Page 25 of Jealous Stepbrother (Jealous & Possessive #4)

SHADOW GAMES

Scarlett

F or an age, I stare at the pill packet clutched in my hand.

My chest feels split open. The air won’t come.

He did this. He’s been doing this.

My fingers are trembling so badly I almost drop the phone. My thumb is hovering over my mother’s contact when another ping interrupts me.

It’s an email sliding into my inbox.

My heart hammers when I see the sender: Casa Bellandi .

Subject line: Final Deadline for Confirmation of Internship – URGENT.

What?

Hands shaking, I tap it open. And my stomach plummets.

Signorina Rockwell, we’re disappointed we haven’t heard from you. This is your last chance to confirm whether you wish a placement at our institution.

But I never?—

I fumble into my deleted folder and there it is. The first email with the offer. A chance of a lifetime. Deleted, unread.

“Asher,” I whisper, bile burning the back of my throat. “Oh my God. You?—”

It all falls into place. My vanished pills. The canceled appointments. And now this. He wants to control every corner of my life . My choices. My body. My future.

I stab the call button before I can talk myself out of it. It rings twice before a warm, accented voice answers.

“Signorina Rockwell? We were beginning to worry. You didn’t respond to our offer or our email saying we would keep the position for you if you changed your mind. Is everything all right?”

“But… I—I didn’t… this is the first time I’m hearing about your offer.” My voice is thready, raw. “I never even saw the first email until just now.”

A pause. Then a soft sigh. “But we received a reply from your account. Very polite, very firm. It said you were committed to other obligations in New York, and that you’d be in touch if your situation changed. We honored your request, but we thought we’d ask one last time.”

Blood drains from my face. “That wasn’t…” I bite my tongue, grip the edge of the vanity until my knuckles ache. “There must have been some miscommunication. Please tell me I still have a chance?”

She pauses for a second. “Our selection schedule is very tight. If you wish for the final slot you will need to be here, in Florence, by Monday.” Another pause, regretful. “Otherwise I’m sorry, we will have to withdraw the offer. Ciao, signorina .”

The line goes dead, leaving me staring at my reflection—eyes red, mouth parted, face pale—as the truth slams into me.

Asher stole this from me, too. Or he tried to.

I punch the phone number again. “Mom, can you bring my passport with you?”

“Your passport? Why, honey?”

“J-just… bring it, please. I’ll explain when we meet.”

I barely recall getting dressed or the Uber ride to Soho, but somehow I’m sitting at Mom’s favorite French restaurant with tears in my eyes.

I barely made it through the doors before the dam broke.

“Scarlett?” Annette rises, her face softening with concern as she wraps me in her arms. “What’s happened?”

“I can’t—I don’t know what to do.” My voice is raw, shaking. “I love it, Mom. I love being part of House of M. I love—” My throat locks, but I force it out. “But I want to make my own choices. And he won’t let me. He’s… he’s stealing them.”

For a moment she just studies me. Then she shocks me by nodding, calm as if she’s been expecting this. “I know.”

“You—what?”

Her hands frame my face, her thumbs sweeping tears I can’t stop.

“I guessed something was going on. I hoped you would tell me,” she chides gently.

“But I can’t say I’m surprised. I’ve seen the way he looks at you.

The way you look back.” Her lips curve in a faint, sad smile.

“But why are you running, Scarlett? Surely you know Asher adores you?”

I shudder. “I don’t know if I’m strong enough for that kind of…” I swallow hard, searching for the word. “That kind of consuming love.”

Annette’s eyes soften. “I have a feeling you’ll find out soon enough.”

“No,” I shake my head, gripping her hands. “I need distance. I need to think. Away from him. Please. Did you bring it? My passport?” I whisper hoarsely.

She doesn’t argue. She hands it over and calls for the check.

An hour later, she’s at my side at JFK, my suitcase in the trunk of her car, her hand gripping mine as though she’ll never let go.

Asher’s calls light up my phone, one after another, buzzing like a live wire in my pocket.

I don’t answer.

At the counter, I buy a ticket to Florence. My hands are still shaking as I hand over my passport.

“Honey, are you sure about this?”

My mouth wobbles, but my gut clenches. “No. Not really. But I need to find out.”

She nods. Holds my hand and walks me to the gate. “Let us know when you land. That you’re safe?”

I nod. “I love you, Mom.”

For the first time in weeks, my lungs expand.

There’s a cruel promise of it catching the bottom of my breath.

But then it disintegrates, and I’m not surprised at all when it never lands.

Because Asher Masterson has become the air I breathe, and I’m beginning to fear I’ll die without him.

The wheels hit the tarmac with a jolt that shakes through my spine. I’m here in Florence. A place I’ve dreamed about, studied in textbooks, sketched from glossy spreads and online galleries.

It should feel triumphant, liberating. Instead, the hollowness in my chest makes the victory ache.

I pull my suitcase through the terminal, keeping my head low, ignoring the phone that won’t stop vibrating in my hand.

His name lights the screen over and over, a drumbeat of obsession I can’t escape.

Asher. My brother, my torment, my everything.

You need to remember what he’s done.

The man who hid my pills, who canceled my future before it began. The man I left anyway. My thumb hovers over “accept,” but I shove the phone into my bag, throat tight.

The taxi driver drops me at a small hotel off the Piazza della Repubblica , its stuccoed facade weathered but elegant.

Inside, I mumble through the check-in, swipe my card, and take the key.

The room smells faintly of lavender and old stone. I collapse onto the bed, curl into myself, and let the tears come until my throat is raw and my lashes are stuck together.

“This is right,” I whisper fiercely into the pillow. “You’re free now, Scarlett. You can think. You can breathe.”

So why does freedom feel like splintered glass in my lungs?

Hours later, I force myself outside.

The city is drenched in honey light and narrow streets winding toward domes and towers that scrape the sky.

I wander past the Duomo, stand on the Ponte Vecchio as goldsmiths lock up their shops. The Arno glitters like melted bronze.

All around me, tourists laugh and couples kiss. The very air smells of espresso and hope.

My sketchbook itches in my bag, begging me to capture it all.

And still, behind every marvel, behind every breath, the whisper follows me.

Are you sure you haven’t made a mistake?