Twenty One
Bruno Castellane was not used to being ignored. Not by the world, not by his family, and definitely not by women. Yet here he was, pacing the dimly lit interior of his high-rise apartment, staring at the unopened bottle of whiskey on the bar cart like it might give him answers. Nova’s face kept flashing in his head — the way she’d looked at Adrian at the café, the way her hand rested on Adrian’s arm at brunch, the soft curve of her mouth when she smiled at his brother. It burned. She was supposed to look at me that way. He dragged a hand through his perfectly styled hair, tugging until it hurt. The city lights glared back at him through the floor-to-ceiling windows, mocking, reminding him how powerless he suddenly felt. He had everything — money, name, the Castellane shine — and yet,
- Writer
