The Wrong Brother

Chapter Nine—Nova/Adrian

The heat of the afternoon pressed against my skin like a heavy blanket. Summer had a way of wrapping itself around everything—lazy, sticky, relentless. I had been curled up on my bed for hours, blinds half-shut, the faint hum of the old ceiling fan barely moving the air. My phone lay face-up on the blanket, screen glowing every few minutes with new notifications.

Another post. Another whisper. Another mention of my name alongside his.

Adrian Castellane.

I scrolled through i********:, and there it was again: a blurry shot of us at the café two days ago. My hair tucked behind my ears, his sharp profile unmistakable even in grainy lighting. Someone had captioned it:

“Nova Ashton… isn’t that Bruno’s supposed cousin?👀 And now she’s with his brother???”

The comment section burned hotter than the summer sun.

She moves fast lol.

Adrian tho?? Upgrade if u ask me.

Bruno must be fuming.

Plot twist of the summer right here.

I dropped the phone on the bed like it had scalded me.

Part of me wanted to laugh, to shrug it off, to pretend it didn’t sting. But another part—the softer, rawer part—felt like I’d just been stripped bare and paraded through town. Everyone staring. Everyone speculating.

A car horn blared outside, followed by Ariana’s obnoxious voice carrying from the driveway.

“Nova! Get your lazy ass down here. We’re getting iced coffee before I melt alive!”

I groaned but dragged myself up anyway.

____

The café was a small, glass-walled place downtown, one of those trendy spots Ariana swore by. It smelled of roasted beans and sugar, the air-conditioned coolness a blessed relief from the outside heat.

We grabbed a corner booth, Ariana immediately snapping selfies with her caramel swirl latte.

“Smile,” she ordered, turning the camera toward me.

“No thanks,” I muttered, stirring my iced Americano until the cubes clinked like wind chimes.

She lowered her phone and gave me a look. “So you’ve seen it, huh?”

“Seen what?” I played dumb, though my phone was practically buzzing with the weight of it in my bag.

She smirked. “Don’t act coy, cousin. You’re trending. ‘Nova Ashton’ has never looked better. Bruno’s probably crying into his designer pillows right now.”

Her words should have felt satisfying. They didn’t. Instead, they made my chest ache with a mix of guilt and defiance.

Across the café, two girls in pastel skirts leaned close over their drinks, glancing at me, whispering, and not nearly as subtle as they thought. My stomach twisted.

“See?” Ariana gestured at them with her straw. “Free entertainment. You’re famous.”

“Infamous, more like.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

I pressed the cold plastic cup to my cheek, trying to numb the heat creeping up. “They don’t know the whole story.”

“They don’t need the whole story. All they need is the version where Adrian Castellane wanted you and not them. And that, dear Nova, is the kind of story that keeps you untouchable.”

Her confidence should have rubbed off on me, but I only felt the weight of all those eyes.

____

That night, long after Ariana had dropped me home, I lay awake scrolling again. Articles now. Small-time gossip blogs picking up the story.

“Business heir Adrian Castellane seen with mystery girl.”

Mystery girl. Like I was some faceless accessory dangling from his arm.

I shut off the phone and buried my face into the pillow, breathing in cotton and faint detergent. For the first time, I wondered if I had made a mistake stepping into this. Adrian had warned me—once you’re tied to him, privacy dissolves like sugar in hot coffee.

And yet, I couldn’t quite hate the thrill. Couldn’t quite deny the tiny voice inside that whispered: They finally see me. Not Bruno’s leftovers. Me.

The moonlight spilled pale across my floor. I sat by the window, knees drawn up, watching the world outside move in its slow summer rhythm. Somewhere, a car drove by blasting music. A couple laughed down the street. Life, going on, uncaring.

My phone buzzed again. A DM request from someone I didn’t know:

*“You’ll never be enough for him. Stay in your lane.”*

I swallowed hard, setting the phone aside before it poisoned me more.

Margaret Castellane probably hated me already. The internet certainly had its claws out. And yet, in the quiet of my room, a strange calm washed over me.

Let them watch. Let them whisper.

If I was going to be society’s spectacle, then I’d damn well choose how the story was told.

And Adrian Castellane?

He wasn’t just a tool anymore. He was the storm I had willingly stepped into.

_____

Adrian’s POV

The hushed luxury of the Castellane mansion was broken only by the padding of paws against polished wood. Zeus, my German Shepherd, followed me into the study, tail swishing lazily.

I sank into the leather armchair, scrolling through the same articles I knew Nova was seeing. Her face half-caught in shadows, my hand brushing hers at the café table. The picture screamed staged romance, yet the comments cut sharper than knives.

Bruno’s sloppy seconds.

Does he hate his brother that much?

Gross age gap.

“Adrian.”

My mother’s voice cut through the silence. Margaret Castellane—immaculate as always, hair pinned, pearl earrings gleaming under the chandelier. She shut the door behind her and fixed me with a gaze sharp enough to carve marble.

“We need to talk.”

I rubbed my temple. “Of course we do.”

“Do you realize the mess you’ve stirred up?” she snapped, crossing her arms. “The press is running wild. Bruno looks like a fool, and you…”

“I don’t care what the press says about Bruno.”

“Adrian.” Her voice softened, but the steel remained. “This isn’t about Bruno anymore. This is about you. About this family’s name. The Castellane image cannot afford whispers of scandal. A girl like Nova Ashton…”

I stood, shoulders squaring. “A girl like Nova Ashton is none of your business.”

Her lips thinned. “Everything is my business when it carries our name.”

Zeus growled low, sensing the tension.

Margaret exhaled, smoothing her blouse. “Just… be careful, Adrian. I don’t want to see you dragged down for the sake of proving a point.”

When she left, the silence pressed heavier. I leaned back against the desk, Zeus resting his head on my thigh.

Proving a point. That’s what she thought this was.

But when I thought of Nova—her fire, her stubborn chin tilted upward, the way her eyes sparked when she challenged me—it felt like something else entirely.

Something I couldn’t name.