Page 68 of Heartless Stepbrother

The proximity hit me like a shockwave.

His body heat soaked into my skin. My hand, all bones and nerves and vulnerability, felt swallowed beneath his. My pulse, traitorous and loud, leapt instantly. I hated that he would feel it. I hated even more that he enjoyed feeling it.

“Get your hand off my bag,” I hissed, pulling with all the force I had.

He didn’t flinch. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

And with a single smooth yank, so casual it felt orchestrated, he pulled the suitcase toward himself.

I felt the moment it happened in my bones.

The zipper, overworked from years of travel and stuffed tighter than it had any right to be, gave one last trembling protest before it surrendered.

Rrrrrripppp.

The sound was violent in the quiet, sunlit drive. It echoed through my chest like the tearing of something internal, privacy, dignity, sanity, take your pick.

The front of the suitcase exploded open.

Time stretched into a cruel, surreal slow motion as the contents of my life spilled out in a tumbling waterfall across the polished stone. My neatly folded clothes, my worn-in sweats, the moisturizer I rationed like gold, the small silk teddy I had slipped into the suitcase on some delusional “new start” impulse.

And then the lingerie.

Bright, soft, delicate pieces scattering like butterflies strangled in midair.

I felt the world tilt.

A flush surged up my face, so fast and so hot it felt like my blood had turned to fire. Humiliation slammed into me with breathtaking force, knocking the breath from my lungs.

Not here.

Not now.

Not in front of strangers.

Not in front of him.

The driver’s steps faltered. A bellhop, stacking flower leis nearby, froze. Even the hibiscus bushes seemed to witness my mortification, their petals blazing like open wounds.

My panties were on the ground.

On the ground.

Where my mother had hugged me goodbye moments before.

I wanted to disappear. I wanted the earth to crack open beneath me and swallow me whole. I wanted to rip Riley’s satisfied smirk straight off his perfect, infuriating face.

But I couldn’t move.

I was rooted to the spot, exposed, dismantled, undone, while he stood beside me in the wreckage of my privacy, the architect of my ruin, the only one who looked obscenely, devastatingly calm.

Riley looked down at the catastrophe he had created, and instead of offering the slightest whisper of remorse, his lips parted around a low, indulgent chuckle. It slipped from his chest like warm smoke, lazy and appreciative. His gaze swept across the explosion of cotton and lace at our feet, and something in his eyes sharpened with male amusement. Mischief. Triumph. Ownership. All of it shimmered there, naked and unapologetic.

“Well now,” he murmured, dropping his own suitcase with a soft thud that sounded like punctuation. “This is getting more interesting than I expected.”

The sound of his voice slithered through me like a cold touch. I stood rooted to the spot, suspended between fury and shame, unable to decide whether to scream or faint or bolt straight into the Pacific. My pulse throbbed in my throat. My vision blurred at the edges, the resort’s perfect tropical serenity warping into a surreal nightmare. The driver looked away politely. The bellhop pretended he didn’t see. The morning sun caught every silky scrap of my humiliation and lit it up like a display.

And Riley enjoyed all of it.