The Wrong Brother

Chapter Eleven—Nova

The world wouldn’t shut up.

Every time I opened my phone, there it was: my face, my name, my life. Nova Ashton, “mystery girl.” Nova Ashton, “Adrian Castellane’s flavor of the summer.” Nova Ashton, “revenge fling.”

The headlines blurred together, some paired with grainy photos of me and Adrian at the café, others zoomed in on his hand at the small of my back like it was evidence of a scandal. A t****k had gone viral splicing pictures of Bruno and me beside Adrian and me, asking which Castellane brother I’d “upgrade” to.

The comments section was a cesspool.

Some called me lucky. Some called me a w***e. Most didn’t even use my name.

I tossed my phone onto my bed like it had burned me.

The curtains fluttered from the warm summer breeze sneaking in through the cracked window, but it didn’t cool the heat in my chest. My mother still wasn’t home — she was never home — and Ariana was out again. Silence pressed in, except for the faint hum of cars on the street.

I should have been used to loneliness, but now it felt different. Like the whole world was watching, waiting for me to fall flat on my face.

A knock came at the front door, sharp and steady. My stomach dropped.

I already knew who it was before I opened it.

Adrian Castellane stood there, tall, crisp in a dark shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, a watch catching the late sun. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes — those endless onyx eyes — locked on me like I was the only thing that mattered.

“Pack your things,” he said.

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You’re moving into my penthouse.”

I let out a laugh, short and disbelieving. “Yeah, right. Did Bruno put you up to this?”

His jaw tightened at the mention of his brother’s name. “Bruno doesn’t dictate my decisions. And this isn’t a suggestion, Nova. Paparazzi were outside your house yesterday. A blogger tried to follow you after your walk today. It’s only going to get worse.”

“I can handle myself.”

“You shouldn’t have to.” His voice softened, but it was still firm, like velvet stretched over steel. “You’re not safe here. With me, you will be.”

I hated that my chest tightened at those words. That a part of me — a reckless, traitorous part — wanted to believe him.

Still, I folded my arms. “You can’t just show up and order me around.”

One dark brow arched. “You asked me to play this game with you. I’m doing what’s necessary to win it.”

Damn him. He was right, and he knew it.

I groaned, dragging a hand down my face. “This is insane.”

“Not as insane as letting Bruno or the press get to you again.” His eyes flickered, softer now. “You don’t have to like it. But you’ll be safer with me.”

The weight in his tone made it clear: this wasn’t just about safety. It was about him, too. His need to control the chaos, to shield me — or maybe to claim me.

I hated that I didn’t hate it.

“Fine,” I muttered. “But don’t think for a second I’m playing house with you.”

His mouth curved, the faintest ghost of a smile. “I wouldn’t dare.”

____

Moving in with Adrian Castellane felt like crossing into another world.

His driver came within the hour. I packed fast — or at least, as fast as someone who had no idea what she was doing could. A duffel bag of clothes, my laptop, a box of random things that made my room feel like mine. Ariana wasn’t home to give me her usual running commentary, which was probably a blessing.

By the time we pulled up to the Castellane penthouse, dusk had melted into night. The building loomed above the city, sleek and silver, with glass that reflected the stars. I followed Adrian through the private entrance, my sneakers squeaking on the polished floors, and tried not to gape like a tourist.

The elevator ride was silent. My reflection in the mirrored walls stared back at me, hair messy from the wind, face pale with nerves. Beside me, Adrian looked carved from stone.

When the elevator doors slid open, the air shifted.

The penthouse stretched out before me in wide, open spaces of glass and marble. Floor-to-ceiling windows revealed the city glittering below, lights scattered like diamonds. Everything was sharp, modern, expensive — a living room with leather sofas, a bar stocked with bottles that probably cost more than my tuition, bookshelves lined in perfect order.

It felt cold. Untouchable. Exactly like Adrian.

I dropped my bag by the door, forcing my voice steady. “So this is your fortress.”

He glanced at me. “It’s home.”

Home. The word didn’t fit. Home was supposed to be warm, cluttered, alive. This was… beautiful, but sterile.

“Your room is down the hall,” he said. “Second door on the left. Lock on the inside. If you need anything, ask.”

I squinted at him. “House rules?”

His gaze flicked over me, unreadable. “Don’t go into my study without permission. And don’t open the liquor cabinet.”

I barked a laugh. “Wow. You really know how to make a girl feel welcome.”

Something flickered in his eyes, almost amusement, before it was gone. “Go to your room, Nova.”

“Well… it’s a nice place. Your own private penthouse away from The Castellane Mansion.”

“Good night, Nova.”

He turned, walking toward a closed door at the far end — his study, no doubt. His footsteps were soundless on the polished floors, his posture straight and unyielding.

The moment he disappeared, I let out the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

And made my way to my supposed room.

My room was ridiculous. King-sized bed, silk sheets, a closet bigger than my entire bedroom at home. The view from the window looked out over North Wilmore, the streets glowing with nightlife.

But it wasn’t mine. No posters on the wall, no roses in a vase, no music cluttering the air. Just a pristine space waiting to swallow me whole.

I sat on the edge of the bed, clutching a pillow to my chest. This was supposed to be a game. Fake dating, revenge, a way to make Bruno pay.

So why did it feel like stepping into Adrian’s world meant losing pieces of mine?

I lay back, staring at the ceiling, thoughts tangled. Images of Bruno’s smirk, of Zaria’s probing eyes, of my mother’s empty chair at the dinner table. And through it all — Adrian’s voice, low and steady: You’ll be safer with me.

Safer. Or trapped.

I didn’t know which one scared me more.

Sleep didn’t come easily. When I finally gave up, I slipped out of bed and padded barefoot through the penthouse.

The living room glowed faintly from the city lights pouring through the windows. I stood there, pressing my palm against the glass, watching headlights streak across the streets below.

For once, the noise outside felt distant. Like I was in a glass bubble, untouchable.

“Can’t sleep?”

I jumped, spinning around. Adrian stood at the edge of the room, a glass of water in hand. He wasn’t wearing his usual armor of crisp shirts and polished shoes — just sweatpants and a plain black tee. It shouldn’t have mattered, but it did.

“I’m not used to…” I gestured vaguely at the penthouse. “All this.”

He walked closer, the city light cutting shadows across his face. “It takes time. You will.”

I shook my head. “Don’t get too comfortable. I’m not planning to stay forever.”

Something flickered in his eyes — not hurt, not surprise, but something quieter. “I know.”

The silence stretched between us, heavy but not unbearable. I turned back to the glass, pretending the city lights were more interesting than him.

But I could feel him there, just a few feet away. His presence steady, anchoring, and terrifying all at once.

And for reasons I couldn’t admit — not even to myself — the thought of going back to my empty house suddenly felt lonelier than this penthouse ever could.