My Stepbrother's Dirty Little Secret novel Chapter 503

Chapter 503

I blinked, “Hey.”

His eyes lifted to mine. For some reason, the expression on his face made my chest hurt.

I understood why.

Claire’s assumptions had been awkward, embarrassing and uncomfortable and Raphael wasn’t like his brothers..

He wasn’t Vincenzo, who looked at Claire like the rest of the world didn’t exist.

He wasn’t Adriano, who would probably set a city on fire for Madeleine.

Raphael was… Raphael.

He was different.

It hurt sometimes. More than I liked admitting. But that wasn’t his fault. Just because I loved him didn’t mean he owed me the same thing.

Friends was all he could give me.

Friends was all he wanted.

And if the alternative was losing him completely… I’d take friendship every single time.

I swallowed and forced a small smile, “Don’t worry about her. Claire sees romance everywhere. I mean, thing is ridiculous anyway.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, “Is it?”

I laughed awkwardly, “Obviously.”

The single word came out much weaker than I intended.

the whole

The smile on my face felt strained now, “I mean…” I shrugged, “You’re not really like your brothers. They’re…” I searched for the right words. “They’re the type to lose their minds over somebody,” I forced a laugh, “You know. The dramatic kind of love.”

The word scraped against my throat.

Love.

God.

Even saying it hurt.

Because a part of me had wanted that once. I wanted it from him but life didn’t always give people what they wanted and Raphael had never pretended to be something he wasn’t. Beside, my mother had all of my attention now.

I looked back at him and smiled softly, “And that’s okay. You’re allowed to want different things.”

His jaw tightened, “Different things.”

I gave him a small, tired smile, “Goodnight, Raph.”

His eyes flickered at the nickname, “Goodnight, Ginny.”

The grass was still wet with morning dew.

Every time I stepped onto the marble platform in the middle of the gardens, the cold climbed through my pointe shoes and into my bones.

The Capone estate was quiet this early, the fountains whispered, the trees moved with the wind. Somewhere in the distance birds sang. It should have felt peaceful.

Instead, my stomach was tied into knots, “From the beginning.”

The words were sharp enough to cut through the silence. I lifted my head. Lucien Moreau stood near the stone staircase with both hands resting on the top of his cane.

Since arriving three days ago, he had corrected everything.

My feet. My hands. My shoulders. The angle of my neck. The way I breathed. Even the way I blinked and he called it discipline.

His blue eyes swept over me like he was inspecting cracked porcelain, “You think too much.”

“I have dyslexia.”

“What does reading have to do with your shoulders?”

I blinked, “…nothing.”