Playdates were screened like business meetings.

Everything in Dorian’s life was monitored, measured, and controlled.

I was the only variable they hadn’t accounted for.

No matter how many toys they bought him, how many designer clothes they threw at him, they couldn’t get him to love them.

His real, crooked smile was a gift just for me.

His aquamarine eyes glittered when we were alone, going dull whenever Mom or Dad would attempt to butt into whatever we were doing.

As the years passed by, Dorian’s disdain for his parents only grew, while his love for his big brother became stronger and stronger.

By the time he was eleven, he’d stopped calling them Mom and Dad altogether. In public, he used their names; in private, he rarely mentioned them at all.

Victoria tried harder, lavishing him with curated praise, spa days that he definitely didn’t want, and uncomfortable, stiff hugs.

Daniel remained distant, more focused on his speeches and photo ops than on the child he paraded around like a trophy.

Dorian saw through it all, even then. He had a quiet kind of intelligence—soft-spoken but razor-sharp.

He once asked me, in that careful way of his, if I thought we were like the kids in fairy tales—the ones locked away in golden cages. I laughed at the time, ruffled his hair, and told him no.

He was more like a doll to be pulled off the shelf when needed, being ignored for the most part. Not that I ever said that out loud to him.

We built our own world inside the walls of that cold estate.

Secret codes, late-night whispers, stories made up under blanket forts while the Floridian rain lashed against the windows.

I was his knight, his hero, his constant.

And he—he was the only person who truly saw me, who never treated me like I was a burden or a charity case. His love was effortless, unconditional.

And that’s what made it dangerous.

Because the Halbrookes might not have loved him—not really, not like I did—but they sure as hell wanted to control him. And they knew exactly how much he loved me.

Which meant they knew exactly how to hurt us both.

It started subtly, like most things in the Halbrooke house.

A quiet rearrangement of schedules, a polite suggestion here and there.

Victoria began giving me more responsibilities—chores that were just inconvenient enough to keep me occupied, but framed as “important” tasks meant to help me become “part of the household.” Organizing the wine cellar, managing inventory for the caterers, overseeing estate maintenance reports that had nothing to do with me.

Things a seventeen-year-old had no business doing.

Especially not one who was supposed to be your son, not an employee.

“You’re nearly an adult now, Joshua,” Victoria said one morning over her coffee, not looking up from her tablet. “It’s time you started contributing more meaningfully to the home.”

That same week, Dorian’s schedule mysteriously bloomed with new activities.

Horseback riding lessons with a private instructor.

French tutoring twice a week. Etiquette classes, piano recitals, and charity events that dragged him out of the house on weekday evenings.

Always supervised, always with a driver or staff member nearby.

Never with me.

At first, Dorian was excited to try new things, thrilled in the way only a child who had been isolated too long could be.

But the novelty wore off quickly. I saw it in his eyes—the way they dimmed after every forced smile, every praise-heavy compliment from a tutor who didn’t honestly care about him, but just wanted to get on his parents’ good side.

He came home tired, quiet, withdrawn. Our time together was being slowly stolen, minute by minute, day by day.

When I asked Victoria about it, she gave me that soft, patronizing smile she reserved for reporters and those she considered idiots.

“He needs structure, dear. You wouldn’t want him to fall behind, would you?

He’s a bright boy and has to be mindful of his future, unlike other…

” She looked me up and down, barely concealing a sneer.

“… more average children. He’s destined for great things. ”

The message was clear.

They weren’t trying to enrich his life—they were trying to wedge a wall between us. To untangle our bond before it became too strong.

What they didn’t understand—what they never would—was that they were too late.

They could flood his life with distractions, dress him in silk and gold, surround him with every empty luxury money could buy, but I was still the one he sought out when the door clicked shut at night.

Just like tonight. I had already been in bed for hours, sleep escaping me, twisting and turning beneath my blanket with my real parents on my mind, when I heard the door crack open.

“Dori, is that you?” I mumbled sleepily into the darkness.

“Yeah,” he said quietly, his light footsteps padding across the room towards me. “Can I sleep in here tonight?”

I nodded and lifted the blanket. He climbed onto the mattress before getting comfortable and curling into my side. He let out a small puff of hot air on my chest.

“They won’t be happy if they find you in here.”

“It’s not like they’ll check,” he muttered. “I hate them, Josh. I hate it here. I want it to just be me and you.”

“I know, but they’re your parents, Dori.” I brushed the hair from his face. “Don’t say you hate them. They love you, even if it’s hard to see that sometimes.”

“But they’re supposed to be your parents, too.”

“Oh…” I paused, unsure how to proceed. “Well… They are.”

He grumbled, “Then why can’t they treat you like a son?”