Page 27 of The Wrong Brother

He shifts slightly, the sound of his chair creaking, catching my attention. For a brief moment, I glance up, but his gaze remainsfixed on his phone, the faint furrow in his brow deepening as if whatever he’s reading requires his full focus. The silence stretches, suffocating and thick, and I find myself hyperaware of every movement I make…the scrape of my fork against the plate, the faint clink of the glass as I take a sip of orange juice.

I try to focus on my food, but it’s impossible not to notice him. The way his tailored suit molds to his broad shoulders, the subtle tension in his jaw as he sips his coffee, the way his fingers move deliberately across the screen…it’s maddening. How can he be so composed, so unaffected, when my every nerve feels like it’s on fire just sitting here?

We eat in silence, the tension between us growing heavier with each passing moment. My chest feels tight, my breath shallow, but I force myself to keep my head down, to focus on the simple act of eating.

All of this is because I’m exhausted, I tell myself. That’s the reason I’m feeling so much more than I should. So much more tense, more nervous…plus Tod’s. The fitting today. This morning could be the start of something big for me. A career. A future where I won’t just be "Jenny, the chauffeur’s daughter." A future where I’ll be someone in my own right.

The thought steadies me, gives me something to hold onto. This could be my chance to stand on my own, to reach something closer to the Jacksons level. Not the same amount of wealth…they’re in a league of their own…but acclaim. Recognition. Enough to step out from the shadow of my dad’s station and into a light of my own.

I glance down at my plate, pushing the eggs around with my fork. I love my dad, but being around the Jacksons all my life has taught me one thing: I want more. Much, much more.

When I finish eating, I hesitate. My fitting at Tod’s is coming up, and the thought of navigating Rome’s unfamiliar streets alone fills me with unease. I want to ask Zack for a ride, but he looks so absorbed in his work. The idea of interrupting him, of admitting I might need him for something as simple as a ride, makes my stomach churn.

I push my chair back, standing quickly. Better to leave now than wrestle with the growing tension knotting in my chest.

But before I can take a step, his hand shoots out, catching mine. The touch sends a jolt through me, an electric charge that leaves me breathless. So, he was aware of me. Hm. I try to pull away instinctively, but his grip is firm, warm, and unrelenting.

"Where are you going?" he asks, his voice low and commanding.

I turn to face him, my heart racing. His dark eyes lock onto mine, the intensity in his gaze pinning me in place.

"Work," I manage to say, though my voice betrays the storm inside me. My pulse is thundering, the heat of his hand wrapped around mine making it hard to think straight. His grip is firm, just tight enough to keep me there, to remind me that he has the upper hand.

"For Tod's," he states.

"Yes," I reply, my voice barely above a whisper.

"How are you getting there?" he asks, his voice calm but carrying an edge that sends a shiver down my spine.

"The bus," I say quickly, too quickly. I can feel his gaze tighten on me, like he’s dissecting my words, my reasons.

His brow arches slightly, a flicker of disapproval crossing his face. "The bus?" he repeats, and there’s a weight to the words, a quiet challenge that I can most defiantly place.

"Yes," I say again, firmer this time. But the tremor in my voice betrays my nerves. I can feel his eyes on me, heavy with judgment, the kind of look that makes me want to squirm. He’s dissecting my answer, probably thinking about last night…about the trouble I got into for making the same decision. It’s as if he’s pinning me in place with nothing more than his quiet disapproval, daring me to admit I might need him.

I try to pull my hand free, but his grip lingers for just a moment longer before he finally lets go. The loss of his warmth feels sudden, jarring, but I force myself to straighten my bag on my shoulder and take a step back.

"You’re sure?" he asks, his voice still calm but edged with something sharper. Concern? Frustration? I can’t tell, and I don’t dare look too closely.

"I’m sure," I reply, turning my back before he can say anything else. My steps are quick and deliberate, but each one feels heavier than the last. I know he’s watching me as I leave, and the weight of his gaze presses against my spine like a hand I can’t shake off.

I should’ve taken the ride. It would’ve been easier, safer, and far less chaotic. But the idea of being trapped in the car with him, so close, with his presence filling the air like some suffocating force, is more than I can handle. I need space. I need air. I need time to figure out what’s happening inside my own head with my career and Brett before I let Zack Jackson invade it any further.

The bus stop is just down the block, near a line of small cafes and boutique shops that glitter in the morning sunlight. The street is alive with motion…pedestrians bustling past, scooters zipping by, and the faint hum of conversation blending with the clink of cups and plates from the cafe terraces.

The bus arrives with a loud hiss of brakes, and I step on, clutching the pole tightly as it lurches forward. The ride is bumpy, the city’s cobblestone streets jarring the frame of the bus and making me tighten my grip. My thoughts swirl, a chaotic mess of nerves and doubt.

When I finally arrive at Tod’s, I’m a mess. My blouse clings to my back, damp from the heat, and my hair feels limp, the loose waves I’d carefully styled this morning now frizzy from the humidity. I glance at my reflection in the polished glass of the building’s facade and grimace. Not exactly the picture of a confident, polished model.

Inside, the air is cool and buzzing with quiet efficiency. A receptionist checks me in and leads me to the fitting area, where the other models are already gathered. My heart sinks the moment I see them.

They’re stunning.

Tall, elegant, and so effortlessly beautiful it feels almost painful. One girl has a striking, angular face with cheekbones so sharp they could cut glass. Another has skin that glows under the soft light, her dark eyes framed by lashes that look like they belong in a mascara commercial. They’re all so distinct, so memorable, the kind of women you’d never forget after seeing them once.

And then there’s me.

I catch my reflection in a nearby mirror as I’m handed a sleek black dress with leather accents for the fitting. My features are softer, less defined. My lips are full, my eyes wide and bright, but there’s nothing extraordinary about me. I’m just... pretty.

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